A week well wasted

Hello. I'd intended to be watching Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home right about now as part of my prep work for the opening of the new Star Trek movie, but I decided I'd put my own needs aside for the time being and write a new post for you. Why? Because I love you. Yes I do.

Patronising, eh?

OK, so I don't know whether I mentioned this or not, but I've had this week off work. To be brutally honest, I actually haven't done much with it at all. Let's have a quick run-through:

Monday:

Easter Monday, to be precise. Accepted an offer from Big Bro to help me wash Clubbie. Big Bro recently bought a new car too, and because he loves his new car with something approaching (and subsequently zooming waaaaaaay past) utter obsession, he's turned into some sort of car washing guru. No longer is a mere bucket and sponge sufficient! No! There are stages. Many, many stages. Mind you, after two hours, Clubbie was gleaming so strongly that three kids who live down the road were treated for seared retinas and are currently sporting heavily-bandaged eyes.

And despite Big Bro's sweatshop-style car-washing technique I still found the time to lark around.

Although I was quickly admonished for slacking and forced back to work under threat of violence.

Tuesday:

Got my hair cut by usual lady for the first time in aaaaaaaages, and it looks awesome; badgered some delightful lady in the bank and wasted 10 minutes of her day by asking her inane questions about how the drop in interest rates will affect my mortgage when I come to renegotiate it.

Wednesday:

Big Bro's birthday - huzzah! Though he had a dickie tummy, so it wasn't quite so huzzah for him.

Thursday:

Whipped Clubbie in to the Mini dealer to have a fuse replaced. It was done in the time it took me to read the Daily Mail (i.e. about three minutes), and then I headed over to Sparky Ma and Pa's where I somehow succeeded in convincing Sparky Pa that I was an iTunes genius by helping him move his library from one computer to another.

Friday:

A-ha! Friday - the day I'd been looking forward to all week! Why? Because today was the day that Sparky Ma and I had scheduled in our traditional raiding party shopping expedition to Kingston - and for the first time in a long time we both went there with money, not so much to burn, but definitely to spend. And spend we did. After 7-8 hours (according to the car park pay machine) my haul consisted of the following delightful items (and the reasoning behind said purchases):

• Ode to Sunshine by Delta Spirit: I can't remember where I first heard about this band, but I really like their slightly ramshackle sound having had a listen to their Myspace page and downloading their session on Daytrotter. Mum bought this for me as the traditional 'thanks-for-taking-me-to-Kingston-gift,' bless 'er! It's a great album, though I'm not to sure about the slightly dodgy-looking chap on the cover…

• Two Topman Deep-V t-shirts: Yes two; a white one and a grey one. I bought a black one last summer and wasn't sure I actually liked it for a long time because it shows off quite a lot of the ol' chesticals, if you know what I mean. Just recently, though, I've really grown to love it in all it's chestical-bearing glory, and seeing as you can get two for a tenner, I thought I'd pick up a couple more. The white one was a complete bitch to find, though, as it was rammed on a single rack alongside white round neck tees, white regular V-neck tees, white baseball tees, and white notch tees; it was like looking for an albino something-or-other in a blizzard. The grey one was equally difficult to locate, but for entirely different reasons; I initially didn't think they had any, and in sheer desperation grabbed for the one grey t-shirt on a rack of many-coloured t-shirts - and what were the chances, it was the one I wanted in my size! The serendipity!

And if you're wondering what they look like on, think something along the lines of this:

Altogether now: KHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAN!!!!

• A G-Star bag: for ages now I've been looking for a new bag for work; the one I've got at the moment is perfectly fine, but it's become apparent that I actually don't need to take that much stuff to work each day and I've only really stuck with it because it carries an A4 writing pad easily enough. But on those occasions when I want to do some writing at lunchtime it's a bit, well, cumbersome to lug around. Anyway, I saw this bag and thought it was nice, but quite expensive. Sparky Ma soon talked me round, though, and before I knew it I'd bought it. It's waaaay smaller than old work bag, but will be far more convenient for if I'm heading out up town and want to carry a few bits with me. On the downside, it's not big enough for an A4 writing pad, but as I've just about filled my latest one up, I thought I'd go for…

• A Moleskin 240pp ruled notebook as used by Earnest Hemingway: I've wanted one of these for ages, because what's good enough for Earnest is good enough for me, and it fits in new bag PERFECTLY. It was £12.75, which is a bit steep but I figure it'll make me look more sophisticated and authoritative when I'm jotting story ideas down.

• iPod headphones: I've come to the conclusion that my ears secrete some kind of unnaturally toxic ear grease when I go running because I consistently have to buy new headphones every year after the rubber bit turns all manky and drops off, which in turn means that my headphones keep falling out. So these are the latest in a long line of headphones, and will undoubtedly require replacing sometime around April 2010.

• Some Lush soap: because I dropped the last bit down the plug hole this morning.

Today also marked the three week anniversary of me owning Clubbie (we're going steady), and Sparky Ma's first trip in Clubbie (she was a bit freaked out about the whole stop/start thing at first, but that soon turned into thinking it was cool, then getting so used to it that it totally became a "meh, whatever" sorta thing).

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm still feeling the effects of the phat Nandos we had for lunch, so I'm going to go lie on my bed like a python that's eaten a hippo or something.

Coffee'd out of my face

Remember a few weeks back I regaled you with the tale of how I obtained a load of samples of Starbucks' new VIA instant coffee? Well the story kind of didn't end there. A few days after nabbing all those samples, I picked up a card in Secret Starbucks that gave you the URL for a survey about the new instant coffee, and promised a free £10 gift card and box of VIA to the first 500 people to fill it in.

I'll have some of that, I thought.

Unfortunately, the questionnaire was a rather long-winded affair, and when I got to the end after 25 minutes (yes, I said 25 minutes!) I got a message that said something to the effect of "sorry, we've met our quota for this survey, no freebies for you young sir!"

I quietly uttered a very specific, somewhat colourful response, and continued on with my day.

Last week, however, I received a phone call from a market (I said market, not meerkat) research company asking if I'd like to take part in a focus group for Starbucks.

Is the pope catholic?

Before I could be signed up for the group, however, I had to answer a lot of inane questions, most of which I'd already answered for the online questionnaire. I'm sure these questions are very specifically designed to glean an insight into Starbucks' customer base, but to give you an idea of the sort of thing I was asked, the final question was: if you could choose a superpower, what would it be, and why?

(If you're interested, I chose the ability to fly because it would make it so much easier getting around town, although in hindsight some sort of sexy pheromone secretion to make me irresistible to the ladies might've been a good idea; at the very least it would have skewed their research in a new and interesting direction.)

After noting down all that exciting information, the guy at the research company mentioned almost inconsequentially that I'd be paid for my time: BONUS! Ha! The fools - talking about coffee with like-minded caffeine addicts? Do they not know that I'd do this sort of thing for nothing?! On the downside, I had to do some homework. Poop.

My homework assignment turned up in the post towards the end of the week, under the guise of a 'coffee diary.' I shan't bore you with a complete run through of what I needed to do, suffice to say that it actually wasn't too much of a chore and I didn't have to take my clothes off. Two assignments did stand out for me, however.

Assignment the first was to write a short story based on my first time drinking Starbucks VIA. Bearing in mind that I was getting paid for this, you could actually say that it's my first commissioned story. What an auspicious start to my novel-writing career. Anyway, I didn't just want to write something boring like "I poured some water on it and it made coffee and I drank it and it was good." No; I decided that I'd try and subvert it a little bit. My initial thought was to write some kind of epic Starship Troopers-style science-fiction story in about 200 words; I had it all planned out - the opening lines were going to be:

I had to stay awake - I could hear the Pytherion sneeze-beast looking for me in the distance, and I knew that if I fell asleep it was more than likely that I'd wake up to find a leg missing. All I had in my ration pack was a sachet of VIA and a small camping stove. This little packet of coffee was all I had to see me through to dawn - all I had to keep me going until reinforcements arrived.

It's even more hella-cool if you read it in the voice of Cartman.

Ultimately I decided to go with a less fantastical style just incase they thought I was a mentalist, although I did give it a little bit of a film noir-twist. So, ladies and germs, may I present to you my coffee story:

It was not the best of times nor the worst of times; it was not a dark and stormy night. It was just an average day, and all I wanted was a decent cup of coffee. I looked at the small packet in front of me, picked it up and squeezed it gently, feeling the consistency of the powder within. This couldn’t make a good cup, could it? This little thing? I tore it open and breathed in the warm aroma that I’d freed from its confinement. It sure smelt good, but I still had my doubts. I heard the water in the kettle bubble to its boiling point, dropped the VIA in a mug, and poured the scalding liquid on to it. The powder and the water swirled together into a rich dark form spilling up to the rim of the mug. The smell I’d been entranced by just seconds before intensified and I found myself holding the mug close to my face as I drew in long, deep breaths. But now it was crunch time. I raised the mug to my mouth and took a swig. It was rich, bitter, smooth - everything I like in a cup of coffee. I settled back in my chair and took another mouthful. A guy could get used to this…

Awesome huh?

Assignment the second was to make a collage of what VIA means to you. Yes, you read that correctly: a collage. I've not made a collage since I was about seven, and seeing as I'm not in the habit of keeping copydex glue and glitter in the house, I decided to make mine in PhotoShop.

Good innit?

Actually, no it's not, but it served its purpose. Let me walk you around it:

• There's a picture of Hammersmith, because I drink coffee there every lunchtime.

• A smiling cat - because coffee makes me smile. I don't know why I picked a picture of a cat smiling, but I'm sure it'll have an interesting effect on their research data.

• The Rolling Stones - because I often equate drinking coffee with listening to music.

• A couple hugging - because a hot cup of coffee is something to snuggle up with.

• A coffee postcard that I found a few years back. I think it speaks for itself.

• A pic of Yazzle Dazzle hiding behind a coffee mug, because drinking coffee is a social thing and it's a vital part of our friendship.

• Some books. Coffee shops/book shops - they kind of go together, right?

• Some woman writing - because I often have a cup of coffee on the go when I'm writing.

• A contented Panda - because I like to chill out with a cup of coffee.

• Some dude running - because coffee perks me up (not like that, saucy).

Anyway, I did all this, and this evening I headed off to the focus group, which was very conveniently being held in a Starbucks I'm familiar with because I drive past it on the way to work everyday. I was the first to arrive, and told the woman conducting the group that I was quite pleased with my collage. She looked at me and asked if I was being facetious.

Without going into too much detail, the group was quite interesting (I've done one before, and experienced them from behind the scenes as well) and we had a bit of a lively debate about the pros and cons of instant coffee. We also had a coffee taste-test in which we sampled a cup of VIA versus a cup of Kenco, and although we all thought from our previous experience with VIA that it was at the very least OK, it was only when we tried it against a competitor that we realised just how good it actually was (and before anyone says that they tampered with the Kenco to make us favour the VIA, they didn't; they opened the jar in front of us, and we actually had to make our own).

Bearing in mind how much time I spend in Starbucks and how much cash I throw their way, it was good to feel that my thoughts on the brand were both valued and important. There were two representatives from Starbucks present, and I felt like hugging them and asking them to give Howard my best. Unfortunately, I didn't get to show off my collage (they took our coffee diaries to laugh look at later), but on the other hand they did bung me an envelope full of cash, so swings and roundabouts, eh?

Smuggler's luck

There are some people in this life who get caught if they do the slightest thing wrong, while there are others that have the luck of the gods and can get away with pretty much anything. And then there is my plucky friend Yazzle Dazzle.

You know how when you go to see a movie there are signs in the foyer that say something like "ONLY FOOD AND BEVERAGES PURCHASED HERE MAY BE CONSUMED ON THESE PREMISES"? Well that means nothing to Yazzle Dazzle. In fact, it taunts her - it challenges her! Pretty much every time we go to the cinema she ends up smuggling something in. It's usually nothing more innocent than a bottle of coke, but I don't think she does it because she actually wants a bottle of coke; I think she does it because she's been explicitly told not to.

This deviant behaviour has led to much hilarity on occasion. I think my favourite example of her - I think the word is – chutzpah, was when we went to a gig at the Shepherds Bush Empire a few years ago. I don't remember who we saw, but I do remember that Yazzle Dazzle stopped off on the way there to buy a bottle of Diet Coke with a lemon twist; it was a special edition at the time and she'd developed rather a taste for it. So anyway, after queuing for a few minutes we shuffle into the Empire where Yazzle Dazzle is stopped by security for a bag check (she carries a very big, very heavy bag stuffed full of lord-knows-what; I do believe she actually has a full set of cutlery in there). The security woman (and I use the term 'woman' very loosely) opened Yazzle Dazzle's bag, saw the bottle of Diet Coke with a lemon twist, and said in a gruff, decidedly unfeminine voice "Ya can't take that in there."

Yazzle Dazzle looked very unhappy about this, and told the security beast that she'd only just bought it.

The security beast shrugged and told Yazzle Dazzle that she'd have to drink it there, on the spot, or else just chuck it away, so Yazzle sighed, walked over to a nearby bin, took the top off the bottle, and with the security beast watching, took a mouthful. Satisfied that Yazzle Dazzle was doing as she'd been told, the security beast turned her/its attention to the next person in line. As such, she/it did not see Yazzle Dazzle pop the top back on her bottle, stash it back in her bag, and fish an empty coke bottle out of the bin.

"Yoo-hoo," she called out, waving the empty coke bottle in her hand. "I'm finished!"

The security beast nodded and several minutes later Yazzle Dazzle was comfortably ensconced in her seat, watching some great live music, and casually swigging from her bottle of Diet Coke with a lemon twist.

More recently, we went to see Watchmen. Our original plan had called for us to have a cup of coffee prior to seeing the film, but for some reason or another we didn't really have time. Now, we could've bought coffee in the cinema, but I know from previous experience that cinema coffee is, um, not terribly good, so instead we bought our tickets and headed across the road to Starbucks, where Yazzle Dazzle issued very precise orders to the barista about how she wanted a grande coffee in a venti cup because she needed the extra bit of room at the top. Knowing what she was planning, I ordered a Frappuccino because it's that little bit more solid, and I didn't want to be responsible for what I guessed would come next.

What came next was that Yazzle Dazzle fashioned a small compartment within her bag that was spacious enough to fit two Starbucks cups in an upright position. With her coffee and my Frap wedged inside, we calmly and innocently walked back into the cinema, took our seats, and enjoyed our beverages. Oh, and the film.

So, this whole smuggling thing has gotten to be quite exciting - proven by the fact that Yazzle Dazzle was most disappointed at the Jason Mraz gig when the security guy barely looked in her bag. "He only touched the bottom," she said, which raised a whole lot of other questions in my mind.

Anyway, this week we decided to go see a film, and my thoughts soon turned to what I could get Yazzle Dazzle to smuggle in. My initial idea was a small Albanian child, but as we were walking through Shepherds Bush I was rather taken by a diminutive middle-aged oriental woman.

"Get her," I said. "Put her in your bag - now!"

"No," scowled Yazzle Dazzle. "Although she'd definitely fit."

In the end, she resorted to the usual bottle of coke, which I felt was a bit of a let down. Greater disappointment was to come, however, as it seems smuggling stuff into the cinema is a dying art. Within seconds of us taking our seats some couple strolled in carrying two bags of food from the supermarket. By the time the movie started they'd already downed a chocolate croissant each and had moved on to a multipack of cheesy Wotsits.

We quickly decided that we wanted some cheesy Wotsits too.

-----

The movie we saw was The Knowing, starring Nicolas Cage. Now, I hate Nicolas Cage, but I was intrigued by the idea of this movie (in which a strange girl writes a list of numbers that predict when a series of disasters are going to happen). I briefly thought about turning away every time Nicolas Cage was onscreen, but realised that this would mean pretty much missing the entire film, which would be a waste of money. Turns out, though, that it probably would've been the more sensible course of action.

What a stupid movie.

As I said, the gist of the film is that some girl in the 1950s writes a list of numbers that accurately predict when a series of disasters are going to take place, which is then popped in a time capsule before falling into the hands of Nicolas Cage 50 years later. Shame she didn't predict the movie was going to be rubbish, because I'd sure like those two hours of my life back, please. What really made it stupid, though, was the fact that it was chock-full of hardcore Christian imagery. Now, I'm down with people being into their religion and everything as long as it doesn't a) hurt anyone, or b) get rammed down my throat, because lord knows enough of it gets shoved in my letterbox*. But this movie … geez. Talk about overt. I'm going to go into spoiler territory here, so I'll hide the following bit using my text-based cloaking device (highlight if you want to read):

The gist of it is that the Earth is going to be wiped out by a solar flare, and these aliens (who in their natural form look like angels - with WINGS and everything) come to save a bunch of kids so that the human race can continue on another world. No one stopped to think that they could use Nicolas Cage's massive forehead to reflect the solar flare. Anyway, at the end the aliens take the kids off on their huge spaceships, but leave Nicolas Cage behind, because there's no room on their massive spaceships for him and his forehead. They do let the kids take a rabbit each, though, and I do like the idea that the aliens value a rabbit's life over that of Nicolas Cage. Good times.

Anyway, the Earth gets razed by fire, and the kids end up on this beautiful paradise world where there is a single massive tree of life. No one is disturbed by the idea that the aliens are just dumping a bunch of kids on a planet with no homes, no food, and the expectation that they need to start going at it - like their rabbits will undoubtedly do - to repopulate the human race. Mark my words, if they ever do a sequel (unlikely, I know) that planet is going to be home to shitloads of rabbits and tribes of hungry, dirty, promiscuous teenagers.

And so you get the idea with that.

In hindsight, I should've just clicked on to youtube and watched this:

*Sparky Ma and Pa had some Christian propaganda put through their door a few weeks back that basically listed all the ways you can be damned to Hell, and inviting them to a local church to wash away their sins. I read the list and quickly decided I was guilty of the vast majority of these sins on a daily basis. As such, I'm stocking up on some mega SPF suntan lotion, because it's going to be hot down there.

One Amrazing night

A couple of months back I noticed that Jason Mraz was going to be playing at the Hammersmith Apollo, and as I hadn't been to a gig since … ooo … last October, I thought I'd get some tickets and go along. I asked regular gig-based partner in crime Yazzle Dazzle if she fancied joining me, and although she wasn't too familiar with the Mrazzle she was soon won over by the swoony delights of 'I'm Yours.'

I mean, how could you not be?

After two months of looking forward to the gig, however, I woke up yesterday morning with a massive hardcore pounding headache. It was so bad, in fact, that I stayed in bed for an extra two and a half hours in an attempt to shake it off, but to no avail. It was like little head dwarves were stabbing me in the back of the eyes.

Anyway, determined to shake it off I got up and had a hot shower (didn't work), then settled down to watch Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles with a cup of tea (also didn't work). I even rubbed some 4Head all over my face. Knowing that I wouldn't have time for dinner pre-Mraz, I cooked up a meal for lunch, but it ended up making me feel a little bit nauseous; I had to dump a chicken kiev that I'd been looking forward to, but on the otherhand the pile of greasy chips I'd cooked went down a treat. Go figure. After that I returned to bed.

When I awoke, again, I was actually feeling a whole lot better, and a couple of hours later I headed off to meet Yazzle Dazzle. Upon meeting, however, just one look told me that the Yazzle-meister was not exactly top of the shop herself. I asked her what was the matter.

"It's like I've got something pounding away behind my eyes - like-"

"Little stabby head-dwarves!" I exclaimed.

"Yes!" she shouted in agreement before wincing a little. Like me, however, Yazzle was prepared to power through any pain to enjoy the gig. Our first stop was one of Hammersmith's alternative Starbucks (Secret Starbucks being closed at that time on a Saturday evening). Good times ahoy, though, as the Starbucks we chose just happened to be staffed by one of our favourite former baristas from Secret Starbucks! I'd not seen him since last December and had wondered what had happened to him. Turns out he'd been transferred against his will, and was so pleased to see us that he gave us our mistos for free as "his special guests." Bless him; we've now decided to split our lunchtimes evenly between Secret Starbucks and this branch. I may even start a Facebook petition to get him reinstated.

After that we headed off to the Hammersmith Apollo. On our way we passed a big poster for the Michael Jackson concerts taking place in London this summer (and through to next spring) and still a little bit bitter at not getting tickets, I joked that it would be cool if Jason Mraz covered a Jackson song. This caused Yazzle to fall about laughing as she pictured Mraz Earth-songing it up on stage.

The Hammersmith Apollo has recently been taken over by HMV, and it looks like they're doing a bit of restoration work to it (I love the venue, but lord knows it kinda needs it). I decided to get a photo of the building, the huge Jason Mraz posters adorning it, and the massive crowd waiting to be let in.

Sadly my first attempt ended in me getting a picture of the pavement and Yazzle's shoe.

Let's try that again.

That's more like it!

After that we joined the queue, and marveled at all the people wearing little trilby hats in honour of Jason Mraz, which made us feel a little left out; we decided that we wanted little trilby hats, and thought that the merchandise people were definitely missing a trick in not selling official Mraz hats. We subsequently pointed out anyone wearing any other kind of hat as wearing "the wrong hat," something that led to no end of inexplicable amusement.

Once inside the Apollo we were confronted by a woman selling a CD that was recorded the previous night at Jason's gig in Manchester. For a tenner you got the CD and some sort of download thingy; to be honest I actually still don't quite understand what I'm getting for my money, but I wanted the CD and the whole thing seemed like a bargain for 10 quid so I paid up.

After that we headed to our seats, where we discovered they'd been appropriated by two teenaged girls. "You're in our seats" I said, at which point they jumped up, telling me that they'd "stopped for a rest." Yes, because the circle seating at the Hammersmith Apollo is at such high altitude. Cheeky bitches.

Just a few minutes after taking our seats by force Jason Mraz took to the stage to introduce the first support act, which I thought was a nice gesture as not many headliners do that. The first act was a young lady with a guitar, harmonica, and what sounded like a kazoo (which led to no end of excitement from Yazzle Dazzle), and her name was Priscilla Ahn.

Unfortunately the limitations of the iPhone camera mean that you can barely see Priscilla Ahn, and what you can see does kind of make it look like her head is on fire.

Anyway, I quickly decided that I rather liked Priscilla Ahn; she had a beautiful summery voice, was a bit quirky, and her set included a song about a dog getting shot in the head by a policeman in her hometown, and another that was called 'The Boob Song' which was about … um, well, I think you get the idea with that one (it's on her myspace if you fancy a listen). She's playing a gig in Shepherds Bush at the end of the month and I might just toddle along.

After that Jason introduced another support act, Jonny Taylor, which was completely different to Priscilla Ahn, but equally enjoyable. It was a bit Ska-y, and a bit "alright geezer"-ish, which isn't usually my cup of tea, but I actually really enjoyed it.

For some reason you can actually see a bit more of what's going on here.

After Jonny Taylor finished Yazzle Dazzle and I were amazed to find that the music playing out over the PA was some sort of 80s power-ballad megamix, and we soon found ourselves discussing the merits of such songs. Our discussion was briefly interrupted when I full-on lip-synced to 'Eye of the Tiger,' Jenson Ackles-stylee. It was a glorious moment, let me tell you. After that I was trying to remember who sung 'Total Eclipse of the Heart,' and could only describe the performer as "blonde, looks a bit rough." "Bonnie Tyler!" said Yazzle without missing a beat - and just moments after that Bonnie Tyler's 'Holding out for a Hero' came on. I'm not afraid to say that if Jason had had to cancel for any reason, I would've quite happily listened to power ballads for the rest of the evening.

Fortunately, Jason did not cancel, and he came on soon after 'Africa' by Toto had played over the PA to perform a stunning set. It really was a joyous experience that totally removed all memory of stabby head dwarves. I think my favourite moment was when he sung 'Dynamo of Volition' and he had the entire audience air-high-fiving; it was a sight to behold.

This wasn't the air-high-fiving moment, but it is Jason Mraz on stage - and you can even see him (just about).

And to top it all off, he even sung the bit from Michael Jackson's 'Wanna be Startin' Somethin'' where it just goes "ma ma se, ma ma sa, ma ma coo sa." Pure. Genius.

Fully Mrazed up, Yazzle Dazzle and I stumbled back through Hammersmith, stopping off briefly along the way so she could blag a free apple pie in McDonalds (the manager claimed there weren't any left, and she just pointed at the counter until one magically appeared - he was so embarrassed he gave it to her for free), and to stare at a magnetic poetry kit that was stuck on a fridge-freezer that had been dumped on a street, where I was amused by the fact that someone had combined the words 'tiny' and 'sausage' to make the phrase 'tiny sausage.' Sadly my photo of tiny sausage did not come out too well in the dark, but if it's still there on Monday when I head to Hammersmith for coffee I'll definitely get a better picture.

All in all then, it was an amrazing evening. I'm off to download some live Jason Mraz albums off iTunes, and just for you, here's a bit of the man in action (duetting with Priscilla Ahn) that some enterprising person popped up on youtube after the gig. Good times!

Other stuff

Since last we spoke (well, since last I spoke and you rolled over and looked at me through half-glazed eyes like I was a shame shag or something) things have been, for the most part, super fu-fu. Me and Clubbie have been getting on like a house on fire, and I've actually been going out for drives simply because I want to go for a drive. I haven't done that in *years*. I'd driven 120 miles after only two days of ownership. And - BONUS - Clubbie is super frugal; I was sat in traffic on my way to work yesterday and it was amazing to just hear the engine cut out and know that I wasn't wasting a single drop of my precious, precious petrol. In my Cooper S I'd sit in traffic and literally watch the petrol gauge drop while I cried a little inside. I just hit 210 miles on my way home tonight - the point at which I'd have to go fill up my old one - and I've still got half a tankful left. I told Sparky Ma the other night that I think Clubbie could be my favourite Mini so far.

Anyway, it's not all been Mini adventures over the last few days - some other stuff has happened too!

-----

It had to happen. I've gone cold turkey, and drawn a line under it; I am no longer Gilwhoring. Having started watching Gilmore Girls last August when E4 was halfway through the third season, I've come full circle and caught up with where I began. Well, actually I carried on a little bit further than where I began, which seems to indicate that I'm a little bit addicted. Addicted and incensed, because E4 have not only been editing some episodes VERY BADLY by loping off the pre-credits teaser, but they also just missed out the season three finale completely! Outrageous! Anyway, I've gone cold turkey because I think if I didn't I'd just keep watching it forever and ever until the end of time, and it will actually be quite nice to reclaim an hour each day when I'd usually be found watching it.

I'll miss my daily dose of Stars Hollow shenanigans, and will probably cave massively and end up buying the the first three seasons on DVD at some point (tragically, that's all that's been released over here) in the near future.

-----

As if I'd ever forget, I was reminded that a certain person (and I use that term in the loosest possible sense) who I've been unfortunate enough to have dealings with in my life is even more morally and creatively bankrupt than I originally thought they were. There's a special place in hell for people like this.

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I went for a run last night, and for reasons too ridiculous to go into here, I ended up doing the longest run I've ever done; so long, in fact, that the voice of Lance Armstrong emanated from my Nike+ kit through my iPod to congratumalate me. Thanks Lance. Anyway, when I got home and uploaded my data, my little Nike+ Mini Me dude (the leaping chappy over there on the right-hand side) went totally mentalist (more so than usual).

This is all very well, you'd think, but, um, he's wrong. I don't feel amazing; well, actually I do a bit. Everything but my right leg from the knee down feels just great. And WTF is a 'runometer'? He totally made that up, didn't he?

Where were we? Oh yeah, right leg. OK, so to be honest I've been feeling a little twinge in it for a few weeks now; nothing serious, just what feels like muscle pain. I've tried resting it for a bit, but it sort of kicks back in - rather subtly - after I've been for a run. It was a bit more twingy than usual last night, so I rubbed a bit of ibuprofen gel on it and went to bed. It was still a bit achy at work today, which led me to-

OK, let me pause there: can I just say that I get really annoyed when people self-diagnose things on the tinternet. As great as the tinternet is, I suspect it's responsible for a vast increase in the number of hypercondriacts out there, and that is not a good thing, because hypercondriacts are really annoying and generally need a slap.

Anyway, I Googled several variations of the words 'leg,' 'pain,' 'running,' and 'ouch' which resulted in me spending several minutes reading up on stress fractures. Stress fractures, let me tell you, are not good things to have, especially when you've been running the best you've ever run and are really looking forward to this year's Dysart Dash, and, potentially, the Grim Challenge in December. Having read about them, though, I can't get rid of the nagging feeling … for the time being, I'm going to go on the assumption that it's just muscle fatigue, but if it carries on much longer I might go pay the doctor a visit. Hopefully he won't make me get nekkid or something.

Oh, and do you know what one of the treatments for stress fractures is? Those ridiculously massive boot things. I inwardly laughed at some woman on the street who was wearing one of those the other day. This is clearly some kind of payback. DAMN YOU KARMA!

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For some reason I've decided that I need to listen to all the unlistened to songs in my iTunes library. I've actually been striving to do this since the beginning of the year, but I've only just decided that I need to share my OCD tendencies with you. To be honest it's going rather well, and I've filled in vast swathes of unlistened to tracks simply by ruthlessly skipping through any that I have listened to while I'm sitting at my computer. Along the way I've found some true gems, and rather tragically, the occasional turd. My mission has not been helped, however, by the fact that I added a load more songs to my library last Thursday night in anticipation of Clubbie's iPhone/iPod integration, but on the plus side, all the songs I now listen to on my journey to and from work get saved in my library and the gaps are slowly but surely getting plugged. This whole in-car iPhone thing is also going to have an interesting effect on my top 25 listened-to tracks … I might have to post them up if anyone's interested…

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Oh, and if I may be allowed to return to the subject of Clubbie once more, I picked up my new rubber car mats today, which look awesome, even if they did come with exceedingly and unnecessarily complex instructions. I mean, whatever happened to:

1. Take carpet mats out of car.

2. Place new rubber mats in car.

3. Drive car.

I'm going to be worried that I installed them incorrectly for at least the next two weeks. On the plus side, it's been such a lovely day that I drove home with my awesome twin panoramic sunroof open, although the pleasure I derived from the glorious weather was somewhat counterbalanced by my paranoia that a bird was going to poo in the hole. I mean, there is precedent…

I think we all knew where this was going

I think I've teased you enough over the course of this last week, so I shan't beat around the bush anymo- Oh, this is amazing! I totally just fixed my doorbell! It stopped working the other day and I just fixed it! I don't actually know what I did - I just changed the batteries over and prodded it a bit, and now it's working - huzzah!

What? Stop procrastinating, you say? Moi? Rude.

OK, here we go: I bought a new car today!

And like most things in my life, there's a bit of a story to go with it…

Remember back at the beginning of March I wrote about how I'd found an awesome looking Mini Clubman on the Mini Cherished website, and how my local dealer's attempts to get hold of it for me only ended in disappointment when they told her it had been sold? Well someone was telling porky-pies: it was very much still for sale. And how did I find this out? Continued perving on the Mini Cherished website, that's how. Seriously, I'm not kidding. In the days after what came to be known as Disappointment Monday, I continued to scour the Cherished website looking for an alternative, but equally awesome Clubman, and I noticed that the one I liked was still listed. At the end of that week I thought 'bugger it' and decided to fire off an email enquiry. The following Monday I got a call from the dealer, and my first question to him was "is it still for sale?" He said "yes" and we set the gears in motion for me to go up and test drive it.

Hence my day trip to faraway Cheshire a couple of weeks back. Do you see how all the plot points are drawing together here? It's like Lost, only a little bit less convoluted and with a sexier protagonist.

Anyway, the bit that was left out of the day trip to Cheshire post was that I got there, stretched my legs, bought a bottle of water in Tesco, test drove the dreamy Clubman, loved it, put a deposit down, and hey presto - a little under two weeks later - it's mine!

Ladies and germs, may I introduce you to my Mini Cooper Clubman.

It's mine - ALL MINE! Muwahahahahahaha!!

I took today off work to wait for it to be delivered and as luck would have it I was peering out my bedroom window as it came down the road. It's totally not like I'd been sitting there waiting for half an hour at all. I was all manner of excited as it turned the corner into my road for the first time, and ran outside to greet the driver like a giddy schoolgirl. Less than half an hour later we'd exchanged various bits of paper on which I'd signed my life away numerous times, and the Mini chap was off in my beloved Mini Cooper S. I'm not afraid to say that as I was clearing all my bits out of my Cooper S last night I got a wee bit emotional, and watching someone else drive it away for the last time was weird. But then I turned to the lovely new Mini in front of me. My lovely new Mini.

After staring at it for what felt like ages and showing it off to the lovely old couple across the road, I jumped in my Clubman and drove it over to show Sparky Ma and Pa and Sparky Nan (they all loved it, and Sparky Ma was the first to dive in and check out the benefits of the clubdoor). Next up, I headed over to my regular Mini dealer where I registered it for all the servicing and warranty stuff (as much as I liked the Cheshire dealer, I don't particularly want to have to go there every time I need an oil change), and ordered some rubber floor mats because the ones I had in my Cooper S don't fit in the new shape Minis.

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An aside:

The carpet story: When I bought my first Mini back in 2001 I quickly decided that I wanted some practical rubber mats instead of the deep, almost shag-pile carpet in the front footwells, a side-effect, I believe, of Sparky Pa constantly telling me not to traipse mud through his cars when I was a kid. The official Mini floor mats were an absolute bargain and looked awesome too. When I got my Cooper S the first thing I did upon getting it home was to swap out the carpet mats and replace them with the rubber ones. The carpet ones were subsequently stashed in my very tiny bedroom at Sparky Ma and Pa's.

Now, I was convinced that when I moved out I'd taken the two carpet mats with me, but evidently not, as my panicked phone call to Sparky Pa last night revealed. Fortunately Sparky Pa, who is a great hoarder of his own things but very quick to ask if he can chuck your stuff away, had stashed them away in his shed, although I say fortunately in the loosest possible sense of the word because between telling me he still had them and the time of writing he's reminded me at every opportunity that he had come very close to junking them.

Anyway, the happy resolution to the carpet story is that Big Bro and Sparky Pa made a mercy dash over to Sparky Towers last night in Big Bro's flash new car (which Sparky Ma has dubbed 'The Beast') to deliver the infamous carpet mats to me, and they were safely installed in my Cooper S before my Clubman was delivered. Good times.

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So that's about it: I've done about 50 miles in my Clubman today, and am slowly beginning to get my head around the complexities of the iPhone interface (for someone that jumped on the Apple bandwagon a good 10 years ago, I'm the last in the family to get an iPod connection in my car - no more six CD-changer for me I'll have you know!). Things I love so far? Well, just about everything. It feels so special … I don't know whether that's because of the unusual door arrangement or because unlike my first two Minis, which were essentially the same model, this one is completely different. What I do know is that I proper heart the efficient dynamics Minimalism technology that cuts the engine out when you're sitting in traffic; this is the most environmentally friendly car I've ever owned. Good times for me, the planet, and all the hippies out there.

I've cherished the five-and-a-bit years I've shared with my Cooper S, but I'm definitely looking forward to all sorts of new Mini adventures with my Clubman. And that includes getting more than 32 miles to the gallon.

Car the third: the fast and the furious

I distinctly remember the moment I decided I'd buy a Mini Cooper S. It wasn't that moment I'd gone and sat in the one at the dealer, nor was it the moment that Sparky Ma encouraged me to "treat myself" like she does when I'm thinking about buying a book or a CD. It also wasn't the moment on the 2003 Richmond-Windsor bike ride when a red and white Cooper S, exactly how I'd eventually have mine, shot past us and I turned to Mr. Chunt and said "that's what mine will look like." It was the day after that.

I'd taken the day off work to recover from the bike ride, and had headed down to Staines to grab a coffee and a copy of the latest issue of Q magazine because it had an interview with David Bowie in it. I remember finishing the interview, knocking back the last of the coffee, and thinking 'bugger it - let's do this.' I drove from Staines straight over to the dealership, negotiated a pretty darn good part-exchange on my Cooper, and put a deposit down.

Two months later, just four days after my birthday, it was mine. The dealer had tried to convince me to choose a different colour combination than red and white - the same colours I'd had on my previous Mini - but even he, looking at it under the bright blue sky of a sunny winter's day, had to admit that it looked great, particularly with the white stripes adorning the bonnet.

I took this picture just moments after I arrived home from the dealership after picking up my Mini Cooper S.

Climbing behind the wheel for the first time didn't feel too different from my Cooper; the dashboard was exactly the same layout, obviously, although the colour was a bit different to indicate that is was the more expensive model, and there were a few more toys and flashing lights. But when I started it up and heard the roar of the supercharged engine for the first time, when I got it onto a long stretch of dual carriageway and pushed down on the accelerator … well, then I could tell the difference.

The phrase "punch it, Chewie" springs to mind.

That first evening I took it out on a long drive that looped around what you could probably call my part of the world. It was the perfect introduction to owning a Mini Cooper S. No, it's never gotten the same sort of attention as my first Mini - they'd become a common sight by the point in time I bought it, and even more so now - but you still catch some people stealing a glimpse at it every now and then, particularly when it's been washed and looks all clean and sparkly.

As much as I love 'em, those white wheels are pain to keep clean - but it's completely worth it when I do take the time to scrub the dirt off them because they make the car look nigh on perfect.

I've owned it far longer than I've owned either of my other cars, and it's been the perfect companion for well over five years now. Both the Minis I've owned have been wonderful cars (I tend to look back through rose-tinted spectacles and blissfully ignore the rattles and squeaks that affected my first one), but the Cooper S is the pick of the bunch. It's fun to drive, characterful (I've never tired of the whine of the supercharger as the car picks up speed), and reliable. On the downside, it drinks fuel like there's no tomorrow in urban driving (it was actually pretty good when I drove to Cheshire the other week though!), and thanks to the government's obsession with C02 ratings it costs a small fortune to tax each year (and it's going to get even more expensive in the next couple of years). Seriously, while I understand the need to curb C02 emissions, it's outrageous that the government backdated their tax plans to include all new cars produced since 2001. It'd be cheaper for me to tax a stonking great V8 from the mid-90s than my comparatively cleaner Mini; in all honesty, if I'd known they were going to do that when I bought the car I probably wouldn't have bought an S. Wait - does that mean I regret buying it? Never - I'm just ranting against governmental policy!

*gets off soapbox*

There's something inherently special about Minis. I know some people don't like them because they think they're just a car of the moment that all the fashionistas want to be seen in, or because of those estate agents that drive them around London like maniacs, but there genuinely are people like me who love Minis for their character (faults and all!), the way they drive, and the way they look. Who cares if you can get more stuff in the glovebox than you can in the boot? Not me! Who cares that you can't get anyone in the back seats? Not me - get less friends, I say! In a world of admittedly well-engineered, reliable to a fault motor cars, Minis are one of the few mass-produced vehicles that have genuine charm. So kudos to everyone who helped bring the new Mini to fruition - from its designers to the people at the factory in Oxford who make it. My motoring life has certainly been all the more exciting for their hard work and dedication.

But as they say, all good things must come to an end - and who knows what tomorrow may bring…?

The great coffee caper

Let's take a brief respite from this week's car-based nostalgia for a moment while I regale you with a short tale of today's lunchtime shenanigans.

Now, I think it's pretty much common knowledge that I do like a good cup of coffee, and I do like Starbucks. So you'd think I'd be pretty much up to speed on any new developments in the Starbucks coffee world. Apparently not, however. On Monday, y'see, I was sitting outside Secret Starbucks watching the world go by when I noticed an advert at the bus stop across the road for something called Starbucks Via. How very interesting, I thought, and resolved to head back to the office to Google it.

As it turns out Starbucks Via is Starbucks' new instant coffee range, and it's being launched exclusively today in the UK in a handful of West London stores. Armed with that knowledge, I strolled into Secret Starbucks today and was immediately confronted by all manner of Via imagery; I kid you not, they're not launching this thing by halves. The baristas were all wearing promotional t-shirts and there were boxes and posters *everywhere* - in fact, the posters were a bit like an iPod advert with silhouetted figures holding Via sachets. I half expected one to have some headphones plugged into his sachet and be in the process of throwing some shapes nightclub-stylee.

Anyway, one of the lovely baristas in Secret Starbucks gave both me and Yazzle Dazzle a sample sachet as we ordered our drinks, which we gratefully accepted and stuck in our pockets. As we headed outside to grab a table though, I noticed that someone had left a sachet behind - so I pocketed that one too. While drinking our coffees one of the other baristas we know popped out to say "hi," and told us that one of the other Starbucks stores in Hammersmith were doing a big giveaway on the high street. That being the case we resolved to pass by that way as we headed back to our respective offices. That made three.

Hammersmith actually has four Starbucks, though, and I figured that it would be rude to neglect the others on such an important day. About midway down the high street we came across a chap on a Starbucks bike-thingy (they've twitpic'd him HERE) who also had some freebies. To be honest I thought I might fail here, because I went up to the dude and held my hand out all expectantly like I was Oliver or something, and he looked at me like I was a bit speshul. Ultimately realising that he was being employed to dole out freebies to all and sundry rather than just the people he wanted to, however, he reluctantly gave me a sachet - which was lucky because I was just about to say "I want one - gimme."

Further down the high street, by which point Yazzle Dazzle and I were on the verge of hysterical laughter at our (I think the word is) chutzpah, we came across the fourth and final Starbucks. And here we faced our greatest challenge - and what could be our greatest victory. Outside this store there was a barista holding a tray of sample Via drinks as well as the free sachets. Dare we try our luck?

Of course we did.

We wandered up to the dear lady with expressions of complete innocence, and gamely plucked a sample beverage off her tray while she launched into her pre-programmed spiel about how the coffee was developed and why it is the best instant coffee on the market. I was trying to listen, but I was also trying to a) drink the sample, and b) not laugh because by this time I actually didn't care whether the coffee was any good, I just wanted to blag as many freebies as I could.

And we were doing so well until the barista handed us our fifth free sachet and then whispered conspiratorially: "Y'know, there are several other Starbucks in Hammersmith - you could just put a dumb look on your face and wander up and down getting as many samples as you can. I mean, you could be doing that now for all I know."

Yazzle Dazzle and I guiltily looked each other in the eye, turned back to the barista, said "noooooo - we'd never do that!" in unison, then scurried off as quickly as we could, pockets bulging with free coffee, no doubt leaving the poor woman to wonder what the hell had just happened.

We totally played the game today rudegirls *snaps*.

Wednesday's haul of free coffee - good times!

So, what are my thoughts on the fruits of my lunchtime labours? Well, I've just knocked back my first full cup of Starbucks Via, and I've got to say I'm pretty darn impressed. OK, it's not quite the coffee you get in-store, but it's waaaaaay better than almost all other instant coffees I've tried, and I'd probably go as far to say that it's the next best thing to popping into Starbucks. It certainly saves the time and effort that goes into brewing some fresh coffee in a cafetiere. I think I'll definitely pick some up (and by that I actually mean 'buy some') to stash in my office drawer ready to help fend off those post-lunch, mid-afternoon slumps…

Car the second: my very own Mini adventure

I distinctly remember the first time I saw a new Mini in the flesh metal. It was the launch day, and as I swung my little ol' Fiesta into the forecourt of my local BMW dealer there it was - all silver and black and awesome. I almost crashed while ogling it. Somehow I eventually managed to park-up, then wobbled into the showroom.

I was stunned. I'd seen pictures - lots of pictures - of the new Mini, but it was so much better when it was right in front of me. There was a red and white one in the showroom, and I spent a couple of minutes checking it out - sitting in it, poking it (not like that), and generally imagining myself owning one, all the time half expecting a message to come over a loudspeaker saying something to the effect of "would the owner of the aging Ford Fiesta please remove it from our reputable forecourt - and you, little boy, get out of the shiny Mini."

Eventually I managed to book myself in for a test drive, but because it was proving so popular I had something like a two hour wait. That being the case I jumped back in my Fiesta and headed home where I vibrated with excitement.

Now, I really don't like taking cars out for test drives because I always feel like the salesman who sits in with you is going to think I'm a bad driver, or criticise the way I drive in some menial way, or, heaven forbid, tut under his breath. I'm also conscious of the fact that I might stall it and look ridiculous. It's all the old driving test phobias coming back to haunt me. Fortunately the test drive went very well, and as expected I fell even more in love with the Mini than I thought I would. I'd not intended on putting my name down for one that day, but that's exactly what I did; I was the salesman's first buyer, and against my initial plan to get a British Racing Green one, I ended up ordering a red and white Cooper based purely on the fact that the one in the showroom looked so damn awesome.

There was a two month wait between ordering the car and it arriving, and it was the longest two months of my life, but on September 18th 2001 I became one of the first 1000 people in the country to own a new Mini.

My first Mini parked up on the streets of Richmond.

It's funny looking back on that time now - and even funnier trying to describe the sort of effect the new Mini had on people. The original Mini was - and still is - a quintessentially British icon; they're not mere cars, not just a tool to get you from A to B, they're members of the family - they're something you form an emotional attachment too. It had been said that the original Mini was irreplaceable, but, as I was to discover, the British public took the new version to heart just as much as they did the original (at least they did until a certain estate agents started using them as company cars for absolute knobbers who can't drive).

Nice arse (I do apologise, how very crude of me … but true nonetheless)

Don't believe me? Well how about the hordes of smiling pedestrians that would stop and point as I drove by? The bunch of school kids that stopped on the pavement and applauded me as I drove down Richmond High Street? The old man who told his wife to wait while he came over to "talk to this young man about his nice car," and then spent five minutes eagerly listening while I told him all about it and let him take a seat behind the wheel. Oh, and let's not forget the Ferrari driver who was clearly rather peeved that his 150k supercar wasn't getting as much attention as a 13k hatchback. We Mini drivers would wave to each other; there was even a chap in an original Mini who would give me a thumbs up every morning as I drove to work through Brentford. Driving a new Mini in those first few months was unlike anything I'd ever done before. And I'm not ashamed to say that I missed the attention as they became a more familiar sight and people stopped staring; I know exactly how D-list celebs feel as they try to hang on to the last vestiges of their fame.

My favourite picture of my first Mini, and quite possibly the artiest photo I've ever taken…

The thing about my first Mini though, was that being one of the first 1000 it had a few … let's call them quirks. Don't get me wrong, I loved it to bits, but every couple of months there'd be a reason to head back to the dealers. Nothing major, really, just a little squeak here, or an annoying rattle there. And it was when I was sitting in the dealers for exactly such a reason back in September 2003 that I made the fateful decision to go sit in a Cooper S that was on display. Y'know, just to be nosy.

It's not like I was actually going to buy one, was it?

Car the first: the little white dream machine

My first car was a white G-reg Ford Fiesta Popular. I found it in an advert in Auto Trader, and one Saturday afternoon Sparky Pa and I headed over to take a look at it. The guy selling it said it was a great little runner, and the only reason he was getting rid of it was because his wife needed a bigger car to drive their kid, and all the accessories that come with a newborn kid, around in; Sparky Pa was nevertheless convinced that he was a dealer.

Either way, we took it out for a test drive, the seller sitting in the passenger seat while Sparky Pa drove and I sat in the back thinking good thoughts. Half an hour later as we headed home, Sparky Pa told me he thought it was an "OK little car," which in his book equates to cartwheels, fanfares, and a marching band. I decided to buy it.

The day I collected it is etched in my mind rather vividly. I took the day off work, and at about 10 o'clock in the morning Sparky Ma and Pa accompanied me to the bank where I drew out about 1900 quid in cash; I was vibrating with trepidation/excitement as we walked out of the bank and back to Sparky Pa's car, not only because of the realisation of how much money I was about to spend, but also because I was certain someone was somehow going to be able to sense how much money I had on me and try to mug me. Fortunately, we made it back to the car safely.

Because I'd not had much any driving experience since passing my test a few years earlier, we'd decided that Sparky Ma was going to drive my new car home. I was a little bit peeved at this, but knew that it made sense. Anyway, after arriving at the seller's house I dropped the cash-bomb, and the car was mine.

Things didn't exactly go according to plan after that, however. After getting comfortable and starting the car up, Sparky Ma noticed that it had virtually no petrol in it, so we decided to head home via the closest petrol station. Unfortunately, en route the car kept stalling, and I started getting the sneaking suspicion that I'd bought a dog. We eventually filled up, and Sparky Ma subsequently managed to drive my car home with the minimal amount of bunny-hopping.

It was only when we arrived home that we realised the Fiesta's gears were much closer than those of the gearbox in Sparky Ma's Nissan Micra, and she'd actually been pulling away in third gear, rather than first, the entire journey. Her momentary embarrassment was swiftly swept aside by the realisation that she'd actually displayed phenomenal clutch control.

Anyway, after about half an hour of just staring out the living room window at my new car parked outside, I decided that I actually should try driving the thing, so I hesitantly picked up the keys, got in, and headed off on a few laps of the surrounding roads. Despite the two year gap between passing my test and actually buying a car I soon found - much to my relief - that driving a car is a bit like riding a bike and it soon comes back to you. Good times ahoy.

I could not have asked for a better first car. The Fiesta had a wheezy one litre engine and a four-speed gearbox that was agricultural enough that you could actually pull away in any gear and it wouldn't grumble too much. It didn't have a parcel shelf when I bought it, meaning that anyone could peer in the back window and see what you had in the boot; I rectified that by ordering one from a Ford garage and installing it myself (ably assisted by Sparky Pa, who no doubt thought that one afternoon spent installing a parcel shelf was infinitely preferable to a lifetime spent repairing that decrepit Mini I'd previously looked at). The last three letters of the number plate were 'VTW' which, with no hint of irony, I decided meant 'Very Tasty Wheels.'

The Fiesta generally behaved itself; OK, the radio did chew up Big Bro's Nirvana Unplugged cassette, but he had just bought a CD version so wasn't too worried. There was also a hole by the aerial, and I quickly discovered that when it rained water would leak in and dribble down the rearview mirror. I sorted that by bunging it up with some blu-tac which damn near fossilised over time. Part of the driver's side window winder handle snapped off too, but I fixed that with sellotape and super glue.

In fact the only time the Fiesta did let me down was when a coolant cable wore out and emptied antifreeze all over the front garden. Completely unaware, I still drove it to work without any problem, and it was only a phone call from Sparky Ma that alerted me to the problem. I headed out of the office to investigate, and as it was dark by this time Grum offered to position his motorbike so that the headlight shone on my car. We tried pouring some water into the engine, and the fact that it poured straight out the other side onto the ground alerted us to the fact that something was ever so slightly amiss. I eventually got the train home that day, and took my car into a local garage the next day where it was fixed in a couple of hours. I'm still pretty certain I could've driven it home without any problem, though.

Around 1999, I found out that BMW were going to be bringing out a new Mini in 2001, and however much I loved my Fiesta, I really, *really* wanted a Mini. I began saving in earnest, knowing that I was going to buy one as soon as they hit the market. I was sad to see the Fiesta go because it had been such a perfect first car - but I was more excited at the prospect of beginning my Mini adventure.

Wheels

All boys love cars: FACT. I think if you don't you get sent to a training camp where Jackie Stewart is the drill instructor and he makes you take engines apart until your knuckles are bleeding and you've got Castrol GTX all over your face.

All boys love cars.

When I was a kid I was just like every other little boy in the fact that my favourite car was a Ferrari. I didn't particularly care which one, it just had to be a Ferrari. Preferably in red, but I wasn't fussy. Actually that's a lie; yes, it had to be in red. And it had to be an F40. A red F40 - perfect. In hindsight, though, I think I liked Ferraris because back in the 80s they were easy to draw; there were no swooshing curves, just long straight lines. You only needed a pencil and a ruler and you were half way there.

As time went by, though, I started to pay more attention to other cars within the automotive world. I started to think that Porsches were cooler than Ferraris. They were swooshier, and I thought the round headlights made them look more characterful. OK, young me would probably have said "like a cartoon character" rather than "characterful," but you get the gist.

By the end of the 80s, however, I'd started to think about what I'd like for my first car; I was, after all, only about seven years away from being able to get my license. I was realistic enough not to think I'd be driving a Porsche 911 off the forecourt the day after passing my test, though, and so I set my sights a little lower down the automotive ladder and settled on a Ford Fiesta.

Yes you read that correctly: I wanted a Ford Fiesta.

Now, having read that you might think that rather than setting my sights a little lower down the automotive ladder I actually missed the bottom rung altogether and face-planted on the pavement, but in reality I think I hit the nail right on the head. Fiestas were *everywhere,* spare parts were cheap, and they were reliable; by all accounts they would be the only thing besides cockroaches to survive thermonuclear armageddon.

And besides, there was a historical precedent.

This is the younger and considerably chunkier me checking out a Fiesta at the Earls Court Motor Show in 1989 (or thereabouts).

So in - I think - 1998, after saving long and hard, I began the search for my first car.

In addition to the, some would say, unnatural lust for all things Fiesta, I was already at this time showing something of an obsession with Minis (the original ones, I hasten to add; this is a little before the new one's time). That being the case, my car shopping list was split between Fiestas and Minis. Both had plus and minus points, with the Mini's plus points being that it was, well, a Mini, and the minus points being that they appeared to hold their value a little too well, meaning that all the decent ones were a little out of my price range. I shall gloss over the fact that they were also generally made of string and glue and if I'd gotten into an accident in one chances are I wouldn't be writing this now, and would instead be burning in the fiery depths of hell reclined on a cloud while gently strumming a harp.

Any-hoo, after several weekends spent scouring used car lots and Auto Trader, I ended up seeing just two cars. The first one I found was in a small advert in the back of a local newspaper. It was for a Mini Sky, which was a "good runner," needed "no work," and best of all was only "950 quid." I'm pretty sure it was a Mini Sky; it certainly wasn't a Mini Rose, which was identical to the Sky apart from the fact that it had a pink roof rather than a blue one. I'm pretty certain I would've balked at the notion of driving a car with a pink roof and flowery decals on the side.

Here you can see the Mini Sky on the left (blue roof), and the Mini Rose to the right of the red one.

So, one warm summer evening Sparky Pa and I jumped in his car and headed off to take a look at this Mini. Warning bells rang immediately when we arrived at the address it was being sold from.

It was a farm.

Despite this we decided that we'd come this far and we might as well take a look. Our initial attempt at getting out of Sparky Pa's car was thwarted, however, by a very loud and excitable farmyard dog, and so we resorted to alerting the farmer to our presence by beeping the horn until he came out of his house. After he secured his mentalist dog behind a gate we got out and went over to check out the Mini. On first glance it looked to be OK; admittedly there was a bit of rust here and there, but I figured pretty much any car I bought was going to have some rust somewhere.

I forced Sparky Pa We decided to take it out for a test drive.

Because I hadn't driven since passing my test, and because he knew what to look for in a first car, Sparky Pa drove. I will never forget the sight of him hunched over the steering wheel of this tiny tiny car as we buzzed down a dual carriageway at what felt like warp speed but what was, in reality, something closer to 27 miles per hour; his foot was flat on the accelerator and still we weren't picking up speed. We drove for about 10 minutes, an unending stream of muttered grumblings coming from the driver's seat about what a hideous little car it was, before pulling over so that Sparky Pa could peer under the bonnet and assess the mechanical situation.

To be honest, I don't think anything could annihilate the A-Series engines that powered original Minis, so in that sense it was pretty reasonable, but it swiftly became evident that all was not well with, well, pretty much every other part of the car; when Sparky Pa closed the bonnet you could hear bits of filler falling off before seeing it bounce off the tyres and on to the road.

"It's you money," said Sparky Pa, probably thinking of all the lost weekends he'd undoubtedly have to spend stretched out beneath the Mini fixing things. "But I REALLY wouldn't buy this car."

Sadly, I was forced to agree with him. We took the Mini back to the farm, where the farmer made a last ditch effort to get me to buy it by offering to knock 100 quid off the price. His case wasn't helped by his admission that the car needed "a little work," which completely contradicted what the advert had said. I sometimes wonder what happened to that little car. I suspect he turned it into a novelty chicken coup or something.

Disheartened, I began my search for the perfect first car once again. And that's when I hit gold … well, not literally gold – y'know what I mean.

Heading north

As you might've guessed from the previous post, I broke free of my normal routine this weekend and did something that actually took me away from the cosseting bosom of my lovely sofa (I really don't tell my sofa that I love it as much as I should: sofa? I love you. Possibly a bit too much sometimes).

So what did I do? I went to Cheshire of course! Which for those of you who aren't terribly gifted at geography is a bit like this.

And then I did this.

And that's what we call a 370-ish mile round journey in the space of about eight hours, with an hour and half-ish stop-off in Cheshire somewhere in the middle.

Now, I'm actually not too bad with directions when push comes to shove. Actually, let me rephrase that: I'm actually not too bad with directions within the M25 (note to any Johnny Foreigners who don't know what the M25 is: it's a big round horrific motorway that surrounds London, either keeping everyone else out, or all of us in, depending on who you ask). You see, I've lived near Heathrow Airport all my life, so if ever I've gotten a bit lost trying to get home I've just looked to the sky and followed the planes in. Sparky Pa used to say that if he dropped me in a field somewhere I'd find eventually find my way home, and unfortunately for him he was right. Outside of the M25, though, things are a bit different. There's planes going in all sorts of odd directions and that just confuses me.

So, anyway, here I was with a desire to go to Cheshire, and not the foggiest idea how to get there; the last time I headed north was - what? - at least 10 years ago? Probably more. Salvation was at hand in the form of Sparky Pa, however. Sparky Pa used to drive the length and breadth of the country for work, and knows it insanely well. Bizarrely, though, as his job used to entail stuff that you'd find on the forecourts of petrol stations, his driving instructions are often based on the location of various Esso, Texaco, and BP sites; more than once I've been told to "turn left at the Texaco station."

This time around though, he gave me proper written instructions using road names, which made me a little more confident about my ability to navigate at least reasonably close to where I wanted to go. What made me even more confident, however, was Big Bro's beautifully renamed Tim Tim Go satellite navigation thingy.

When Big Bro asked for a satellite navigation thingy for his birthday last year I scoffed and told him he was a clueless buffoon who couldn't navigate his way out of bed, but I shall say it here: oh my, what a wonderous device!

Seriously, it got me there, and it got me back bang on the estimated time it displayed when I set off. I did not take one wrong turn - although that said, when I tested it on the drive home from Sparky Ma and Pa's on Saturday after picking it up it did try to take me a really weird long way home; I defied it to a) show it who was boss, and b) get home quicker. At every key point it told me where to turn and what lane I should be in using a reasonably polite, slightly asexual lady-robot voice. I was overawed by its power, and initially a little scared; Big Bro referred to it as Skynet at one point, and I told him that if it started to turn into Shirley Manson Terminator I was going to ditch it at the side of the road. Fortunately he agreed that was a reasonable course of action should it, in fact, turn out to be the lead singer of Garbage in a liquid metal form.

Possibly my only complaint is that the suction cup that you use to stick it to the windscreen wasn't suctiony enough and it fell off once on the way there and once on the way back. Fortunately it just dropped onto the top of my dashboard, rather than down into the footwell; if it had dropped down there I would've possibly a) cried, and b) crashed while trying to retrieve it. All while Shirley Manson was telling me to stay in the right-hand lane.

Any-hoo, I haven't done a long journey in years, and certainly not a long journey followed by a brief stop-off, followed by another long journey home, so I was a little apprehensive about how I'd cope. I envisaged myself stopping off loads and sitting in drab motorway services drinking awful coffee, then needing desperately to wee on the M6 with nowhere to stop, but actually it all went swimmingly. It was a gorgeous day, and I set off at 08:29, arriving at my destination at 11:48; coming home was equally speedy, if a little bit cloudier. I listened to Michael Jackson's HIStory album there and back (mainly the greatest hits disc), and am not afraid to admit that on the way home I clicked the cruise control on, took my feet off the pedals, and howled along to Earth Song in a terrifyingly realistic manner (it's a crime I couldn't get Jackson tickets, a crime I tells ya). And Cheshire is rather lovely part of the country. I really wish I'd stopped off and taken a few pictures - especially of the awesome viaduct and the freakin' huge Jodrell Bank radio telescope.

All-in-all, then, a day well spent.

Oh, what do you mean 'why did I go there?' Hmmm… well that's a tale for another time…

Vital equipment

When venturing to unfamiliar territory, Sparky Malarkey would like to recommend the latest advances in satellite navigation equipment: the Tim Tim Go.

Don't leave home without it!

(Thanks to Big Bro for an inspired piece of lunacy)

Choose your own adventure: third bloggy birthday edition

Yes, you read that right: today marks the third birthday of Sparky Malarkey! Doesn't time fly when you have nothing better to do you're having fun? And what better way to mark this historic occasion than to haul one of my semi-regular features out of retirement? Yes, it's time for choose your own adventure!

A few new luvverly people have started lurking around the comments since the last time we played, so before everything kicks off, here's the rules: I'll write a relatively mundane blog post, but cut out certain words, replacing them with a number (usually 10, but in celebration of my third bloggy birthday I've doubled it to an epic 20!). Your job is to fill in the missing words and paste your completed version into the comments section. Anything goes, and I particularly like it when you're dirty.

Ready? Here we go!

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I woke up at the crack of [1] ready to jump on [2] in the hope that I might be able to get some [3]. Sadly, despite trying both at home and at work, I failed epically. As you might imagine, this left me feeling a little bit [4]. Things didn't improve as the morning wore on, because I seemed to be having a number of issues with my [5].

At lunchtime I met [6] for [7]. Unfortunately, the people who have been handing out [8] all week weren't around so we didn't get to play [9] as we have for the last couple of days. A good time was had nevertheless, as we both complained about our lack of success in getting [10]. Before we knew it, lunchtime was over and we both had to head back to work.

The afternoon went by relatively quickly, and I left bang on time, stopping only briefly when I got back to my car to pay for my [11] (I've been a bit naughty and haven't done it for a couple of weeks!). I was home at just gone 17:30, where I quickly changed into my [12] and headed outside with a bucket and sponge to wash my [13] while it was still light. When that was done I had a [14] for [15], which was awesome, and a little later on I had a quick [16]. I've just watched [17], and have been chilling out listening to [18] for a while, although I think I might head off to [19] now. I don't want to tease you by mentioning this, but I've got a rather interesting [20] ahead…