• Gone to yoga twice. I'll leave you to decide whether that's been for the health benefits or just because I wanted to escape the freezing cold and sit in a 40 degrees C heated room for an hour and a half.
• Watched almost an entire boxset of Smallville in a weekend (I'm constantly amazed how consistently good this show's been year after year).
• Found a typo on my advent calendar. Mars will be receiving a sternly-worded letter about this, let me tell you.
• Epically smashed a glass in the kitchen and nicely sliced up my hands in the process. They've been covered in plasters since the event, and it was only today that I noticed I've taken a chunk out of one of them. I wonder if it will scar? Chicks dig scars.
• Had a wickedly awesome haircut. I'd show you a picture, but I'm worried any attempt at a self portrait would end up looking a wee bit unnecessarily emo.
• Done the Christmas food shop; clipped some kid with my trolley because he wouldn't get out the way. That'll teach him for being ignorant and having massive ears.
• Played far too much Bejeweled Blitz on Facebook. Seriously, whenever I close my eyes I see little rows of exploding crystals. Am I addicted?
• Been at least 90 percent less sweary than I have been at work over the last few months. I think that proves my colleagues have a bad influence on me, and that I should be allowed to work from home in future.
• Wrapped all my Christmas presents. Unwittingly I'd bought some wrapping paper that's more like a coloured film and is damn near impossible to fold. Just as I'd get it in the right position it would unfurl itself back into a totally flat, uncreased state. I swear this is the sort of unearthly material they found at Roswell.
• Drew comedy eyes on Big Bro's car.
• Had an altercation with the World's Worst Driver. Seriously, when I saw how bad her parking skills were I decided to stay with Clubbie in case she should decide to rebound of the front of the car behind her and into Clubbie's backside in an effort to get in the gap. It took her five minutes. And when she finally turned the engine off and got out she looked at me and said "worried I was going to hit your car?" I replied "yes" and walked off.
• Caught up with a mate I've not seen in FUH-EVAH.
• Washed far too many clothes. You'd think I was wearing my entire wardrobe day-after-day.
• Dressed like a dapper gentleman and went for a slap-up meal.
Sweet baby Jeebus, this holiday lark is exhausting!
Whoa! It's that time of year again folks (Jeebus it's come around quickly) where I slap a load of songs on a blank CD and - VOILA! - instant Christmas present from a total cheapskate with a personal touch.
Anyway, enough jibba-jabba - let's get on with the songs.
01. You're So Vain by Carly Simon (Daytrotter Session version)
I've always had a bit of a thing for Carly Simon (not like that, pervert), although you could say I've loved her from afar; I've never bought any of her music, y'see, but I've always enjoyed it when I've heard it on the radio (which is rarely these days unless I unwittingly stray onto Magic FM on the drive home). Understandably, then, I was quite pleasantly surprised when Daytrotter, usually the purveyor of the latest up-and-coming musicians, made an acoustic session she recorded for them available for download. I'm going to be honest: I've in love with this version of You're So Vain. Partly because I love acoustic music, but more so, I think, because there's a something slightly magical about 64 year-old Carly Simon singing this song as opposed to the 28 year-old Carly Simon who had a hit with it back in 1973. There's a time-worn weariness to her voice here that hints at the experience that only comes with the passing of time; it's not so much anger or resignation, more like a steely determination. Either way, it's a stunning and, dare I say it, definitive take on a classic song, and I'd urge you to download the entire four song session from Daytrotter HERE.
Not the Daytrotter version, but a close approximation of it.
I found this band after following a link posted by Darren from Phantom Planet on his Myspace page, and instantly found my NEW FAVOURITE BAND. The Californian is, and I still can't believe this, currently unsigned, which is officially madness. Within about 20 minutes of listening to the songs on their Myspace page I'd bought their album of demos from iTunes, and then spent the next week or so listening exclusively to it over and over again. It's a fantastic collection of weary-sounding acoustic tracks that convey both the sunny disposition of California and a hint of underlying darkness. I love the album so much that quite frankly I would've been quite happy using it in its entirety as this year's mix CD, but that would be naughty. In fact, I love the album so much that I gave serious consideration to a) going to California just to catch one of their shows, or b) thinking about out how I might be able to arrange a gig where they could come over and play in London. Anyway, back to the CD; after a lot of to-ing and fro-ing, I settled on this track, Corporate Coffee. As you know, I love corporate coffee and drink it every day, and this song by the same name is every bit as good. It's the kind of track that I can imagine an entire crowd swaying and clapping along to in a small, sweaty gig, their eyes closed and arms held aloft as they bask in The Californian's chilled out vibe. I highly recommend you go check out the new songs they've popped up on Myspace ahead of their forthcoming EP. And maybe buy the album too, yes?
Sadly I can't find any youtube videos of the band, but they do have a blog so go check that out instead.
Very few things make me cry, but ohmygod I was driving to work one day when this track started playing on my stereo and the next thing I knew I was properly welling up. Big Bro has been a fan of John Mayer for years now, but I never really appreciated him until Big Bro forced me to listen to his live albums and I suddenly thought 'I get this guy.' Consider the lyrics - "Stop this train I want to get off and go home again/I can't take the speed it's moving in" - I think they really got me that day on the drive to work because they made me think about my family, and how life changes and evolves and you can't go back to how things were however much you might want to. There's a raw, aching sadness to this song that Mayer's gravelly voice just drives home. It's lucky I've never seen him in concert because I'd be a teary mess.
Ooo, a bit of a Sparky Malarkey exclusive here chaps, because this track is off the CD of the Joseph Arthur gig that I saw at Bush Hall back in July. I loved that gig full stop, but this song was a particular highlight of the evening for me. Like Stop This Train, Even When Yer Blue has the incredible/slightly annoying effect of making me a little bit emotional whenever I hear it; as you might imagine, then, putting the two songs back-to-back on the mix CD had the potential for leaving me a bit of an emotional mess when I was listening to the songs over and over and trying to put them in a specific order. Anyway, regardless of the state I'm in after listening to it, I love this song big time. Unbelievably, it's not been released on any of Joseph Arthur's albums - so I recommend if you get the chance you toddle along to see him perform it at one of his gigs. I'm pretty damn sure you'll leave a Joseph Arthur convert like I did.
This was something of a last-minute addition to the mix CD. While all the other songs came together quite easily, I was having a bit of difficulty finding something to round out the acoustic-y/live first half - and then inspiration struck while I was walking out of Westfield one evening. This track popped on my iPhone courtesy of the shuffle function, and I think I listened to it about five times in a row, while coming to the realisation that a) I couldn't believe I'd missed such an awesome song nestling away in my iTunes library and b) knowing immediately that I'd found my missing link. This is a wonderful stripped back version of the track that appears on Pearl Jam's Riot Act, performed by Eddie Vedder and just a ukelele at Benaroya Hall in October 2003. I've grown into quite a Pearl Jam fan over the years (due mainly to considerable pestering from Big Bro), and they're another band that I find I prefer their live stuff to rather than the original album versions. This is a soulful, haunting, but strangely uplifting rendition of an already fine song.
All hail the mighty YouTube - here's a video of the original performance from Benaroya Hall!
(On a side note, I've just realised that this is the third year in a row that Pearl Jam have appeared on the mix CD, so if anyone I give these to doesn't like them: apologies! They won't be on next year's. Probably. Possibly. I don't know. You'll just have to wait and see, OK?)
Back in September I made it quite clear to anyone who'd listen that I was a smidgeon obsessed with the movie (500) Days of Summer, ultimately seeing it three times in two weeks. This song isn't in the movie, but it is sung by Zooey Deschanel who plays the titular Summer, and a video for it was made by the movie's director, Marc Webb, starring Deschanel and her co-star, Joseph Gordon-Levitt. It's a catchy little tune that kind of sounds like it might've been recorded in the sixties, beginning with a nice little plinky-plonky piano melody before the guitar and drums really kick in, followed by some supremely singable harmonies accompanying Deschanel's slightly mournful voice.
I first became aware of Priscilla Ahn when I saw her support Jason Mraz back at the beginning of April. I fell in love with her a little bit (her voice and her music, I hasten to add; I wasn't following her around asking her to autograph my chest or anything), and when I found out she was playing a solo gig at Bush Hall I decided to toddle along. That gig was awesome, not only because it was the first time I'd been to Bush Hall (which is an incredible venue), but also because Ahn's wonderful songs, angelic voice, infectious personality and hilarious between-song banter made me forget the horrifically painful whiplash injury I was suffering from at the time, if only for a couple of hours. Now, ideally I would've popped her brilliantly titled Boob Song on the Mix CD, but as she doesn't appear to have released it thus far (saving it for the second album I hope) I've gone for Wallflower instead. This is a lovely little track that is a highlight of her really rather wonderful debut album; it's very melodic, very chilled out (like the whole album, actually), and the lyrics are really quite touching. Hasn't everyone found themselves feeling like a wallflower at least once in their life?
08 Miracle Goodnight by David Bowie
OK, so I got mildly obsessed by this song back in the summer. There was even one occasion where I was dropping Yazzle Dazzle home one evening and I put this song on repeat, actively told her to shush mid-conversation, and then did that ridiculous thing you do when you try to sing along to a song when you don't actually know the words and just end up looking and sounding like you're having an asthma attack or an aneurysm. Miracle Goodnight is from David Bowie's Black Tie White Noise album, which despite being a huuuuuuuge Bowie fan I didn't really 'get' until this year; I'd always liked Jump They Say (in fact I seem to recall that was the song that set me on the path to Bowie worshipping), but that was about it. Now, though, I love pretty much the whole thing, with Miracle Goodnight being a particular favourite. It's another song with a catchy, repetitive beat and chorus that gets stuck in your head on some sort of permanent loop rather easily.
09 The Love You Save by the Jackson 5
Although I never try to theme the songs on the Mix CD around the events of the year, I think it would be remiss of me not to put something featuring Michael Jackson on this year's. While I didn't actually get a ticket for the O2 shows when they went on sale, it was exciting to think that there was the possibility that I could've got one at some point and actually seen him perform. It was also sad that, regardless of what you thought about his lifestyle, it took his death to remind the world what an incredible performer he was. As something of a lapsed Jackson fan myself, it's been good to reacquaint myself with his music, and there's a hell of a lot of gems there to chose from. I've gone for The Love You Save here because one of the most memorable sequences in the This Is It movie was a Jackson 5 medley that included this song. While it's maybe not quite as well known as something like ABC or Blame it on The Boogie, The Love You Save is quintessential Jacksons. An infectious, immediate track little more than three minutes long - and almost guaranteed to have you at least bopping your head along to it with a broad smile on your face, if not up and dancing around your living room like a loon.
As a big Matchbox Twenty fan, I've always been left a little bit cold by lead singer Rob Thomas' solo efforts. There were a couple of good songs on his first album, but on the whole I thought it was a little bit too slick for my liking. His second album, Cradlesong, was for me a far more satisfying attempt, and it is from this album that this song is taken. Where this succeeds - in contrast to most of the songs on …Something To Be - is that it feels more relaxed, more natural; it sounds a bit more like a Matchbox Twenty song. This is the sort of track you can imagine being used at the end of a movie - a real character-driven film rather than a blockbuster - and I think in the right place (or wrong, depending on how you feel about these sort of things) it could probably have you crying like a baby.
They segue off into another song about halfway through, but you get the idea.
Despite the fact I give these Mix CDs out at Christmas I don't think I've ever put a Christmas song on one of them - until now. That said, Christmas TV doesn't *really* sound that Christmassy; in fact, the first time I heard it was when it was used in the second season finale of Chuck, where it was played over a wedding scene on a beach. What it is, though, is a very melodic comfort blanket of a song - it totally envelops you and makes you feel all warm and fuzzy. I like the fact that the voices of the two singers perfectly compliment one another; I love the twangy guitar that makes it sound like it came from the American midwest. Imagine my surprise, then, when I discovered that Slow Club are actually from Sheffield. Wherever they're from, though, they've written a gorgeous song that I adore.
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Right, that's another Mix CD done and dusted. *Phew!* So what didn't make the cut this year? Well, originally it was going to open with Dream Life of Rand McNally by Jason Mraz, which I heard for the first time at the gig in April and thought was an amazing (or amrazing, if you will) song. Being nine minutes long, however, it kind of made the CD drag a bit, so I sadly cut it. 40 Day Dream by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros was another track I loved this year, but which I didn't quite feel fitted - the same goes for Trashcan by Delta Spirit. Too Fake by Hockey was one of my favourite songs of 2009 even if it does have the most appalling ending that I've heard in a long time - it literally just peters out like they didn't quite know how to finish it. Finally, the only reason there's nothing by Mariachi El Bronx or Local Natives is because I only discovered them after I'd settled on the tracklisting. Definitely next year, though…
So I've finished my Christmas shopping - yay, hooray for me *victory dance*. Actually it's not the 'I've finished my Christmas shopping' aspect of it that I'm utterly elated by; it's more to do with the fact that I now don't have to go out and fight my way through the hordes of complete halfwits that 99 percent of the population appear to turn into when someone rattles some sleigh bells and waves a bit of tinsel in their faces.
Ooo, tinsel - pretty!
Seriously, it's like a zombie plague but with people taking leave of their senses rather than decaying and having their arms drop off. The cold dead-stares and unpredictable lurching is common to both parties, however.
My non-festive rant begins with a late afternoon trip to Kingston on Saturday. Around this time of year I try to avoid shopping at peak times, but even rocking up to the 'ton at just after four proved to be an epic mistake: there were people EVERYWHERE. But they weren't shopping in a normal, predictable fashion. The traditional 'oh-I'll-pick-this-item-up-and-admire-it-but-oh-no-it's-not-quite-what-I-was-looking-for-I'll-pop-it back-on-the-rack' style of shopping had disappeared to be replaced by people veering around in a random fashion, picking things up, shrieking at whatever they'd picked up, then returning it to the rack in such a way that I initially thought they were trying to fend off an attacking tiger.
And don't get me started on my favourite shop, Borders, which has been reduced to a trampy, shambolic market writhing around in it's death throes thanks to the chain going bust. I really wish I'd not gone in there and seen it in such a sorry state.
Anyway, having only partially succeeded in getting what I wanted to get, I decided that a trip to Westfield was in order on Monday evening.
Because of the sheer bloody size of the place, Westfield rarely looks full. But regardless of the size of the walkways, I still appear to be a magnet for stupid people - y'know, people who just wander aimlessly around like they're slightly out of sync with the regular flow of time. Or like the posh teenage girls who walk three abreast straight towards you like an ignorant perfumed tsunami. Maybe they're a little shell-shocked from getting a glimpse of the tramps on Shepherds Bush Green as the cab mummy had hailed for them swung by on the last leg of their journey from the leafy residential roads of Kensington? I can picture them now holding their hands to the sides of their heads like little manicured blinkers, quietly chanting "don't look, don't look, don't look."
Sadly I can't blame the blinkers on their inability to give a little leeway as they flounce towards me, because if they were using blinkers I'd be THE ONLY BLOODY THING THEY COULD SEE.
Then there's people with children, especially those with buggies. For a while now I've been quietly formulating a theory that 99 percent of people who have children jettison their common sense along with the baby and the afterbirth. I mean, really, repeatedly ramming your buggy against the side of my leg in Starbucks as you try to get past isn't normal behaviour, is it? What happened to saying excuse me? Are you actually trying to say "look! I've got a baby! That means I have a working uterus, and ensnared an actual man to impregnate me with his baby gravy. My life is complete! Now move out of the way, I have to inform somebody else of this, and perhaps get a skinny cappuccino along the way."
Actually, no one's interested in your doughy little f**k-trophy so piss off.
On a side note, I've decided that I'm no longer going to pander to people's whims and be polite when I'm shown new babies. If a baby genuinely is a cutie, I shall say so; otherwise, please expect a reaction ranging from "ugh!" to "it looks like the fellow that lives in the tummy of the other man in Total Recall" to "I'm sure the eyes will level out at some point, but until then I shall call him Sloth*."
The full-force of my Westfield rage was ultimately directed at a more mature age group, however. On my way out of the centre via the posh Village bit (that's "villaaaaaaaage" not "village" I'll have you know) I headed toward an escalator that would take me down to Waitrose where I intended to feed my latest addiction by stocking up on the otherworldly awesomeness that is their potato rosti. Unfortunately, completely and utterly blocking access to the escalator were two old dudes and a matching old woman with a massive, excessively-coiffured burgundy head. I circled around them to squeeze on to the escalator from the other side, but just as I was about to slip by they decided that they actually wanted to go down too, and barged past me. After hesitating for what seemed like an eternity about which of the revolutionary moving steps they dared jump onto, the aged trio managed to get on the escalator, and I swiftly followed them.
Halfway down one of the old dudes starts waving like a complete loon at a second old woman who was stumbling out of the Louis Viutton store and was inexplicably wearing oversized sunglasses that made her look a bit like Johnny Depp in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. She took a moment to register that someone was calling to her, before eventually walking over to greet her comrades in Prada at the bottom of the escalator.
And that's when they committed their cardinal sin.
I was actually a few steps back from them, so I could clearly see what they were (or rather what they weren't) going to do. As my metallic step of destiny inched ever closer to them my mind raced with witty put-downs to highlight their ignorance - put-downs so cutting, so precise and calculated that they would never - NEVER I TELL YOU! - commit such a crime against humanity again. The mere sight of the bottom of an escalator would send a chill down their collective spines.
My moment was upon me – I stepped off, barged comically and somewhat unintentionally into one of the old guys, and with a Spock-style raised eyebrow loudly proclaimed: "Excuse me!"
I made a concerted effort not to do another Star Trek drawing for this latest effort, and ended up with a picture of Dick Tracy. I don't know why I drew Dick Tracy. I think it might have something to do with my current desire to watch the film again (I think it's a cracking movie, so there).
With time to kill on Wednesday evening between leaving work and attending my very first Bad Film Club event at the Barbican, I found myself headed in the general direction of Westfield. Actually, with quite a bit of time to kill between leaving work and heading up to the Barbican I actually found myself heading to Westfield, then to KFC in Shepherds Bush, then back to Westfield before finally deciding it was about time to jump on the tube and head up town - and even then I was half an hour early and milled about for so long outside the Barbican that two security guys came out and started glaring at me.
But that's not the point of this story.
The point of this story is that I went to Westfield with a bit of an agenda. I'd seen a top online, you see, and I thought I'd go into the shop whose website I'd seen it on, try it on, and if I liked it, buy it. A pretty simple plan, I think you'll agree - and then I'll remind you that this is me we're talking about, and nothing *ever* goes according to plan.
Within about a minute of walking into the store I'd found the top I liked, picked out a small, and was heading for the changing rooms. Once in the changing room it was a simple matter of jacket off, headphones out of ears, untangling myself from said headphones, top off, t-shirt off, new top on, and admiring myself in the mirror. Once I'd admired myself for so long, I decided to pay some attention to how the new top fit, and I'm chuffed to say it fit stunningly; I immediately decided that I was going to buy it - good times.
Unfortunately, as I was hanging it back on the hanger I noticed that there was a hole in the arm. Not a hole on a seam, but a hole slap bang in the middle of the fabric. I may have harumphed audibly, but then I figured I'd just go and get another one of the same size and buy that instead. So off I toddled back to where I'd first picked it up. There were another six or so identical tops, so I started looking along the rack: medium, large, large, medium, extra large, and … extra large.
Humph!
I wasn't having this, though, and decided to track down an assistant who might be able to tell me if they had any others in, say, the stockroom or something. I found one who bore a remarkable resemblance to the unfortunate girl from All Saints who looks like a cocker spaniel (y'know, the one you were torn between wanting to make out with or stroke and call a "good girl" back in the late 90s).
"Do you have this in a small? I want to buy it but it's got a hole in the arm - look." I showed her the hole for effect. "I just looked on the rack and there aren't any more in this size."
"Ooo … I don't know. Let me check!" she replied. And then she walked over to where I'd picked it up from and looked through the rack that I'd looked through just seconds earlier. "No, sorry, it doesn't look like we do."
I may have rolled my eyes right in front of her.
"Would you have it in the stockroom, perhaps?"
This, I thought, was a reasonably straightforward request, but apparently I was mistaken. Instead, a remarkably complex chain of events were set in motion, because cocker spaniel girl could not just go to the stockroom on her own. She had to ask the manageress, an angry looking woman who wielded a walkie talkie like it was a loaded revolver. I don't know whether the stockroom is some sort of mythical place where only the most senior members of staff can tread, but once cocker spaniel girl had asked the angry manageress, who glared at me like she might leap the counter and throttle me at any moment, the angry manageress strutted off through a door that led, I assume, to where they keep their stock. Or, perhaps, the mythical land of Narnia.
Anyway, I was left standing there holding the holey top while the cocker spaniel went back to her previous duties of folding t-shirts badly.
After a couple of minutes I realised I'd been standing there for, well, a couple of minutes. And then I noticed that the angry manageress was behind the till again, and the cocker spaniel had moved to the changing rooms where she was collecting more clothes to fold badly and return to the shop floor. After a few more seconds I walked over to her and waved the holey top in her direction.
"Um, any luck?"
"Oh," she said, taking a few seconds to register who I was despite the fact that only a couple of minutes had elapsed since I'd first spoken to her. "Let me check."
She took the holey top off me and walked up to the angry manageress. They spoke briefly, the holey top was shown, and the angry manageress said something. Then the cocker spaniel came back over to me.
"No we don't, I'm afraid."
I was *this* close to grabbing her by the shoulders and shouting "DID NEITHER OF YOU HAVE THE SENSE TO COME OVER AND TELL ME?!" Instead I just said "Ah."
She then admired the top and said "so you don't want it then?"
I thought this was where she might say they'd knock a couple of quid off it because of the hole, but even then I wouldn't have bought it because I'm a sophisticated and well-dressed gent who does not wander around wearing clothes with more than the prerequisite number of holes in them.
"Um, no, not really."
"OK!" She smiled at me like that Muppet that was all lips and hair, popped the holey top BACK ON THE RACK and then skipped off to do god knows what somewhere else; I'm guessing it wouldn't be serving a customer in a diligent fashion. I stood there for a couple of seconds slightly shell-shocked and thinking that perhaps I should go after her and suggest that maybe they, like, take the damaged goods OFF THE SHOP FLOOR, but then I decided that the whole debacle had wasted a good five minutes of my life as it was, so I headed out of the shop and round to Starbucks.
Where I used my iPhone to buy the top from Amazon.
And people wonder why the high-street shops are having a hard time these days?
A couple of weeks back Big Bro stunned me with some exciting news via text:
I've bought a flat!
I'm really pleased for him, but essentially he's already lost. Y'see, I'm damn sure when we were kids that we made a bet as to who would move out first. I, of course, said that I would, not because I was eager to fly the coup, but because I recognised that I liked material possessions and quite frankly it was pretty obvious that I was filling up my tiny bedroom at an incredible rate; it was either going to be me moving out, or me being crushed by stuff, and quite possibly bringing about the collapse of the upstairs flooring in the process - something that would probably have miffed Sparky Ma and Pa a bit.
So I moved out and Big Bro lost. He, however, maintains that there was no such wager. Anyway, that's by-the-by, because what happens now is that I get to relive the excitement of filling a new place with furniture and exciting, unnecessary stuff with the bonus of not spending any money or having to live there if nothing matches or fits properly or smells weird.
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An aside:
OK, is it just me or is this not the sexiest looking biscuit evah?
If you lick it the chocolate goes even more swirly!
(Did I just confess to making out with a biscuit?)
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I initially offered to help Big Bro look at sofas. Sofa shopping is fun because you've got a airtight alibi for sprawling across someone else's sofa; I mean, there's going to be plenty of times when you pass out on it, so you better make sure it's comfortable before you buy it, right? I almost got down to my pants when I was checking out sofas because you don't want to risk chaffing of the thigh while you're chillaxing. That's one reason why I ultimately went for a leather one - smooooooooth. Anyway, it was a moot point because he decided to bugger off to DFS on his own.
Fun was to be had, though, because on Saturday afternoon Big Bro texted me to ask if I wanted to go to IKEA with him.
What a stupid question. Of course I'd go to IKEA.
And so on Saturday night we headed over to Wembley so I could introduce my naive big brother to the wonderful world of Swedish furnishings, and correct his initial impression that IKEA stuff was a load of old tat. I don't know where he'd got that from, but he was either going to have to change his mind or walk home (and let me tell you, it's a long way back).
Fortunately no brute force or cheeky threats were needed, because once he settled himself into one of the first fake living rooms in the showroom he was sold. He didn't buy anything, though; this was more of a reccy to see what he liked. He took plenty of photographs though, which is promising, and we were both taken with a chair called the Karlstad - him because he thought it was really comfortable; me because I thought it looked a bit like the captain's chair from the new Star Trek movie. He's going to get one, and he tried to goad me into buying one too - even going so far as to play on the Star Trek connection. Outrageous.
We rattled through the kitchen department pretty quickly because Big Bro's flat has a fancy new one just waiting to be tarnished by super-noodles and Angel Delight, although I was surprised to see an errant rodent on one of the work surfaces.
And for the rest of the evening I walked around with the song 'There's a rat in my kitchen' playing in my head. And I bloody hate UB40.
Any-hoo, all in all it was a success pop of the IKEA cherry for Big Bro, topped off by the fact that halfway round he got something in his eye, and while rubbing it said "there's something in my eye and I think it's…" and together we shouted "inspiration!" before laughing heartily and skipping off to the lighting department. It looks like he'll be spending quite a substantial amount of cash there in the coming months, which is very exciting. Now might just be the time for me to buy some shares in IKEA. Or at the very least dig out my old IKEA allen keys, because I freakin' love putting their stuff together - it makes me feel even more masculine than usual.
In the absence of regular lunching partner Yazzle Dazzle, I have recently taken to entertaining myself with a variety of other things on that small island of hope that splits the working day. Proofreading, writing, watching episodes of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia on my iPhone, and more recently reading a book have all helped relieve the emptiness that comes from not engaging in half an hour of endlessly witty, exceedingly puerile banter.
Today, though, I had Helen.
I arrived at Secret Starbucks a little later than usual today which meant that all the decent tables - particularly the two with the comfy chairs - had been nabbed. Being utterly shameless, and seeing as both tables with the comfy chairs where each occupied by just one person, I decided that I would ruthlessly invade one of them and take it for myself. The first was taken by a man with a laptop; the second by a young woman on her phone. I plumped for the latter.
I made my presence know to her by waving like a special and mouthing "is this seat free" in an overly exaggerated fashion. She nodded and gesticulated at it (as if there was another chair I'd been planning on taking instead), so I popped my coffee on the table, sat down, and pulled out my book.
Usually when I'm in Secret Starbucks I knock the volume of my iPhone down a notch or two so my music doesn't bother anyone else. This young lady, I realised a little too late, was talking rather loudly, however, and so I was forced to turn it up a notch in what turned out to be a somewhat futile effort to drown her out.
As it turns out, though, I soon found myself riveted to what she had to say.
Her name was Helen, and she'd recently accepted a new job. BUT! She also had an interview for another job that she *really* wanted and she didn't want to start the new one only to have to resign and work out a notice period if there was the possibility she might get the one that was just - girly squeal! - perfect for her. I never actually found out what either of the jobs were, but I'd be really disappointed if one was at Tesco and the other at Sainsburys.
So Helen was on the phone the entire time I was sat there, which was at least half an hour. After about 20 minutes I covertly turned my music off so I could listen more carefully. I made sure to keep my eyes on my book, however, to give the illusion that I was still reading. It's things like this that provide a clear indication that I would make a good ninja.
I don't know whether it was one person on the end of the line, or whether the phone was being passed around a variety of different people so that Helen could canvas a broad cross-section of the population on what she should do. At one point she got particularly loud and I wondered whether she'd taken to broadcasting her dilemma to all the patrons of Secret Starbucks or simply gotten a bit overwhelmed and emotional about the whole thing. If I'd been in more of a carefree mood I might've considered giving her a hug and telling her to get her roots done, because whichever job she ended up taking I somehow doubt they'd tolerate the current state of her hair, particularly if it was a position in which she'd have to deal with the public.
So I was warming to Helen somewhat - that is until she made a cardinal sin. Turning to face the window beside her, she pushed against the table with her leg, pushing it into my thigh and almost spilling my coffee. It also meant that I ended up looking like I was sitting slightly side-saddle in the chair as the area previously occupied by my legs was now occupied by table. This warranted - and resulted in - a withering stare. And I don't mean one of those smouldering ones that makes none all of the ladies swoon in my presence.
Helen didn't notice because she was too busy procrastinating and using her reflection in the window to pick something out of her teeth. I picked up my coffee and took a mouthful (while this may have appeared on the surface simply to be me enjoying my beverage, it was actually a second, slightly more subtle response to her nudging of the table - i.e. 'I better drink some of this so you don't spill it with your random and bizarre movements'). A couple of seconds later I put my mug down and resumed fake-reading my book.
And it was then that she did it again.
To be brutally honest, if I'd had one of those little wooden sticks that Starbucks give you to stir your coffee with, I would've snapped it in fury. I briefly considered getting up, going and getting one, and then snapping it in fury in front of her. As it was, though, time was up and I needed to be getting back to the office.
As I arose and tucked my iPhone into my pocket I glared once again at Helen and her outstretched, slightly dumpy legs. She remained oblivious to my rage as she continued to talk the hind legs off the donkey she was speaking to. I never did learn if Helen came to any conclusion about what to do, but quite frankly I don't think either company would benefit from her employment; her decision-making skills are appalling. What's the betting she's still sitting there tomorrow dithering about what to do?
While engaged in riveting conversation with Marcosy the other day we somehow got on to the subject of a survey recently conducted by Debenhams which exposed the mystery behind the undercracker buying habits of the typical British male. Both of us had read the results, and so were well-informed to digest and discuss the outcome.
The key fact of note is that we chaps apparently only buy our own undercrackers within a 17 year window of our lives. No, that does not mean we hoard them until we hit our late teens then coast along in the same old pair of skiddy-strewn Superman pants we've had since we first bid adieu to nappies; what it actually means is that we tend to buy our own between the ages of 19 to 36, but rely on our mums, and later our wives, to pick us out a cracking pair of dashing undies in the periods bookending that magical window of our pant purchasing prime.
This means I have less than five years in which to find myself a woman before I'm left high and dry and and utterly pantless on the shelf.
Although this was the key fact determined by the survey, it was not, however, the most fascinating; no, because that was reserved for this gem:
Underwear buying peaks among males at 23, when they will buy up to 31 pairs annually.
Yes, underwear buyi- wait a minute! Exsqueeze me - what was that!?
Underwear buying peaks among males at 23, when they will buy up to 31 pairs annually.
Thirty-one pairs a year? THIRTY-ONE PAIRS OF PANTS. PER. YEAR?! Believe me, when I first read that fact my eyes popped out on stalks in total amazement like I was Tom tied to a train track watching Jerry pilot a fast-moving locomotive towards me. Thirty-one! Geez. Let's do something I rarely, if ever, do here (or indeed anywhere else if I can help it): some maths.
There are 52 weeks in a year. If I purchased 31 pairs of pants per year, that would equate to one pair just over every one and half weeks. Really? I'm sure I had better things to be doing when I was 23 than perusing the underwear department of the local fashion emporium for the latest pair of Calvin Kleins with a popping neon waistband. Shouldn't they all be out getting hammered and shagging girls?
Not only that, but think of the cost! I'm guessing CKs are the ones most chaps go for (I shan't be conducting a random pant appraisal in the middle of Westfield, funnily enough), and they don't come cheap. OK, let's say they're 15 quid a pop. That's … *furiously counts on fingers and toes* … £465 a year!
(Geez, maths twice in one post. I might need to go lie down in a minute)
Four hundred and sixty five pounds a year. On pants! Outrageous! Shouldn't they be paying of their student debts?! Or, I dunno, saving for their future? It's all very well having some nice supportive boxer briefs when you're 23, but what happens in years to come? The gusset will go and you'll be old, penniless, and with your balls by your ankles before you know it, that's what. You'd have to dispatch your wife to buy you some new ones from Matalan, providing you successfully ensnared one in your youth.
So, 31 pairs a year at a cost of just under £500. I think I've bought four pairs in the last year, and that's only because some of my others outlived their usefulness and went a bit saggy. I would've bid farewell to them with a Viking-style funeral if I hadn't had a nagging feeling that they might explode when I tried to light them. Can't say I didn't get my moneys worth out of them though; forwards, backwards, turn inside out and repeat.
That's over half a week's wear right there. Kids today have got more money than sense, clearly.
This last week has been a rather busy one with a somewhat unexpected turn just past the halfway point. Sufficiently intrigued? Let me walk you through it.
As usually happens around this time of year, I had a week off work which just so happened to coincide with my - shhhhh! - birthday. Handy, eh? That being the case, I had a very chilled out Saturday after finishing work on the Friday. Sunday was another matter, though, as I planned an early yoga class followed by my traditional week-off house cleaning frenzy.
Unfortunately, these darker mornings apparently aren't too conducive to getting up on a Sunday morning just after seven, and so I actually found myself waking up around 11 am feeling like a naughty school boy. Still, I did get up and clean Sparky Towers from top to bottom, including - eeeeeeww - cleaning out the plughole in the bath. As the day progressed, however, I felt myself feeling increasingly guilty at not having gone to yoga, resulting in me doing something totally unexpected and spontaneous and going to the day's final class at five pm.
What with all the cleaning and the guilt-yoga I was well knacked come the evening.
Monday's sole objective was a haircut, which I was almost late for thanks to some stupid roadworks just outside Kingston. Fortunately, my regular lady wasn't too busy and actually laughed at me as I ran into the shop huffing and puffing after running all the way from the car park looking, I imagine, for all the world like I'd shoplifted something from HMV and was hot-footing it from a portly security guard who was in lukewarm pursuit.
The haircut, needless to say, was awesome; I've gone for something a little bit different this time around, and have abandoned my regular short and spiky look for something that looks a smidgeon like Brad Pitt's 'do in Inglorious Basterds, just without the severe side-parting. I'm guessing this will be a bit more high maintenance than my usual cut, and I'll probably be moaning about it in about three weeks, but for now I'm well happy.
Tuesday was, of course, my birthday (thank you for all the lovely birthday messages, by the way). Rather than lounge around in my pants watching Trisha and This Morning, though, I decided to do something I wouldn't normally even think about doing on my birthday: I went to yoga. The reasons for this were actually three-fold: reason the first was the aforementioned 'do something different on your birthday' idea; reason the second was that the class is understandably a bit emptier if you go during the day when everyone else is at work; and reason the third is that one of my favourite teachers teaches on Tuesday mornings.
So, I got up early, jumped in Clubbie with plenty of time to spare and … promptly got stuck in a massive traffic jam. At several points along the way I seriously thought about turning round and going home as I didn't think there was any way I'd make it to the studio on time, but I persevered because quite frankly I couldn't think of a good way of filling the time having got up so early. Anyway, I parked up with about 15 minutes to spare and legged it to the studio, arriving with eight minutes left before class started and looking for all the world like I'd shoplifted something fro- oh, you get the idea.
In the few minutes before class started I somehow managed to get my regular spot in one of the slightly cooler parts of the room, and was pleasantly surprised when the teacher came over and told me that my class was free because I was attending on my birthday. BONUS. I then quizzed her on how she knew it was my birthday, basically accusing her of having psychic powers before she said I'd given them my date of birth when I first signed up and they kept it on record. Ah … of course…
Anyway, class began and the teacher, bless her, singled me out and told everyone that it was my birthday. I think she might've done this to show everyone how dedicated I was to my yoga training, because she then said "so Tim, why have you come to class on your birthday?"
I shrugged my shoulders and replied "because I've got a week off."
She looked at me a bit sternly and said "I'll ask again: why have you come to class on your birthday?"
I don't know whether she was expecting some sort of profound existentialist statement from me, but what she ultimately got was "because I've got nothing better to do."
This seemed to please her, and after the entire class turned to wish me happy birthday (there was MUCH LOVE in the studio, let me tell you; I was *well* touched), we began with our Pranayama breathing. The birthday comments continued throughout class, mainly when I was flagging a bit and the teacher shouted over to me to put a bit more effort in, referring to me as 'birthday boy' rather than by name.
The rest of the day was spent over with my family where I was given lots of lovely presents, but only after I successfully managed to get out of my road after a big truck parked across the top, thus preventing anyone from getting in or out. Rude.
At precisely 19:46 that evening, however, I noticed a little tickle in my throat. It couldn't be … could it?
Wednesday was scheduled in as my usual Christmas shopping trip with Sparky Ma, and yes, it could: I woke up with a sore throat. Nothing - and I mean NOTHING - stops our shopping expeditions, though, and I powered through under the influence of lots of coffee and a big Nandos for lunch.
Didn't buy any Christmas presents, though.
Thursday pretty much sucked. I felt so ridiculously rough that I sat at home and watched a full two-thirds of the latest Family Guy boxset. I didn't move in about seven hours.
I awoke on Friday feeling pretty much equally crap, and seriously considered a last-minute cancellation of my birthday party that was scheduled for that evening. I didn't, though, and actually felt a hell of a lot better being in the company of my pals. I'm not quite sure if the excruciatingly painful nipple twisting inflicted upon me by El Deano helped in any way, but I've sure felt better since the evening as a whole, and a wonderful time was had (by me at least).
Since then, it's all been pretty chilled out; I'm still a bit snotty and phlegm-y, but I think I'm over the worst of it. Sadly, it has meant no yoga this weekend, but on the other hand I did watch the entire second season of Flight of the Conchords. I also went food shopping in a branch of M&S Simply Food (tres posh), and in addition to buying two of their coffee sponge rolls (*orgasmic*) I thought I'd give their new alcohol-free soft drinks for grown-ups a whirl.
If anyone else was considering this, might I suggest you don't? It tastes like booze (which to a tee-totaller like me is pretty gross), but you don't get the awesomeness of being tipsy - where the hell is the fun in that!? I'm going to be so angry if I wake up tomorrow with a hangover!
Mention the C-word to me at the moment - and by that I mean Chr***mas; get your mind out of the gutter - and there's a good chance that I might take you down with a roundhouse kick. As far as I'm concerned, it's way to early to be dealing with Chr***mas stuff at the moment; I mean, I haven't even had my birthday yet (hint, hint).
As far as I'm concerned, Chr***mas - and that includes all decorations, advertising, and general frou-frou - should be outlawed until December 1st.
Still, as with most things, there is an exception to the rule. And in this instance it's a caffeine-based exception to the rule.
Towards the end of October I was informed by the manager of Secret Starbucks that head office had decreed that Chr***mas would begin in every branch of Starbucks on November 4th. That meant decorations, Chr***mas music, and the traditional Chr***mas beverages. I can, however, forgive them for the former solely for the arrival of the latter. It should also be noted that as he told me this he rolled his eyes and said that he was considering telling them that the CD of Christmas songs had gotten lost in the recent postal strikes that have plagued the UK; in fact, his general demeanour was like that of Michel from Gilmore Girls, which I highly approve of.
At any rate, my normal fury at the mere mention of any impending festivities was placated by him handing me a bunch of vouchers for free Chr***mas drinks: BONUS.
So, on Wednesday November 4th I strutted down to Secret Starbucks (I actually did - it's all a result of me following the instructions of my yoga teacher and being conscious of my posture at all times, although the music I was listening to probably helped too; my iTunes recently listened to list informs me it was the Rolling Stones), and ordered a venti gingerbread latte.
For none-Starbucks aficionados, 'venti' means an effing big one.
(And is it bad that I originally, subconsciously wrote 'addicts' instead of 'aficionados'?)
Then I settled back in a comfy chair and watched an episode of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia on my iPhone (Mac and Dennis: Manhunters - thanks again, iTunes recently played list!). GOOD TIMES.
They actually gave me a spoon to eat the cream.
But it didn't end there! In the evening I strolled down to Westfield where, after buying a piece of soap and being given the most ridiculously immense bag in which to carry it, I treated myself to a dark cherry mocha.
Knowing how sweet the dark cherry mocha can be, I wisely went for a tall (i.e. small) so as not to overpower myself and fall over.
All in all, then, while I am incensed that Chr***mas is kicking off so early, I'm pretty happy about the holiday beverages coming back. And I'm sure I'll be getting better acquainted with them this coming week as I'm off work - ready to start my Chr***mas shopping…
When I'm struggling for inspiration at work I do what many other office workers do and doodle. But I'm very particular about what what I doodle with, and what I doodle on. I have to use a specific black felt-tip pen, and I have to have a post-it note to draw on. And by post-it note I mean the regular yellow, square post-it notes - proper post-it notes, I mean, not some cheap knock-off.
Over the years I've come to regard the post-it note as the perfect canvas for quick illustrations. It's perfectly sized for a quick BAM-BAM sketch that takes no more than a minute or two to bash out. And usually when I've finished a doodle I'll roll the post-it note into a long thin tube, crush it, and chuck it in the bin.
(Though I did once keep hold of a load of these tubes, and over the course of several months attached about 20 of them together to form a long, thin stick with the intention of using it to poke other members of staff without having to leave the comfort of my chair. Sadly the uber stick was somewhat lacking in structural integrity and collapsed under the weight of its own greatness during the course of the inaugural prodding)
Anyway, over the last couple of weeks I've found myself unable - or rather unwilling - to bin some of the doodles I've created, and not really knowing what else to do with them I thought I'd share them here with you.
So here you are.
Fun with post-it notes begins with a pretty obvious Dingbat that I directed towards a colleague in jest.
A really quite crappy sketch of the Enterprise. Notice the blue deflector dish; I generally don't use colour in my doodles, but I thought this lifted it a smidgeon.
Odo from Deep Space Nine. I'm rather proud of this one - I like the way he's offset to the right of frame, and he's got a particularly melancholy look on his face that I find strangely appropriate. Obviously the whole Star Trek theme is something of an occupational hazard.
The Joker. I didn't actually intend to draw the Joker, but I started with a particularly demonic pair of eyes enshrouded in shadow, which kind of lent themselves to him. Again, I used a little bit of colour for effect.
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An aside:
I'm really hoping it starts dropping down cold soon because I rather fancy the idea of wrapping myself up in an old vintage muff.
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Actually, I've always rather liked the idea of organising an exhibition where you just get loads of people to draw whatever the hell they want on a normal post-it note then show them in a gallery. I'm sure it's been done, but I'm strangely drawn to the idea of several walls just lined with hundreds and hundreds of unique post-it illustrations. And really, who doesn't have the time to scrawl something on a small yellow square?
Oh, but wait! That's not all they're good for - why this very afternoon I also fashioned one into a tiny hockey stick.
Actually, this is a reasonably poor facsimile of the original which proved necessary after an ill-timed combination of iPhoto crashing moments after I'd clicked the 'delete originals' option, wiping about five photos I'd taken today. Take my word for it when I say the original was *awesome*.
And just the other week I seized the opportunity to go again - good times!
So, the reasoning here, like I EVER need a reason to go to IKEA, was that I wanted a new LACK table. No, before you even think about suggesting it, I have not worn the little red LACK out through too much LACK love - although now they've knocked it down to a bargain £4.99, I was sorely tempted to get a couple more (a bit like Pokemon, maybe I 'gotta have 'em all'); instead, I wanted one of the classy new wood effect ones for my bedroom.
Since I started living at Sparky Towers y'see (actually four years ago last week since I bought the place!) I've been using a comics long box as a bedside table. I left my books on it. I left my alarm clock on it. I left my iPhone on it, and it was one horrifically early morning when I failed to reach over to turn my iPhone alarm off and it vibrated across the box and onto the (fortunately carpeted) floor that I decided I really should invest in a proper bedside table.
And so IKEA called to me, and I called to Best Mate Jo to accompany me.
To be honest, I totally picked the wrong night to go because it was Divali and Wembley was jam-packed with people celebrating. It took ages to get to IKEA, and then when we got there we were dismayed to find that loads of people were parking in the car park then wandering off to celebrate somewhere. Eventually we got a space, though, and the IKEA-fest could begin.
The first thing I saw was a limited edition bookshelf that looked like it had been graffiti'd with quotes from Shakespeare.
It was only 39 quid, and I desperately wanted one. Unfortunately, I couldn't for the life of me think of anywhere in Sparky Towers where I could actually put it, so just looked at it longingly, before Jo managed to tear me away.
Next, I got a little bit obsessed with a plush shark from IKEA's range of terrifying children's toys, but Jo made me put that back as well.
Elsewhere, it looked like IKEA was branching out into publishing with a book that, without actually taking a look inside, I can only guess is a guide to auto-erotic asphyxiation.
Antique-stained Bumerangs? ACK! TOO. MANY. JOKES.
I really liked this light, but again I didn't have a clue where I might actually put it. There was something slightly hypnotic about it, and I'm pretty sure I stood there staring at it for about 10 minutes before Jo managed to tempt me away with the promise of some terrifying plush shark action. It looked like a visual effect from Star Trek (the light, not the shark).
All in all, then, it was a pretty good expedition. I got my new LACK, which is great even if the wood-effect ones are still priced at £7.99 (outrageous), as well as three tiny cacti which have replaced the ones that I killed died in my little Mexican-themed earthenware pots.
Purchase of the night, though, has to have been Fred, a large houseplant I decided to buy. I don't know why I ended up calling it Fred, but the name has stuck, so Fred it is.
Although in hindsight, it does look quite a lot like Sideshow Bob from The Simpsons. Anyone care for a wager as to how long it'll take Fred to drop dead under my care?
I've noticed two things recently. One is that there appears to be an inordinately high number of short people around at the moment, and the other is that I think I'm developing some sort of variation of Tourette's Syndrome where I feel compelled to tell people the truth. At lunchtime today these two things collided in what could've been a very nasty incident.
Because I saw a short woman smoking and I had an overwhelming desire to tell her that it would stunt her growth.
Fortunately I managed to bite my tongue at the last second, because not only would it have been a smidgeon rude, but also because short people fight dirty. I mean really dirty. They go for the groin, mostly, because it's about the right height and generally the most vulnerable area. Anyway, I digress, because this little almost-incident reminded me of something that happened last week when I genuinely did put my foot in it.
As per my usual lunchtime routine, early last week I popped down to Secret Starbucks for a coffee. Because I know the baristas in there by name I usually stand around at the end of the bar chatting to them for a few minutes before going and grabbing a seat. And it was while I was here waiting for my grande misto and generally engaging in some inane banter, that an old lady walked up to collect her drink. I believe it was a tall caramel macchiato, and she looked a bit like Dame Maggie Smith if that helps you build an accurate mental image.
So, anyway the barista pops her drink on the counter and she wraps both hands around it, smiles with the expectation of that first sip, and lifts it to her lips. She takes a short drink from it, closes her eyes, and lets out a deep "aaaaah" and – well, you know how sometimes you MEAN to say one thing, but a visual stimulus kind of unconsciously MAKES you say something completely different? Well, I MEANT to say "you *sound* like you need that," but it was as I looked at her that I noticed she had a mad wonky-eye and I … well, I actually said:
"You *look* like you need that."
In kind of an alarmed tone.
She looked at me. Well, I think she looked at. It's conceivable that she was looking at me and the menu board that was positioned at a 90 degree angle to her, but the gist of it is that she knew I'd made something of a faux pas. She didn't say anything, though, and just went and took a seat - the comfy seat by the door, I should add; the one I'd wanted. I bet she did it in revenge. Bitch.
Anyway, I blame Yazzle Dazzle for all this because she's not been lunching with me recently, and as pathetic as it sounds, she's the nearest thing I've got to a moral compass - mainly because she jumps in and talks over me whenever it looks like I'm about to say something inappropriate (which, to be honest, happens with alarming regularity these days). That being the case, I went and grabbed a table by the window and hurriedly tapped out a text to her explaining what I'd done. She replied instantly and told me I was a rude doofus, which I guess I pretty much asked for. While I pondered a reply I looked over to the comfy seats only to see Dame Maggie glaring back at me.
Well, I think she was glaring at me - quite frankly she could've been staring at the muffin display behind her.
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So *ahem* apologies for the fact I've been a bit distant recently. It's not you, honest; it's me. Really. I've had some … stuff going on. I'd love to quote my new hero Bronson Pinchot and say I've been off f**king "until the skin came off my dick" (I kid you not, check out the brutally frank interview HERE where he also massively slags off Tom Cruise - bless you, Balki!), but the truth of the matter is that I've been working.
And not work working. I've been doing some stuff outside of work - proofreading a book, to be specific. It's not really my place - well, actually it's not my place at all - to tell you who the author is or what it's about, but I thoroughly enjoyed contributing to it in some small way and I can't wait to see the end product. All will be revealed in due course, and when it's available I'll no doubt be screaming it from the rooftops, even if it's not my book.
Apparently my horrific foot was putting her off visiting my blog, so she requested a kitten to replace it.
This is Blister Kitty. Blister Kitty says hello.
Sorry for the lack of updates recently - in true IDV-stylee I'm going to lay the blame squarely at the feet of life, which has somewhat disturbingly gotten in the way of things a bit recently - in a good way, I should add (fortunately no retina-searingly horrific hot-tub nudity, though).
With a bit of luck I'll have some time over the weekend to let you all know about my recent shenanigans.
So what's the betting that title made you think of THIS?
*Ahem*
When I go to yoga during the week I always try to get there really early, because unlike the weekends where you pick up a mat and plonk it down anywhere that takes your fancy, at peak times the staff put the mats down in advance and it's a first-come, first-served sort of thing. Basically that means if you get there a little bit late you get stuck under the heating vent where you're left to recreate the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark with you in the role of the melting Nazi.
I don't know who the surfer dude is here, but you can't deny he doesn't add a certain something to proceedings.
Anyway, so I get to yoga nice and early tonight, and I get a good spot so as to avoid a repeat of Saturday's pins and needles IN THE FACE debacle. Usually I lay there with my eyes shut while I wait for class to begin, but for some reason today I thought I might nod off, so I decided I'd look at the ceiling for a while.
The ceiling, it must be said, is exceedingly dull. But something nevertheless caught my eye. Just above me and a little to the left was a moth. A freakin' huge moth. Seriously, I've seen birds that are smaller (I mean of the winged variety, not diminutive ladies); this thing could've given a sparrow some serious grief.
So I watch this thing for a while, hoping that for some reason it's not going to take a fancy to me and land on my face or something because I genuinely would've screamed and run around shouting "GET IT OFF, GET IT OFF!!", but it's pretty static and doesn't appear to be in the mood to do anything exciting, so I start looking around to see if I can find something else of interest because I've been a bit listless recently and seem to have developed the attention span of a labrador puppy. In the meantime, though, someone comes in the studio and cranks the heating up to full blast (we're nudging the start of class by this time). This gets the moth all jittery, and it starts walking around and flexing it's wings like it's looking for a fight.
Then, just as the instructor is reaching up to pull a small window shut, it makes its move.
Have you ever heard the noise a VW Beetle engine makes when it starts up (an original one, not the new one)? Well this is exactly the noise this moth's wings made as it leapt off the wall and headed straight for the window. I'm not entirely sure, but think it made it; certainly if it hadn't it could've just body-slammed the window, shattered the glass and got out that way.
What really made me giggle like a special, though, was that as it zoomed past my head, I thought it would be really cool if the extreme heat made the moth burst into flames or something. It would've been like the destruction of the Enterprise at the end of Star Trek III - y'know, when Kirk and the crew are standing on the mountaintop watching the burning hulk of their ship plunge through the atmosphere.
It would've been epic. I totally would've stood up and saluted that little fiery bastard in front of the entire class.
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