The working life

I got my first job when I was 17. It was helping out at a playscheme that was run at my school during the summer holidays. You'd think that the desire to get away from school would outweigh the desire to actually work there for two weeks for a paltry £20 per week wage, but it was fun and I'm pretty much a whore when any amount of money is dangled in front of my eyes. And anyway, it was fun because as a group helper I basically just got to be the cool older kid in the group, as demonstrated by the afternoon spent finger-painting.

I returned to the playscheme a year later, older, wiser and with the added responsibility of leading my own group, which came with a £10 per week pay rise over the previous year's wage. As a group leader, though, I couldn't be the kids' new best friend, and thus ended up playing bad cop to my helper's good cop. Still, the kids in my group - who were about nine years old - were generally pretty cool; I think they reserved the real little shits for someone more battle-hardened. The last couple of days at playscheme are ingrained on my mind for two reasons - the first is that I got my exam results on the penultimate day, which led the kids to give me a round of applause for doing so well, while the second is that we spent the last day at Thorpe Park. 

Somehow over the course of the two weeks, one of the other group leader's young daughters latched on to me, I think because one hot day I called her a "sweaty Betty" and she found it hilarious. So at Thorpe Park she decided she wanted to hang out with me and my group of nine-year olds. Everything was cool until we hit Thunder River, and she massively freaked out at the first hint of water splashing over the side of the boat, despite the fact that she'd merrily watched other boats full of drenched occupants zooming past while we were queuing. I subsequently spent the entire ride clinging on to a screaming four-year old who was determined to jump ship, before quickly giving the sobbing red-faced thing back to her mum and heading back to Mr. Monkey's Banana Ride despite the fact that I'd already made the kids go on it about four times.

As jobs go, playscheme was fun but tiring. I had, at one point in my life, considered teaching as a career, but two weeks of fun was just about enough. On the plus side, I was Police-checked and am 100% kiddie safe.

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Two months later I was back at Thorpe Park, this time working in the 'olde-English' style pub in the dying weekend days of the summer season. I was roped into this by a mate who'd worked there all summer, and was somewhat ill-prepared. I had to steal a pair of Big Bro's black trousers (which were too large), and was forced by the manager to wear a manky old oversized sweatshirt; the combined effect left me looking like the Tom Hanks character in Big when, at the end, he returns to child-size while still wearing his adult clothing. I also had to keep hoisting trou up, in case they dropped down in a comedy style while I served an irate parent a decidedly dodgy looking pint.

Good times were nevertheless had, although I was without a doubt the worst barman ever; Once, I accidently clipped the bottom of a pint glass (well, actually it was plastic) on a beer tap and emptied its contents over the guy I was serving. Fortunately he was cool about it. I also had an unerring inability to remember the prices of the drinks, so I generally made my own decision about what to charge based on the nature of the person I was serving; sometimes it was excessively expensive, other times ridiculously cheap. 

In hindsight, its possible I was the best barman ever, depending on how polite you were to me.

Thorpe Park's bar was notable for a couple of other reasons, one of them being the fact that it was located next to a fast food joint. You'd get a lot of parents sending their kids to the fast food place, while they came to the bar for some 'proper food.' What they didn't know, though, was that all the food was prepared in the same kitchen, with the only difference being that the fast food stuff was slung in a box, while the pub stuff was slapped on a plate; presentation aside, it was all the same crap.

The other thing I remember - well, kinda - is that all the alcohol had to go by the last night of the season, so the four of us working in the bar got *completely* shit-faced on alcopops (this was '96, after all). Despite that, I still managed to keep my trousers up.

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After leaving school I had some desire to work in the film industry (behind the scenes, I hasten to add). About a month after I left Thorpe Park I went for an interview at Shepperton Studios, which meant I had to go clothes shopping because my wardrobe consisted solely of jeans and t-shirts, which apparently don't go down too well in a job interview. So one shopping spree later I was decked out in a crumpled white shirt (like Agent Mills' in Se7en) and some awesome pinstripe trousers (despite Sparky Pa telling me I looked like I'd bought half a suit). Combined with one of Sparky Pa's ties and some hastily polished shoes I actually looked halfway presentable.

So the job was for a company that … made stuff. To be honest, I didn't really do my research then, and I can't for the life of me remember what the company was called now. But this was the first round of interviews for a job they listed as a runner, which I subsequently found out consisted of just driving various pieces of equipment round in a skanky van, then hauling it into place on a location. Hired muscle, basically. 

Anyway, the interview was going OK - until the point when the guy looked me straight in the eyes and said "so where do you see yourself in five years?"

Without a moment's hesitation I replied "well, not here."

I wasn't invited back for a second interview, funnily enough.

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Three days after my 19th birthday, I started work at - mentioning no names - a company that published, and continues to publish (much to some people's surprise) various film and television-related magazines. I had written to them out of the blue asking if they had any jobs going, and they were kind/stupid enough to take me on. I think of this job like a first girlfriend - cheap and easy. No, no, just kidding! Yes, the wages were incredibly low, but I learned some incredible new skills (make your own jokes there) and made some awesome friends, many of whom I'm still in touch with today. In fact, when I was offered the job at the company I'm at now, I dithered for a while because I didn't want to break up the gang. But, as I said waaaaay back at the beginning, I'm a whore for cash, so I ultimately couldn't resist.

Also I felt massively ripped off by someone senior stealing my parking space and wanted to do an almighty 'screw you' to him. In hindsight, I doubt my little hissy-fit had any effect whatsoever, but it made me feel slightly more proactive.

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I'd first been made aware of my current company when a friend who'd ended up working there asked me if I wanted to do some freelance writing for them. I said yes, because it looked like a good opportunity and the extra cash seemed nice, and about six months later they offered me a job as an editorial assistant. Within a few months I'd scrambled up the ranks to a more senior position because other people started leaving (I don't think my arrival and their departure are intrinsically linked, but you never know). I've been there nine years in July, and it's been a pretty wild experience - I've met my Nemesis, made some awesome friends, seen some friends become enemies, found myself in a flooded office, worked my arse off, had my arse pinched by a tranvestite Ginger Spice, hated it, loved it, thought about leaving and ended up staying.

And I think after nine years I finally feel at home there.

Hair update 02: By jove, Holmes! edition

Crumbs, it feels like ages since I last posted, so, um, apologies for that. Anyway, let's crack on, shall we?

First order of business - after the immense success of last week's hair update, it's back for another round! And following on from Tara and Missy&Chrissy's suggestion, I've gone for a Sherlock Holmes look this week.

Ta-daaaa! That's my Sherlock Holmes: a stunning and uncanny transformation, I think you'll agree, that was definitely not thrown together while I was playing Scrabulous on Facebook or thinking that I might have to watch the first episode of Bionic Woman that I recorded last week. I'm particularly pleased with how I've used a Mr. Incredible Pez dispenser in lieu of a pipe.

So, what do we learn from this? Well, having slicked my hair down to appear as if I'm from the Victorian era* you unfortunately can't tell if it's grown at all since last week. It's also become quite apparent that I have just one expression, which always seems to involve a raised eyebrow. Please note, however, that this week I raised THE OTHER ONE.

Variety is, after all, the spice of live.

Don't forget to exercise your democratic right and vote for next week's exciting look in the comments section!

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Exciting news abounds elsewhere: I got my awesome new beanie. Over the last few years I've had a bit of a beanie obsession-thing going on; I've got shedloads of them in a variety of different shapes and colours, but I've always lacked an oversized one - y'know the kind that covers your entire head and most of your face.

As you might remember, I posted about the fact that I was thinking about getting one a while back - anyway, long story short, I ordered it, it arrived, I wore it, my boss compared me to Eminem, everything's groovy.

Notice how I've turned a little to camera to give you a better idea of how accommodating it is?I did that just for you, and you alone.

I love this beanie with a worrying passion.

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And now for something completely different: for what seems like an eternity, Thames Water have been replacing the water pipes in the roads around my office, and seem to be making a right mess of it. Roads are closed, the workmen don't seem to be doing anything, and on at least two occasions huge jets of water have been sent hurtling into the sky. Well, evidently some local joker has taken note of their incompetence - I saw this on the walk from my car to the office this morning.

Oh it's like a Banksy!

*An image that is quickly and utterly smashed into oblivion by the fact that I'm wearing a hoody rather than proper gentlemanly attire.

Two

Aaaaaw, ain't he a lil' sweetheart? And then he grew up to be … me! Yep, that cheeky little bugger pictured above is me as a toddler (or thereabouts). Damn, I don't mean to be bigheaded or any more egocentric than usual, but I was as cute as a button. That picture's like an advert for a potential Abercrombie and Fitch baby range.

And look - I was even rockin' the hoody fresh out of the oven.

Anyway, so why am I posting pictures of Baby Tim? Well, it's because today is my second birthday. Not my actual second birthday - it would be impressive if a toddler could write a blog for two years, and would put IDV's constant pursuit of me in a whole new, rather unsettling light. No! It is, in fact, my second blogger bloggy-blog birthday! Good grief - can you believe I've been inflicting this nonsense on the world for two whole years - isn't it time someone stopped me? Whatever. Anyway, I thought a baby pic would be more suitable than just doing a screen grab of my first post, which really you could just look at HERE, although I would suggest you didn't bother; it was – and I know this is hard to believe – even worse than everything that's followed it. In fact, it's very clingy and needy: "ooo, come read my blog, blah blah blah."

So there we have it. I'm two. Who's going to bring me cake?

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To mark this historic occasion, I've decided to open the secret Sparky vault to reveal some never before seen titles and designs that I considered using before this blog evolved into the Sparky Malarkey you all know and loathe today!

Some of you might find they look just a little bit familiar… Enjoy!

(Special thanks to the Coven for unwittingly allowing me to rip their blog headers a new one, and to everyone who's stopped by over the last two years - here's to many more!)

Hair update 01

Following on from Missy&Chrissy's wonderful suggestion, may I present to you - yes you - the first in a new weekly series: Hair update!

Yes, as my efforts to grow my hair longer continue apace, here's your chance to follow events as they unfold! The excitement is, well, exciting, so here we go:

Ta-daaaa!

OK, so this kind of looks better than it actually is; I've been wearing a wooly hat all day, so I had full-on hat-hair which meant that as soon as I got in I damped it down and spruced it up a bit, because there was no freakin' way I was going to post it as it was. Notice also how I'm aiming for a sizzling, sultry look; I don't know why - it was either that or mimic two annoying pre-adolescent emo girls who kept gurning into an iMac in the Apple Store yesterday, but seeing as none of you were there you probably wouldn't get the joke, and I'd just end up looking like a goddamned emo. Maybe we could turn that into another aspect of this feature - pick a stupid expression for me to model? Some unsavoury types would say a stupid expression is about all I can do…

Um, so that's about it. Obviously we've still got a long way to go. And by 'we' I actually mean 'me.' Unless you all want to join me in growing your hair, like a special hair-growing super-club. 

I'll make the membership cards. It'll be awesome. 

Kids do and say the funniest things

The Sparky clan were overcome by a brief wave of nostalgia this evening. Sparky Nan was over for dinner, and we got talking about years ago when Big Bro and I were much, much younger; around the time when I had chubby little cheeks and a mop of blonde hair that was so fair I could almost be mistaken for an albino.

Almost.

Anyway, the thing that sparked this conversation off was a recollection of one of the greatest achievements in Big Bro's life. At the age of four, you see, Sparky Nan entered him into a competition to draw an Easter card. So Sparky Ma duly set him down with a piece of paper and some paints, and told him to paint something … Eastery.

And, as she watched, he did. He painted a lovely, very well-proportioned Easter egg; he painted a lovely colourful border; and he painted a beautiful yellow chick. Then he started to paint another beautiful yellow chick on the opposite side, with careful little dabs of yellow paint. 

It was at this point that, for some reason, Sparky Ma left him alone for all of about 30 seconds time. And it was at this time that Big Bro decided that the chick needed some legs. 

Some legs that were about five times longer than they should've been.

Sparky Ma can still recall the utter horror she experienced upon seeing the mutant chick Big Bro had unleashed, but with the deadline for the competition looming fast, there was no time to get him to paint another picture, so she submitted it regardless. And what do know? The little bugger won. The prize was a £15 gift voucher for Dickens and Jones in Richmond which he swiftly spent on a large green plastic van that provided hours of fun throughout our childhood (and quite possibly slightly inappropriately beyond).

Anyway, so we were chatting about that painting tonight, and Sparky Ma said that she thought she still had it somewhere, before popping upstairs to rummage through her cupboards. Five minutes later she's back with an old plastic bag containing various treasures she's kept from our early years, including, for some reason, a headband decorated with silver milk bottle tops and a big star that I fashioned, aged five, for a school nativity play - the mere sight of which, allied with the overwhelming smell of mouldy 26-year dairy products imbued upon it, brought the memory of the event back with a jolt.

Ahem

Within a few seconds, the prize-winning artwork was found (how we laughed at that chick's exceedingly long legs!), after which we continued looking through the bag. 

And that's when we found an Easter card that I'd made for Sparky Ma and Pa way back in 1982. Now, the only explanation for what was inscribed within is that a) school teachers in the early 80s were sorely lacking in proofreading skills, b) I loved rhyming couplets, or c) Sparky Pa had done something to majorly piss me off.

Because I'd written: Dear Mummy and Dummy. Happy Easter. Love Tim.

It was at that point that I thought I might've outstayed my welcome for the evening and promptly headed home.

Rage

Changing my hair's not the only decision I've made this week: I've decided that Angry Tim might be have to be released into the wild a bit more often.

There's a reason for this: twice this week the same person has made comments to me that were, initially, just plain rude, and in the second instant, downright offensive. And as I'm generally a reasonably chilled out person, I stupidly let them slide.

No more, though; oh no. 

Let's review the said comments, and the setting in which they were uttered:

While walking back to my car one evening, I noticed that this individual (not a stranger, I hasten to add), was running down the road after me. I was listening to music on my lovely, lovely iPhone, and as this person can be quite annoying and I was in a bit of a rush, I carried on walking rather than stop and wait. 

Said person then started yelling my name to the point that a random on the street actually stopped me and said that someone was trying to get my attention. Said person then proceeded to lecture me about how people who use iPods are ignorant, and how I was the sort of person who would step out into the road and get knocked down, then blame the driver. I very politely replied that I use my iPod when running, and am always very careful to check for traffic when crossing a road.

My response should've been: "Actually I was just ignoring you because you bore the tits off me."

The second instant was the one that really tipped me over the edge. Said person asked me if I'd be up for playing a particular sport with him, and I said "not at the moment" due to events in my life outside of work involving a member of my family which are taking up a lot of my spare time. 

Said person then proceeded to make what was not only a deeply insensitive, but also incredibly offensive comment 'in jest' about that particular member of my family. Somewhat startled, I snapped back, indicating (far too politely, in hindsight) that the conversation was over.

My response should've been: "F**k off, t**t."

So that second example took place two days ago, and I keep thinking about it because I am genuinely shocked that some people think it's fine and dandy to be so insensitive to someone who, I'm not afraid to admit, has been through a bit of an emotional wringer over the last four weeks.

Which is where Angry Tim comes in. Because if said person tries to make another comment like that again, they're going to get a freakin' hell-storm of words right back at them that will be so colourful everyone in the vicinity will feel like they're on a really bad acid trip. And why not? If people like this can get away with it, there's no reason I can't in response.

I'm rather looking forward to delivering a vocal bitch-slap of epic proportions. Bring it.

Hair care crunch

The votes are in and have been independently verified - with your help, I've decided on a course of action for my hair!

Well, by 'the votes are in' I actually mean 'some of you mumbled a bit and didn't actually choose between long or short until I moaned and whined at you.' Geez, you lot are indecisive to the point of not knowing what to think.

Although this, coming from the person who had to ask what you thought he should do with his hair is, I think you'll agree, a bit rich.

Anyway - this is what I've decided (drum roll please):

I'm going to grow it until the first week of May. My reasons for this are twofold:

• I'm a little intrigued by trying to grow it long; and if I have it cut now, I'll only have to have it cut again in May ready for whatever pitiful summer will be thrown at us this year. 

• I intend to take the first week of May off, and I traditionally have my hair cut in my week off. So if I just aim for the May cut and ignore the interim period I'll be quids in, too.

I'm actually a little bit excited now I've made this monumental decision, which just goes to show how simple and easily pleased I really am. Um… Seriously, though, I quite enjoyed having longer hair a couple of years ago, and have always been just a little bit disappointed with myself that I never persevered with it longer. And to ensure I don't snap and shave it all off, I'm going to employ two distinct tactics to keep everything under control.

Tactic the first is:

• A hat. Yes, yes, this is a pretty straightforward way of managing the unmanageable hair that I anticipate I'll be facing in the coming weeks, but it also works. It also gives me an excuse to buy that oversized beanie I've been dithering over for the last few weeks.

Tactic the second is (*shudder*)…

• A parting. Good god, I haven't had a parting in my hair in donkey's years, and the initial thought of one scares me just a little. And no doubt best mate Jo will go utterly ballistic when she sees me with one, because she loathes them with an almost homicidal intensity. But I figure there's plenty of people around these days who've helped make it more socially acceptable, and if done correctly (a little rough, rather than a perfect straight line) it'll certainly look no worse than the horrific mess my hair has the potential to turn into over the coming weeks without one. It might also make me look sultry and dangerous - who knows?

So there we have it guys and gals - that's the plan. There are at least 61 days until I'm allowing myself to go get my haircut.

Unless I turn seriously mentalist around mid-April and hack it off with a kitchen knife.

Weekend business

I unashamedly spent at least 50 percent of the weekend horizontal in bed.

I'd decided, you see, that I really needed a quality lie-in. I actually set my alarm for a reasonably early time both days, because when I have a lie-in I like to think that it's properly alloted time rather than a "oops, look at the ungodly hour!" sort of thing. This was helped by the fact that I've set the alarm on my iPhone to play the 'Marimba' ringtone, which is a rather lovely little merengue sort of tune. It's very South American. I'd initially considered using the 'Alarm' ringtone, but realised that feeling like you're being woken during a Klingon attack against the Enterprise wouldn't necessarily be the best start to a relaxing day.

So the alarm would go off at 8:30, at which point I'd roll over, tap 'snooze' on my iPhone, then bundle myself up in the duvet for another four hours.

Usually I consider such a thing a total waste of the day, but this time I thought "sod it," and tapped snooze again. I don't have a lie-in of such epic proportions often, and this one rocked.

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In the time I actually hauled myself out of bed and into an upright position, I totally developed a new addiction: toast and marmalade. I had examples of each in my cupboards (well, not toast as such, rather a loaf of bread) that were nudging perilously close to being not just past their sell-by date, but waaaaaaaay past their sell-by date. And so, before they had the chance to heave themselves out of the kitchen, and at the risk of serious injury to myself, I decided to eat them.

And by God were they good.

I'll certainly be restocking next time I'm in Sainsburys. Maybe next weekend I'll combine my new pastimes and have toast IN bed.

There's a revolutionary idea.

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It wasn't all just chillaxing and ramming old food down my throat, though. Oh no. I did my longest run so far using the Nike+ kit (as ably displayed on the sexy graph to the right)! I actually did this run as a bit of an experiment, because I noticed that when I run with Sweatband she totally baby-steps the whole way, which means I fall into step beside her (except near the end where I sprint away from her at warp speed in an effort to cause upset and humiliation), in contrast to my usual long-legged strides. So last night I made a conscious decision to shorten my strides, resulting in a more consistent run (sorry, no amusing graph-faces this time, kids). And it actually increased my average speed, from 5:34 per km to 5:29. 

On the downside, it killed my legs (seriously, they well 'urt), and Marcosy moaned that the graph didn't give the impression of me running like a loon and waving my arms like a special as I pounded the streets of West London.

Which leaves me with something of a dilemma: do I continue with the shorter strides and more consistent pace, or just go back to running like I'm on crystal meth?

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Finally, an appeal - one that makes me sound a but like a teenage girl: I'm at a crossroads, people. I need to do something with my hair, and I don't know whether to go short and scruffy, or aim for long and scruffy. Either way it's going to be scruffy. I'm at the stage where it just looks stupid, and I really feel like I need to have it cut. But part of me thinks that if I just persevere a little longer I could totally grow it out into something longer and grungy. Actually, I'm totally falling into the middle ground between the two dudes from Supernatural. Plus, when my hair's longer it totally does this little flicky thing at the back that makes me look kinda cute…

Um, yeah… So… Er… Thoughts!

That book thing that everyone is doing

Well, everyone else is doing it, so why can't I?

1. Pick up the nearest book (of at least 123 pages).
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people*

Margaret had to leave early so Ange is removing my makeup today. I ask her if she's got a menthol blower (the minty apparatus that, when blown into an actor's eyes, produces tears), and I borrow it to take home for rehearsal for tomorrow. Hair and makeup removed, I jump in the car and head to the hotel.

This is from the book I'm currently reading, which is My Boring-Ass Life: The Uncomfortably Candid Diary of Kevin Smith. And uncomfortably candid it is - and yet also very entertaining. This passage is taken from the section where he's filming the movie Catch and Release in Vancouver, where he later gets into a bit of trouble for talking - candidly, of course - about the production of the film. What did they expect? He's Kevin Smith! Which means unlike, well, pretty much all of Hollywood I expect, he actually likes to interact with his fans. And it's not like he spoils the movie in any way. In fact, what he's written about it actually makes me want to go seek out Catch and Release.

Score one for Smith, zero for uptight, shortsighted Hollywood execs.

Anyway, it's a good read, so if you liked those three sentences I recommend all the others in the book. Available now in all good bookshops (I've always wanted to say that)!

* I can't be bothered to do this - do it if you feel like doing it. See if I care.

Hello ladies

Right, so I thought I'd best write this post today, otherwise it'd have to wait another four years and who knows - I could be married with kids by then.

So this being February 29th, apparently the ladies out there can ask us gents to marry them, rather than the more traditional other-way-around. Now, I'm not a scientist, but I can't understand why ladies can only ask on one specific day that only occurs once every four years. Do their heads explode if they try? Are they totally struck down by lightening? Do they implode?

Whose in a position to get Abi Titmus to give it a whirl? I doubt we'd massively miss her if her head exploded.

Anyway, I think this rule kinda sucks, because despite what you might think I'm actually quite shy, so it would certainly make life a bit easier if a lady asked me to marry her. I suppose another problem is that I'm actually single so it would be rather surprising if a random just walked up to me on the street and tried to marry me up there and then. My monocle might drop out. 

Of course, if she looked like she just climbed out of the bear enclosure at a safari park it might be something less like a pleasant surprise, but beggars can't be choosers so I'd certainly weigh up my options carefully before issuing a sexy response in the yay or nay.

So there we have it. It's 21:11, and there's still time left for the ladies out there to snap me up. I'm quite the catch, or so I've been told. So if you've had enough of looking for Mr. Right and feel like cashing your chips now you could probably do a lot worse than me. I've got a job, a car, a house, and reasonably well-defined pectorals. 

I'll just be sitting here watching last night's episode of Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles if anyone feels like popping the question.

Rustle and snap

I've learnt this week that pink plastic aprons make me look ridiculous, and medium-sized rubber gloves are just a smidgeon too small while large are far too big. Evidently I have oddly-sized hands.

On the plus side, tearing them off in a dramatic stylee makes me feel like I'm in ER. And I mean good ER - like when Clooney was in it.

(First post via iPhone people - yay!)

Lance

As many of you might (not) have noticed, after days of zero activity my Nike+ widget is now displaying another rather sad looking graph that resembles something a special might have drawn while running alongside a white wall with a green crayon in his hand. 

Of course, I'm still enjoying the fact that it also looks like another horizontally-aligned face in profile, although this is not intentional. I will, however, be open to the idea of taking requests if anyone would like me to attempt to create a famous face via the medium of running and Nike+. Maybe I could be like Rain Man or something? Oh no, wait, I mean the dude from My Left Foot - didn't he paint? Rain Man just advised people to fly Quantas, right?

Anyway, I got the surprise of my life while out running last night - well actually as I finished up running. I did an awesome sprint finish (as displayed on the widget by the rather dramatic and sexy upturn on the right of the graph), after which I clicked 'finish workout.' At that point the lovely robot lady voice tells you how far you've run, how many calories you've burnt up - all that sort of thing - after which it usually just all goes silent. Not last night though!

Immediately after lovely robot lady finished telling me how good I was, another voice chimed up. It was most unexpected, and startled the tits off me for a second.

"Hi! This is Lance Armstrong," it said. "Congratulations - you've just done your longest run so far!" That was nice, I thought, while also feeling just a little bit grateful that he didn't cut off a Sheryl Crow song to tell me that.

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I've also just learnt via the wonders of the tinternet that long-distance running woman Paula Abdul… I mean Paula Radcliffe (mother of Daniel) has also recorded a soundbite for Nike+. I'm hoping it'll chime in when I'm doing the 10k in June with a helpful comment that goes something like: "by 'eck, it's about time you squatted over a drain and strained the greens - you must be fit to burst!"

I don't know why I imagine she talks in a thick Yorkshire accent, but there you go.

I'm also hoping they might get Majel Barrett Roddenberry to do one. It could just randomly say "working" while you're running around.

Jeebus phone

I'll cut to the chase: I finally relented and bought an iPhone.

Holy crap, people - BEST. THING. EVAH.

Seriously.

Let's re-re-wind a bit. You all know I love all things Apple, and you all know I've been gushing about the iPhone for what seems like an eternity. Hell, I even tried to engineer my own a while back. But, I'll be honest, I'd been holding off for a while, because a few little doubts had crept into my mind; I've been with Orange as long as I've had a mobile - did I really want to leave them for O2? It would be a tad more expensive per month than I've been used to paying - was it worth it for the privilege? Would the internet function be painfully slow - should I wait for the inevitable 3G version?

Well, I've been dithering for a while now - I'd actually intended to buy one in January and chickened out on the day. Which was really rather fortunate in hindsight, because a few weeks later they brought out the 16gb version. Anyway, the other day I finally got round to requesting my PAC code (which allows you to port your number to another service provider), because I figured even if I requested it and did nothing with it I'd not lost anything. It turned up in Friday's post in a letter from Orange.

"We're sorry to hear that you're thinking about leaving us," it began, which immediately set me off because I'm a sucker for pleading. But I quickly thought back to the hard-man image I developed at the Nada Surf gig and that 'aaaah' phase soon passed.

Even so, though, as I headed off to Kingston this morning on a mission to get a Mother's Day present for Sparky Ma, I was still in two minds as to whether I was actually going to get one or not (an iPhone, that is, not Sparky Ma's Mother's Day present - that's completely compulsory). I played around with one in the Apple Store, then went for a coffee and a think, then walked round a few more shops while thinking a bit more, then thought "bugger it" and just went and bought one.

And now, 10 hours later, I don't know how I ever coped without one.

The activation process - all done through iTunes - is the easiest sign-up I've ever done. Then it was just a matter of loading my bits and bobs on. Music, calenders, contacts, and email settings all zipped across seamlessly - but then I started whacking on a load of other things, like photos and movie trailers. It's all totally awesome.

Heck, me and Big Bro spent this evening with Sparky Nan and went to the fish and chip shop to get dinner; he got the food, I sat in the car checking my email and surfing the tinternet. And it works surprisingly fast even when it's not running on wi-fi or EDGE. Well, on various blogs, anyway (just don't start loading your pages up with flashy animations and complex graphics, because I think it might wobble a bit then), but that's cool because most of my tinternet surfing consists of things like this and this, which it coped with admirably.

All in all, then, it's seriously living up to the hype so far. Even Big Bro was won over by it - and this time last week he was dissing it big time.

Now we just have to see how it works attracting the ladies. Who wants to come touch?

Fists of fury

Last night I headed up to Kings Cross to enjoy a Christmas present that my big bro got for me. But wait, you dirty-minded perverts - it had nothing to do with what immediately springs to mind when someone utters the words 'Kings Cross'; no, it was, in fact, a rather wonderful Nada Surf concert at the Scala.

I won't go on too much about the band, because it's not been that long since I harped on about them before; suffice to say that me and my cohorts (the aforementioned big bro and Yaz) had a wonderful time, and Nada Surf's new album, Lucky, which I picked up at the merchandise stand and have listened to constantly since, is awesome.

What I will go on about, though, is people's elbows, and some serious spatial awareness issues.

Basically, we managed to get pretty close to the stage, but as usually happens in this instance, an incredibly tall dude ended up right by us. An incredibly tall, bony-elbowed drunk dude, who kept jabbing me in the right tit while the support act, Rogue Wave (also very good), played. And if it wasn't his bony elbow, it was his freaky bony hip swaying into my abs.

And to rub insult into injury, after Rogue Wave finished and his drunken girlfriend staggered off to find a plant pot to pee behind, drunk dude decided he'd try to talk to us. While trying to deflect said dude's conversational advances, Yaz jokingly - and gently - poked me. I laughed. But then drunk dude thought he'd have a go. 

Yes, you read that right, but let's say it again for emphasis: drunk dude thought he'd have a go.

And he poked me. And not only did he poke me, but he poked me right where I'd stashed the Nada Surf album I'd just bought. He poked me in my Lucky.

Now, I'm a peace-loving chap, and even I'm a little surprised by what I did next: I gritted my teeth and raised my fist in a threatening manner.

Drunk dude did not bother me again all evening.

Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for another drunkard, who seemed insistant on trying to make me his new best friend, despite the fact that he was attending the gig with his two best friends (who, annoyingly, he insisted on chatting to quite loudly, quite a lot). On one occasion, during the song 'Imaginary Friends,' he put his arm across my shoulder and tried to get me to take part in an impromptu chorus line with him and one of his pals. I glared at him until he removed it, which happened, I kid you not, pretty damn quickly.

Near the end of the gig he tried to befriend me once again by inviting me to high-five him. I responded once again with a glare of epic proportions that I would have maintained until he either a) left me alone, or b) was vapourised. Fortunately for him he chose the former and quickly left me alone.

Fortunately, these little … interruptions did not spoil the gig. Good times!

-----

I didn't take many pics, but here's a couple:

From left: Ira on drums, Daniel (rocking his awesome dreads) on bass, and Matthew on guitar and singing.

At the end of the gig, the band invited anyone who wanted to get up on stage to, um, get up on stage. I kid you not - that there is the stage from the same angle as the previous pic.

-----

And because I didn't take any video clips, here's Rogue Waves' video for their song 'Publish my Love.' The drummer apparently had a kidney transplant recently-ish. Notice how he also looks like Earl Hickey from My Name is Earl*.

And here's Nada Surf's song 'Blankest Year.' Careful kids - it has naughty words in it!

*I'm not sure if this is a side-effect of said kidney transplant.

Back up to speed (ish)

And … he's back!

Hello.

It seems like ages since I've written anything substantial here, so bear with me if things appear a bit rusty. Imagine me learning how to ride a bike - I've got stabilisers, um, stabilising, and am kitted out with every conceivable piece of padding.

So with all that in mind, and a little wobble … we're off!

-----

As you may have noticed, I've slapped a new little widget over there on the right that records my Nike+ running data. All sounds exciting, huh? Well it is.

Unfortunately, things didn't start off too smoothly with the Nike+ kit - basically because I'm a smidgeon retarded rather than anything inherently wrong with the technology itself. The problem came from my attempt to calibrate the sensor - I was stupidly running too far. I got it done on the second attempt, so all's good now. 

Well, I say 'all is good.' 

My latest problem stems from the fact that on all the sample graphs I've seen in the demos the wiggly line is actually quite consistently level - indicating a regular running pace - whereas mine is … not. Look at that one there - it looks like an outline of Alfred Hitchcock facedown. Marcosy emailed me today to say that I must be like a toddler on a sugar high while running. Either that or I've got a massive club foot. To be honest, I thought I was running at a reasonably consistent pace (aside from that little squiggle on the upward curve towards the end when I was almost run over), so that graph came as something of a shock. Still, it's something to work on, which is, I s'pose, the reason I bought the kit in the first place.

-----

Had a day of cinema on Saturday, catching two movies which curiously both began with the letter 'J' (this almost turned into an episode of Sesame Street there, huh?). First up was Juno at Shepherds Bush in the early afternoon with Yaz. Now the first third of this film was ruined by a group of mouthy teenagers who insisted on talking loudly and making phone calls. Fortunately they were too mentally-inhibited to actually understand a film without an explosion every 15 seconds, and they subsequently left to sneak into a screening of Jumper. 

Anyway, I enjoyed Juno - maybe not as much as I'd hoped (which may be down to the mutant chavs), but I definitely would be up for seeing it again. 

There was a satisfactory conclusion to the experience though; we came out of the showing and demanded to see the manager, who looked alarmingly like Pedro from Napoleon Dynamite. Pedro actually knew that there was a bunch of trouble makers in the cinema, but despite telling his staff to check in every few minutes, they didn't. Anyway, we passed on the revelation that they were now wreaking havoc in the Jumper screening, and he passed on two complimentary tickets.

Chavs - 0

Us - 1

Vote for Pedro!

-----

Later on in the evening I headed off to Kingston cinema to catch Jumper with my big bro. Despite the reasonably crappy reviews, it was a highly entertaining, but nevertheless not very memorable film. But I did love that bit where … Um, what was that bit? Er … Bugger it, I can't remember.

I kind of recommend it if you're in the mood for a big dumb action flick though.

A big thank you

Hey everyone,

I just wanted to write a quick post to say an unbelievably big thank you to everyone who has commented, emailed, texted, or called over the course of the last week - I've been left utterly speechless* by your kind words. I don't think I could possibly begin to tell you how much they've all meant to me. You know those wonderful people I mentioned in my last post? That's you lot.

I think normal service might resume soon – but in the meantime (and this won't be everyone's cup of tea), the words of this song have also been a source of comfort during this difficult time. I hope you like it.

*So really you've only got yourselves to blame for me not posting recently :D**

**OK, that's the one and only time you'll ever see me using a smiley emoticon.

Two things I've been reminded of this week

Hi everyone,

I just wanted to let you know that I'm not going to be around for a while. But before I go, there's just a couple of things I wanted to say.

First and foremost, make sure you look after your loved ones. They're the most important thing you'll ever have in your life.

Secondly, when you least expect it and most need it, you'll always find some of the most kind-hearted, generous, and caring people. It could be your best mate, or just a well-timed smile from a stranger. Do me a favour, will you? When you find them, let them know how wonderful they are.

Much love,

Tim

Keeping busy

I've had an eventful last few days - nothing world-shatteringly exciting, but a couple of bits have stuck in my mind.

First of all, I saw Cloverfield. Let's skip the foreplay: I enjoyed it. It's tense, exciting, scary, dramatic, and at 85 minutes doesn't stray anywhere near being overly long. That said, when I saw it I had a bit of a headache, and the shakey-cam point of view did nothing to help; within about 15 minutes I kind of had a bit of a cold sweat going on, though I don't think I was anywhere near throwing up. I was also a bit sleepy, although a well-timed 10-second power-nap during a non-essential scene sorted all my ails out, and I was upright, alert, and fully-focused for the rest of the film. 

Although I didn't actually miss anything, I am going to go see Cloverfield again, mainly 'cos my big bro wants to see it. Next time around I'll make sure I'm fully caffeined up and ready for anything.

-----

I've finally gotten round to buying a Nike+ running kit. These have been out for a while now, and I don't know why I've held out for so long before buying one; hell, they even give you verbal encouragement as you run, either in a male or female voice. I'm hoping at some point they'll do celebrity voices - can you imagine William Shatner shouting encouragement at me as I run? Or Autumn Reeser? "Yay - c'mon Tim, you can do it - you're my hero!"

Yes Autumn, yes I am.

*Ahem*

Anyway, I've got it now, and I'm looking forward to trying it out when my cough (which is seriously, I think, in its death throes) is gone, and when the additional accessories I've ordered turn up. Because, yes, I always have to buy some extra bits of Apple-based goodness.

In this instance, though, they are actually necessary. The first is an armband so that my iPod is kept safe and secure while I'm pounding the streets, while the second is a little pouch to put the Nike+ running sensor in. To cut a long story short, you're actually supposed to use this bit of kit with a specific type of Nike trainers which feature a special hole for the sensor to fit in. I don't want to buy some new trainers, so I've ordered the pouch because it holds it securely by the laces.

Which leads to an embarrassing situation in the Apple Store.

Basically, I walked in there, fiddled with an iPhone for about five minutes, then picked up the Nike+ kit and took it over to an Apple iLady to buy it. She took it off me, looked at it, then said "you do know these are designed to work with a specific pair of Nike trainers, don't you?" I smiled, pointed down (intending to mean my feet, though in hindsight I realise she could've taken it to mean any point below, um, waist level), and said "oh, don't worry, I've got a … small thing."

By that I actually meant 'pouch to put the sensor in,' but the non-descriptive reply I gave coupled with the strange look on her face means that she probably thought I was just making an unnecessary, untrue, and quite random penis reference.

-----

Went to a museum, found a rude tank.

Tee-hee!

-----

Ooo, anyone remember my attempts to de-clutter last year? Anyone care? Whatever! Well, they've been proceeding apace! I am now down to the last book in my mighty stack of books - the stack is no more! And from now on, there shall be no more stack!

So what is the final book in the stack? Well let me tell you - it's My Boring-ass Life: The Uncomfortably Candid Diary of Kevin Smith, a birthday present from Mr. Chunt and the lovely Nikki. I'm only about 15-20 pages in, but so far Kevin Smith's life consists of looking at his own films, sexy good-times with the missus, checking his email, and watching Law and Order. 

Good lord - my life's more exciting than that!

On the plus side, it's typical Kevin Smith, so it's all told in a hilariously droll fashion. 

And I've already got an idea what will be my first post-stack read - and I think it'll warrant an evening jaunt to Borders, because it's been too long since I last did that…

When real life and Family Guy collide

Do you ever have a moment where something happens and you suddenly feel really self-conscious about where you are and what you're doing? I don't often, but yesterday I did.

To cut a long story short, I've started writing my book again. Well, actually that's a bit of a lie - I've started proof-reading my book so I can tighten things up and refresh my memory of what it's all about so I can THEN finish writing it, hand it over to Grum for illustration purposes, and then go buy myself a damned iPhone. Seriously, I'm blackmailing myself - no finito da story, no iPhone; capeche?

I don't quite know when I became a stereotypical ethnic minority gangster, but that's beside the point - that's how I'm rolling these days.

Anyway, let's set the scene: I'm in Secret Starbucks. It's comfortably busy, but I have a table all to myself. My grande misto is to my right, my iPod to my left; the latter is playing tunes that are thematically close in nature to the story I'm writing (I say 'the latter' because I'd hate for you to think that I had some sort of musical beverage). I'm armed with my trusty red proofing pen and I am in the zone. I'm more focused on this thing than a person with 20-20 vision looking through binoculars at a Ford Focus. I'm THAT focused. 

So there I am in my little writing bubble - content and, yes, just a little optimistic as to how this things is coming along. Then, out the corner of my eye I notice the people at the table next to me getting ready to leave. And that's when it happened.

I happened to sit back to take a mouthful of coffee as one of these guys went to walk by; he literally stopped, looked at the papers in front of me, and the red pen in my hand, and instantly my thoughts went to Family Guy.

Now, I don't know if you're familiar with the clip I'm talking about (and of course I can't show you because Family Guy has disappeared off youtube), but there's a moment in the episode 'Bill and Peter's Bogus Journey' that goes something like this:

Chris: Meg, you are so full of crap. You're like those people who sit in Starbucks and publicly write on their laptops. (Scene with two guys typing on their laptops in Starbucks)
Guy #2: Hey, getting some writing done there buddy?
Guy #1: Yeah, setting up in public so everybody can watch me type my big screenplay.
Guy #2: Me too. All real writers need to be seen writing otherwise what's the point, right?
Guy #1: You should totally write that down!
Guy #2: Okay, will you watch me?

I haven't felt that self-conscious since that first-year junior school swimming lesson when I pushed off a little too vigorously from the side and my swimming trunks almost came down. I suddenly had an overwhelming desire to either a) defend what I was doing, b) make an unexpected off-the-cuff remark to deflect attention (such as "I like cats!"), or c) tell him to "mind his own f**king business and f**k off."

Ultimately, I just plumped for looking a bit shifty and wrapping my arm around the page like I was a 10 year-old shielding my work in an exam.

If it happens again, I think I might have to resort to slapping him up a bit with the manuscript.

What-evah

My original idea for this post was to respond to IDV's tag-thing where I'm supposed to write about six seemingly unimportant facts or quirks about me. Unfortunately, I couldn't think of any - or at the very least any that wouldn't either a) bore you to tears, or b) make me sound like a borderline psycho.

With that in mind, I think I'll just plod on with the regular drivel. Unless, of course, there's anything you want to know about me? Heck, we could do another 'Ask Tim!' post, because that was such an unmitigated success first time round - maybe this time with more than about three questions though.

Hmmm…

Moving on!

-----

Good news everybody! I think I'm finally winning the war against the mutant cough from hell! It's certainly subsided a little bit since I last moaned about it, which gives me hope that I might be able to get back to my regular pastimes of running and, er, not coughing in the next couple of days. It is fighting back a little bit, though; in fact, about 10 minutes ago I coughed so much I literally vommed in my mouth a little bit. Fortunately I swallowed it back down - nice!

Helping me with the fight-back once again today was my friendly neighbourhood barista in Secret Starbucks. After upgrading me to a venti misto on Friday, he told me I should try honey and milk to ease my cough. I laughed, said "sounds like a plan," and didn't try it. Today, however, he asked if I'd tried it, and because I'm nothing if not honest I replied "um… yeeeeee- no." Damn my inability to lie spontaneously. He frowned at me disapprovingly, which made me feel about five years-old, then said "I've got some honey here, I'm going to make you some." "Oh, don't worry," I replied. "No problem," he replied. Shit, I thought.

A minute or so later I found myself with mug of coffee and a takeaway cup full of some wacky honey and milk concoction. "Knock it back in one," he said as I walked to a table, cursing the lack of plant pots in which I could dispose of it. With little other option than to - oops! - 'accidently' knock it over, I decided to just shut up and knock it back. It tasted … awesome. With all things awesome tasting, I can't believe it's actually going to do any good, but it was a freebie, so whatever.

Rather embarrassingly, though, FNB later made me take the lid off the cup in front of a queue of other customers to prove that I'd drunk it all. They must have thought I was either a) a special, or b) that they'd happened upon the world's only fascist-run Starbucks ("You vill drink your beverage and you vill ENJOY IT! UNDERSTOOD?!"). I hate to think what he would've done if I hadn't…

-----

Now, I'm not one to be seduced by advertising often (um, yeah, right!), but while in Sainsbury's last night I couldn't help but pick up a box of Tetley's new redbush tea. 

*snigger*

Redbush. Tee-hee!

Anyway, let it be known that I didn't buy this tea because of the adverts - I've actually liked redbu- tee-hee! -sh tea for a few years now. But, I will admit that I do love the advert nevertheless.

Isn't she just wonderful? It's awesome the way she just mouths off at that alligator and it turns round like a shot. I know who rules the plains of Africa my friends, and it ain't no overgrown lizard. Hell, she even gives a verbal beat-down to a lion last thing at night!

Respect to Mama Bimkubwa!

Cough, cough

I know I've harped on enough about being ill over the last couple of weeks, but the truth is I've still got this vile lurgy. I actually thought I'd gotten rid of it, but in some evil last hurrah it's struck me down with the world's worst cough. 

It kicked in last Saturday, although I miraculously managed to keep it under control during Alien Loves Predator. But it didn't like that, and fought back by getting continually worse over the days that followed. It's that horrible sort of cough - y'know, the one where you do a little cough, then it snowballs into a big badass one where you feeling like you're either going to vom massively or bring up a lung. And I'm not quite sure how I'd deal with a lung hanging out of my mouth; do I just pop it back down my throat, or seek medical attention?

On Tuesday it was pretty horrific, but, like Saturday evening at the cinema, I managed to restrain it for the most part during the Nada Surf gig; it was, however, one of the other factors for the wobbly camera action in my video clip for The Meow Meow Song. Next time I'll thing about taking a Steadicam with me.

Anyway, I thought I'd peaked about Tuesday, but no. For the rest of the week it's been pretty rubbish, to the point that my boss even asked if he could get me a glass of water while I was chatting to him. I wasn't actually sure water would help, but said yes anyway because having your boss do something for you is a rare occurrence that you should never turn down. 

Upon deciding that riding it out might not work, I accepted Sparky Ma's offer of a bottle of Tescos's Blackcurrant and Glycerin cough mixture. Tesco's Blackcurrant and Glycerin cough mixture is quite probably the most awesome tasting medicine in the world. I could, quite literally, neck it out the bottle on a regular basis. The only slight flaw, however, is that it doesn't work. With this in mind, I subsequently accepted Sparky Ma's offer of a bottle of Meltus, which sounds like the name you'd give an evil warlord in a trashy fantasy film, and tastes like what I'd imagine the under-boob sweat of an aged prozzie would taste like, but it actually works.

So I'm actually necking that out the bottle (in carefully measured 10ml shots).

I also made careful note of Sparky Pa's considerate advice, offered while I was in the midst of eating dinner, that I should "try to bring up as much phlegm as I could." While helpful, I quickly found myself putting my knife and fork together and declining the gracious offer of pudding.

Coughing fun had highs and lows yesterday. The high was that it got me the sympathy vote of my friendly neighbourhood barista in Secret Starbucks who upgraded me to a venti (which meant that I was not only off my tits on Meltus, but was also vibrating from excessive coffee), while the low came in the evening while enjoying pancakes at My Old Dutch with some friends. They're funny people, you see, so I was soon coughing quickly and heartilly, and at one point thought I was on the brink of vomming, which quite probably would've put everyone off their pancakes and seen my number of friends seriously diminished in one foul swoop.

So, onto the here and now: it's 22:20 on a Saturday night, my voice is so wrecked from coughing that I sound like Blanche from Coronation Street (who, if you don't know, is a gravel-voiced 800-year old biddy), and I've got a spasm of pain in my chest that makes me think I might collapse on the floor in a dramatic John Hurt stylee and unleash a snappish little alien on the world. 

I also think I need a haircut, but don't know what to have done.

Getting intimate with Nada Surf on a Tuesday lunchtime

Right, so today officially goes down as the most awesome day of 2008 so far. Admittedly we're not too far into it, but I'm pretty sure it's going to be hard to beat regardless.

And it all started on Sunday evening…

I basically spent all of Sunday on my computer - writing, would you believe. But by around nine o'clock I was pretty much done for the day, and was just about to shut it all down when I thought I'd have a quick catch-up with some of my favourite bands on Myspace. And there, on Nada Surf's page, was the following message:

acoustic afternoon London show

Nada Surf will be playing a small intimate midday (1pm) show in London on tuesday the 22nd of jan. YES! Thats next tuesday! The show is invite only and we have some guestlist places for you.. just mail the following address (…) by Monday Jan 21, and we will confirm the lucky winners by email with details of times, venue etc

Ooo… I thought. Then I figured I'd never get tickets, then I figured "what the hell," and I fired off an email.

And on Monday afternoon I got an email back saying:

You are on the list with a +1.
Details below:

kick off 1pm.
its on denmark street

And at that point I pretty much wet my pants.

A few hurried emails and texts later and I had gig-pal Yaz on-side as my plus-one; my bro would've *loved* to have come, but he works waaaaaaaaay out of London, and couldn't get the time off work. Sucks to be him today, let me tell you.

Anyway, I got into work super early this morning (just after seven!) so I could take a half day, scurrying out of the office at around 11:45. As you might expect, I was pretty giddy with excitement. I actually got up town about 40 minutes before the gig was due to start, so I scoped out the location of the venue, then hung out in Borders and Foyles on the Charing Cross Road because I like hanging out in bookshops.

Yaz, of course, was later than she planned to be because she always is. Actually, truth be told it was because the tube was busier than she expected it to be, but we still made it to the venue a smidgeon before one. The gig was being held at the 12 Bar Club, which is so small you could literally not notice it as you walk past; it's tiny tiny, with a little cafe at the front, then a little bar, then a tiny back room that looks like it's been transplanted forward in time from the 1840s or something. Seriously, there's this low beam that runs parallel to the stage that you have to duck under to get onto the stage; it's padded so as not to violate all manner of health and safety regulations.

(If you look to the right of the pic, just outside the door and behind some woman, you can kinda see the lead singer of Nada Surf)

There was also a room with a pool table, and I half expected Yaz to suggest we rack up, but the sight of the three guys from Nada Surf mingling by the bar meant that we decided to, um, hang around the bar with the band like we were too cool for school. Oh, and the drinks were free too, which I think means I can legitimately say that Nada Surf bought me a coke. Hurrah!

Anyway, after lurking for about 10 minutes the band moved into the back room, and like the sheep we are we totally followed them. One of the guys was hanging out a back door smoking and Yaz kept saying things like "I'm gonna go spark up with him," but just as she worked up the guts they all clambered up onto the stage (avoiding the beam), and settled down. And it was a pretty tiny stage; Matthew, the singer was on the far side, with Ira the drummer wedged between him and Daniel on bass. Ira obviously didn't have room for a full drum kit, but managed to use what looked like an upended crate-slash-stool as a viable alternative.

And, of course, I totally pulled out my phone to record a good-times video clip.

To be honest, I kinda felt a bit self-conscious taking videos, because the band were literally about two metres away from me, and wondered if I was being a bit rude. But lots of people were doing it, and I literally couldn't believe I was seeing one of my favourite bands in such a small venue so I thought it best that I had something to remind me of it.

They played some songs off their last album (The Weight is a Gift, the CD that made me the fan that I am), and some stuff off their new album, which I'm pleased to say sounded every bit as good as their older tracks. They also played one of my very favourite songs EVAH - Blizzard of '77:

God, I love that song so much.

In fact, I love a lot of their songs so much. Here's another one (Always Love):

Towards the end of the gig things started to descend into hilarity; there was some discussion about how long they should keep playing, because apparently some people had to get back to work (heh, not me - play on chaps!), then Daniel, the bass player, jumped off-stage to go get a pint, and Matthew, started asking us what song we'd like to hear. We were asked to choose between Blankest Year, which has a chorus that includes the line "oh, f**k it, I'm going to have a party," which is awesome, or the "stupidity" of The Meow Meow Song which … well, listen for yourselves:

I remember them playing this when I saw them at the Shepherds Bush Empire a few years back, but I'd forgotten how hilarious it was. They kind of lost it towards the end, which just made it even funnier. I should actually apologise for the wobbly camera in this clip - I was laughing too much and couldn't help it.

Anyway, they also played Blankest Year, and insisted that we joined in on the chorus.

And then the gig was over - and Yaz and I headed out the doors into the alley behind the club where the band actually ended up hanging out. I even got to shake hands with Matthew, and mumbled something incoherent like "that was brilliant!" Yaz, slightly more chilled than me, said that we'd see them again at the Scala next month, and then I added "I hope you play The Meow Meow Song again there!" Matthew looked at me, probably wondering if I was a bit special, and replied "hmmm… I don't know about that."

I'm totally gonna heckle for it.

All in all, then, an *awesome* afternoon - and on the tube home I totally set my iPod to only play Nada Surf tracks. Good times!

Coming to a cinema near you soon

Education and entertainment

I've been a busy little bee today. Firstly, because I actually managed to do what I'd planned to do last weekend and go to … a Mac workshop!

(And before someone makes the obvious comment, no I do not mean I went to a factory to make waterproof jackets)

No - I went to the Apple Store to take part in an iPhoto workshop. Since I got my new computer, y'see, I've been determined to learn and make use of every aspect of it, and I figured this would be a good way of getting to grips with the new version of iPhoto; the last version I had was pretty basic and I just used it as somewhere to dump pictures, while the new one is a bit more, well, intricate and I want to make proper use of it.

So off I toddled to the Apple Store in Kingston, where I joined an old couple and their crazy friend in some iPhoto-based tuition. Unfortunately, the workshop actually took place in the middle of the store so I was continually jostled by young chavs desperate to find a machine on which to check their Bebo accounts. Good times ahoy, though - a bunch of them were escorted out of the store by a security guard after being a bit too raucous. Anyway, it was a rather well-spent hour; the iDude leading the, um, class took us through the basic bits (which the old lady dutifully noted down in a little notepad), then on to the more complex elements like how to split photos off into events, and how to order photo books and other stuff like calendars and cards. This latter part was actually quite awesome, because I think technically I could use this to self-publish a copy of something Grum and I work on - maybe The Nightlies? OK, it'd be a rather expensive way of doing it, but it would be nice to actually have a physical copy - kind of like a calling card, I s'pose. We'll see - I know how to use iPhoto now, so it's a possibility at the very least.

And I can *finally* organise my photos properly.

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In the evening I headed back to Kingston because my bro and I went to see Aliens Vs Predator: Requiem, or AVPR as we're supposed to call it - which I refuse to because it's just a bunch of random letters and doesn't look like it actually means anything.

So, what did we think? Well, overall I enjoyed it. It is a big dumb action film, and nowhere near as good as, say, Aliens, but it killed a couple of hours quite easily, and it was fun to watch lots of pretty young people being killed by having their brains punched out by the aliens' auxiliary mouths. There were a couple of bits that totally ripped off/paid homage to moments in the older films of the respective franchises - most notably a bit where an alien sniffs a young woman, which reminded me of a similar bit in Alien 3, and a bit where a hardcore military mom drove an armoured truck through town, which was like Ripley driving an armoured truck in Aliens. Come to think of it, the hardcore military mom also had a daughter, who I was hoping would say "they mostly come at night. Mostly." Sadly she just screamed a lot.

Just a couple of gripes: firstly - and this is non-spoilerific - some hobos get totally face-huggered-up. Now, we all now that the aliens take on certain attributes of the life forms they impregnate - hence the massive-headed, faintly-ridiculous looking Pred-alien that appears in the film. That being the case, don't you think the face huggers might have taken one look at a bunch of old, drunk hobos, recoiled from the smell, and gone "d'ya know what - I think we should keep looking. Y'know, just keep our options open a bit." Surely the aliens born as a result of huggering-up those wasters would be pretty rubbish. They'd just sit there on their slimy arses, stinking of booze and poo, knocking back Special Brew and singing incoherently. 

The other thing is that part of me – and this also stretches back to the first AVP movie - is kinda troubled by the contemporary setting of these movies. I think it kind of undermines the Alien franchise, which given the choice between the two is, in my opinion,the better of the two beasts. That said, I did like seeing aliens running amok through small-town America. I'm just not quite sure how to tie everything together in my brain. The predator in this movie was a bit of a doofus, though. He turns up on his own to deal with a shitload of aliens (Duuur, take some friends along, make a weekend of it), faffs about, can't aim his guns for toffee, and generally screws things up. Oh, and he's got this little vial of blue goo that destroys all evidence of the aliens; the first time he poured it on a body my immediate thought was "well, you're gonna need a ton more of that, buddy." And what does he do later? Drops it. The tit.

Anyway, one last observation: why is it that in all the films featuring predators they have to strip naked for the final confrontation? In this one, stupid predator's in the midst of a full-on beat down with a bunch of aliens when he takes a step back, drops his guns, takes off his belt, disconnects his air-hose, and whips off his helmet. And the freakin' aliens stand there and watch him do it! Anyway, once he's down to his bra and panties he goes back to proper 'bring-it' mode again. Those two definitely love each other. Anyway, it's crazy, but as I said, entertaining enough as long as you disengage your brain.

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One unexpected surprise Simon and I got while waiting for the film to start was that we got chatting to some guy sitting along from us. He basically heard me talking to Simon about the Mac workshop, and asked me an Apple-based question. Turns out he was a filthy student, and although I couldn't answer his question, he gave me a 2 for 1 voucher valid in March (turns out Odeon were giving away calendars with vouchers attached at his uni, so he grabbed a load); I'm usually quite wary of strangers talking to me, but this dude was OK. Although I kind of think that his girlfriend was a bit pissed at him for taking her to see Aliens Vs Predator. So while I'm thankful for the voucher, I would, however, maybe suggest that next time he takes her to the flicks he picks a rom-com rather than a full-on monster beat-down movie…

Inspiration

It's funny how a little thing can spark off a bit in your brain that makes you want to do things. I met up with Grum, Yaz, and some hobo for a coffee last night. It was just a quick thing, but lovely nevertheless, although for me at least the evening was dominated by Grum shoving his doodle book into my face (not literally, that would've been rude). A few years back we were so determined to try to get something published in a graphic novel vein, and for some reason it's just petered out a bit over the last couple of years. I blame myself, because he can't draw something if I haven't written it, and I haven't written, well, much of anything in the last year or so.

So what happened to the mighty book I was writing? Well, I wrote loads of it in February, then gave myself a bit of time off, partly as a treat, partly to compose myself before launching back into it a month or so later. Tragically, I didn't launch myself anywhere; I think I've unwittingly allowed myself to stray into 'lost weekend' territory. Most people who do this usually go on massive drink 'n drug benders; how rock and roll is it that I just stopped writing a book? I say: 'very.'

Anyway, Grum's doodle book, while not literally shoved in my face nevertheless had the unexpected and not altogether undesirable effect of subliminally slapping me in said face. It was like a wake-up call. Because while he's been waiting for me to crack my knuckles and get back to writing, he's returned to my old horror story The Nightlies - y'know, the one that Skillz* kindly put online for me. This time around he's given it more of a stylised, less of a comic-book look - a bit like old etchings - and it looks fantastic. And these were only thumbnails - lord knows what the finished ones will look like.  I'd love to show them to you, but blogger won't let me link to a doodle pad. This, of course, made me feel a little bit guilty, because I've not written anything since October, which is lame, especially as I have two new ideas I'd like to work up and an awesome new computer to write them on. 

So, here's the plan: writing February is back for 2008 - bigger and more badass than ever. I'm going to finish the long awaited book (hell, I've even thought of a proper title for it now!), and then I'm going to crack on with the new ideas. 

I might even get a new writing pad to jot notes in!

*Where is Skillz? 

Cheapskate

For reasons I shan't go into here (mainly because, all being well, I'll go into them next weekend), I found myself footloose and fancy-free in Kingston yesterday afternoon. This was a good thing because I actually had some bits and pieces I needed to pick up (pick up as in buy, not shoplift), and, well, I like going to Kingston. Incidentally, did anyone see Primeval on ITV last night? That shopping centre they were chasing a velociraptor round was the Bentalls Centre in Kingston - it's famous, good times!

Anyway, one of the things I needed to buy was a new 12-month subscription to Xbox Live - mine runs out on Wednesday, y'see. Having to renew this in January is always a bit of a pain because Amazon is the cheapest place to get it (about a fiver off), but of course the post-Christmas shopper is wise to this, and Amazon sells out pretty rapidly after the festive period, leaving doofy here either having to wait for them to restock and going without online play for however long, or stumping up a bit of extra cash so he can continue to play Halo 3 with the little Mexican dude who babbles away in Spanish and calls him "amigo."

Armed with that little bit of extra cash, I thus began scouring the shops of Kingston for the best deal, soon coming to the conclusion that Argos was my best bet. Argos, for those that don't know, is Britland's finest catalogue store; they don't have the items they sell on show - you choose them from a catalogue (or the "laminated book of dreams" as Bill Bailey once called it), then pay for them, then they bring them out from a mysterious warehouse for you.

Years ago, when I was a kid, there used to be something rather special about buying stuff from Argos. I think it came down to the fact that you could ogle what you wanted to buy in the catalogue while you saved your pocket money, then when you actually went to buy it the moment where the cashier did the stock check was a period of giddy excitement that could either make or break a young boy's dreams of completing his set of The Real Ghostbusters action figures. And then, of course, you had that brief wait while they brought your item out from the stock room and plonked it on the shelf behind the counter. Oh, the anticipation!

Anyway, none of that matters anymore because I officially hate Argos now. According to my receipt, I paid for my Xbox Live 12-month pre-paid card at 15:33; I eventually received said item at 16:01, after numerous assurances from the stern east-european employee that "ve haf people loiking for your item."

Obviously not very hard.

In the best part of half an hour that I stood there, I saw a wide cross-section of people come and go, from little kids buying Nintendo games, to little old ladies buying wicker linen baskets, and chavs buying sovereign rings in the jewelry sale. Admittedly, when they did finally bring out my item I did get an apology, though it didn't stop me from saying "you just went and bought this from another shop, didn't you?" The lady laughed and said "no, but that's a good idea."

Another good idea is that I'll be buying my Xbox Live subscription from Amazon waaaaaaaaaay in advance of it expiring next time. And never going in Argos again.

Mummy's little trooper

So, after a crappy Tuesday, a crappier Wednesday, and a crappy Thursday, I finally felt well enough to go back to work today. And by 'well enough to go back to work' I actually mean 'well enough not to crash my car on the way to the office,' or 'well enough not to pebble-dash my colleagues with the acidic offerings of my under-nourished stomach.'

Now that I'm over the worst of the fever, aching body, sinus-induced headaches, free-flowing snot, and dry throat, I'd just like to thank gawd that I wasn't struck down by the other virus that's been sweeping the nation - the sinisterly-named norovirus. After waking ridiculously early on Wednesday and sitting through episodes of The Hoobs and Teletubbies because I was too cold to change the channel, I had the pleasure of catching This Morning with Phillip and Fern during which they interviewed Dr. Chris. Dr. Chris delightfully revealed that the key symptom of the norovirus is "projectile vomiting," and then gleefully added "extending to a distance of approximately three feet!" If he'd typed what he said, I'm pretty certain he would've added "LOL!" at the end, and possibly a smiley emoticon. 

That evening, while huddled up on the bathroom floor after actually feeling the first signs of nausea, I wondered if, were I to throw up, I could get it to land in the sink while sitting on the toilet. Fortunately (or sadly, depending on your vomiting point of view), I was not sick.

After hitting my lowest ebb on Wednesday, the remainder of which I spent watching Big Brother: Celebrity Hijack (an indication, if it were needed, that I was seriously off my face) and marveling at how many ads there are for fitness DVDs at this time of year, things picked up a bit on Thursday, helped considerably by two factors: a visit from Sparky Ma, and a day spent watching episodes of Family Guy. Sparky Ma had texted me the previous evening asking if I needed anything. I replied "a couple of cans of soup would be nice." Bless 'er, she arrived on Thursday morning bearing eight cans of soup, a pack of sugary yum-yums, two bottles of Lucozade, six pints of milk, and a copy of Autocar magazine. The woman's a saint ladened down with Tesco bags.

After she left (to look after Sparky Pa who is equally stricken), I settled down to watch various random episodes of Family Guy, including the one where Brian sells Rupert, and the one where Peter makes his own A-Team, which had me laughing/coughing my guts up thanks to the Bill Cosby aerobics routine (which admittedly would be funnier if youtube hadn't been told to remove all their Family Guy clips).

All-in-all, then, I think I'm clawing my way back to awesomeness. Which is good, because I was quite literally going insane zoning out on my bed all the time. Hurrah!

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I don't usually touch on real-life news here, but a couple of stories over the last couple of days have piqued my interest. The first is the story of the separated-at-birth twins who were inexplicably drawn to one another and ended up getting - wait for it - married! That's gotta be deserving of an LOL! Anyway, once you get over the initial "EEEEUGH!" factor, there's some serious comedy gold to have here, like "what were you doing last night?" Answer: "my sister!" Hurrah! Seriously, though, what are the chances of meeting the twin you never knew you had and marrying them? Obviously not as astronomically insane as we thought they were. Still, it's definitely a fascinating story to tell the … um,  grand… children…?

Euuuuuuuuuuuugh…

Moving swiftly on… Now, you all know that I like cars, so it should come as no surprise that the other story I want to talk about is the introduction of the Tato Nano, the world's cheapest car! Hurrah! Now, a real car for about £1250 is an amazing achievement - hell, it's cheaper than my computer! That said, I'm pretty sure my computer looks better on my desk than the Tata Nano would. Still, a real car for a smidgeon over a grand?

Oh, wait… That's not it…

That's it. Right, so 1250 quid gets you one of these. I think you'll agree that's pretty amazing value for money. Unless it's powered by a donkey or a child slave, of course. I'm a little torn, though; part of me thinks it's a pretty neat little car that looks waaaaaay better than some motors that cost, well, more than five times it's value, while the other half thinks it's an egg-like abomination on four tiny, tiny wheels. And that's where the problem stems from, I think - just look at the size of those wheels! If they're of a decent size, that car stands about three stories tall. One gust of wind and it'll fall over. It could challenge the Smart ForTwo as the vehicle most suited to the modern-day equivalent of cow-tipping.

**AWESOMELY SEXY AUTOMOTIVE UPDATE!**

Right, those are 12 inch wheels propping it up, which officially makes the Tata Nano about nine feet tall. That definitely means you could drive it standing up. Good times.