Suits you

So, in a stunningly spontaneous turn of events last week, I bought a suit.

Now, I don't actually need a suit - everyone at work starts gossiping conspiratorially when I turn up in a shirt instead of a t-shirt with a smutty picture on it; they'd probably explode if I rocked up in a suit – but a weird thing happened while I was browsing around Topman and 10 minutes later I'd bought a classy suit.

Please excuse the MySpace-esque self portrait. And yes: OMG, the labels are still on…

I didn't mean to - honest. I'm going to blame dear old Skip; a few weeks earlier I'd gone shopping with him to help him buy a fancy new coat (I'd watched a few episodes of How To Look Good Naked and felt like channeling my inner Gok Wan), and while in Topman this suit jacket caught my eye and he made me try it on. After a minute or so posing Grattan Catalogue-stylee in the mirror, I shrugged it off, muttered something like "we're shopping for you, not me" and hung it back on the rail. I didn't want or need to spend money on it, and they didn't have my size anyway (story of my life).

And then I went back last week and it caught my eye again, and they had my size in both the jacket and the trousers and I thought 'oh, I'll just try it on' and … well, I'm weak, OK?

Anyway, I don't know what it is about buying a suit that brings out the chatty Kathy in the till monkeys - maybe they've been told to be super-nice to suit buyers because they are clearly PEOPLE OF GOOD TASTE WITH LOTS OF MONEY (wrong on both counts in my case) - but the guy on the till was talking away to me like we were best buds, in contrast to the previous week when I'd bought a shirt and he barely said two words to me. On the plus side, at least it wasn't like the last time I bought a suit, when the jaunty lady at the till asked me why I was buying it and I replied "because I'm going to a funeral," which led to something of an awkward silence, and certainly put a downer on her attempt to coerce me into getting a Debenhams store card.

So there we are chatting away, him asking if there's any particular reason I'm buying a suit and me shrugging my shoulders and replying "um, no … I don't actually know why I'm buying it, I think it's just because I like it" or something similarly inane, and then he says "oh, it should come with a suit bag, but we don't have any suit bags." And I'm like "what?" Turns out that Topman should give you a free suit bag with every suit (because you're a classy and valued shopper, obviously), but they'd run out. So, bless him, he scrawled on my receipt that I hadn't got one and told me to pop back a few days later and they'd just give me one (a suit bag, you filthy-minded heathen).

At the time of writing I've popped back and they still don't have any. I'm beginning to think they're mythical, like unicorns and Paris Hilton's dignity.

Anyway, although I haven't worn the suit properly, I'm very much looking forward to giving it an airing at the first available opportunity. I'm thinking Christmas Day, because I do like to make an effort for the fat man and baby Jeebus, and to be honest it's more of a casual dressy suit rather than a funeral/interview jobby, which quite frankly is a roundabout way of saying that Sparky Pa will probably take one look at it, frown, and say something like "well, it's not what I would've bought…"

To top it off, I was chatting to Best Mate Jo the other day, and I told her I'd bought it. She was well excited at this incredible sartorial development (obviously she can tell I'm just a rough diamond waiting to be polished), and was even more excited when I showed her the above picture, although she did ask if it was made of leather (it's not - it has a slight sheen to it and that picture is rubbish; professional Topman image HERE, though obviously it looks better on me). She then confessed that she'd bought a posh frock recently, and we immediately decided that we should debut our glamourous new selves during a night on the town at some unspecified future date.

Unfortunately, the first restaurant to spring forth from both our minds was, terrifyingly, KFC. We are nothing if not class personified.

I hate you so much right now

I haven't written a particularly ranty post in a while, and I know we all like a good moan, so in an attempt to let off some steam please allow me to share with you the stories of four people that have massively pissed me off within the space of 24 hours recently.

Number 1: The Scrabble wench

As you might know, I do love a good game of Scrabble on Facebook. Well, I say 'good,' but my winning percentage of just 25% suggests I'm not particularly good per se. Moving swiftly on… So anyway, as a few of my regular players (I am resisting saying "word up, playa" in a high-pitched voice here) were taking their sweet time taking their turns, I thought I'd throw it down and take my chances with a random. I started a game, and was soon joined by a lady called … let's call her Clare. Because her name was Clare. So there we are, playing away quite merrily and, I'm pleased to report, I was beating her quite comfortably. All was well.

Until she, evidently being something of a bad loser and with nothing better to do than sit poised at her computer for 10 hours waiting for the clock to tick down, FORCE FORFEITED ME.

Don't believe me? Here's the game board.

All together now: WENCH.

Infuriated, I started another game with her just so I could leave an irate message berating her and her pitiful Scrabble skills. Needless to say, she did not rise to the challenge.

Number 2: Car bitch

Despite there being a tube strike in London yesterday, I breezed into work miraculously easily. Until I got to a roundabout a few minutes away from the office, where a woman in a silver VW Golf - with THREE CHILDREN in the car - zoomed straight out in front of me when it was my right of way, forcing me to slam my brakes on. I, of course, applied my hand to the centre of the steering wheel for a prolonged bit of horn action, but sadly, and somewhat annoyingly, I got no reaction whatsoever. Nothing. Nadda. Nischman.

Still, As I shifted into first gear and resumed my journey, I couldn't help but think that the bitch looked just like a live-action version of Fenella the Kettle Witch from Chorlton and the Wheelies.

Imagine this, slightly less green and sans fez, behind the wheel of a silver VW Golf and you get the general idea.

Number 3: Cock in an Audi

Just a few minutes after my encounter with a speeding Fenella I had another, potentially more life-threatening altercation with another motorist. I was driving down the road on which my office is located when, what should come shooting out of a side-road with scant disregard for the give-way line, and with the driver TOTALLY LOOKING THE OTHER WAY? An Audi A8.

Quick, all drivers with no understanding of the rules of the road - to the cock-mobile!

And as if an Audi driver wasn't enough of a cock to begin with, this one had decided to give his car a matte finish, which took him right up to a whole new level of cock-ish behaviour. I got to see this crappy matte finish quite close up as he eventually stopped about a foot away from my driver's door. At which point I opened my mouth and divulged a choice few colourful metaphors at a somewhat increased volume.

His reaction to this? An apology, you think? Of course not - this is an Audi driver we're talking about here. He extended his hand and gave me the 'V' sign, as if him nearly driving into my car was my fault, obviously.

Cock-o-meter readings are pretty much off the scale, captain.

On the plus side, I know where the guy lives, and if this cold snap we're having at the moment actually does follow through and dump a load of snow on London, I'm going to write 'COCK' on his windscreen in lovely big letters.

Number 4: Shabby cabby

First off, I apologise for that heading. It makes NO SENSE whatsoever, but I do like the fact that it rhymes *claps like a speshul*. Anyway, so shortly after leaving work yesterday evening I'm driving through Chiswick when I get caught at a particularly busy pedestrian crossing. I think I let about eight people across in total - and they weren't all in one group or holding hands like school children, so I actually ended up sitting there for the best part of a minute. Just as the last person is halfway across, though, the cab driver who had, moments earlier, been driving a bit close behind me, bips me. Yes, you read that right - he BIPS ME to encourage me to drive on!

Can you imagine that in court?

"So, just what motivated you to mow down the plaintiff on the evening in question?"

"Well the cabby behind me bipped so I thought it would be alright."

There wasn't really much I could do in retaliation, though, because it was dark so he wouldn't have been able to make out any irate gesticulations on my part, so I ended up just waiting for the lady to finish crossing and drove off.

So there are my tales of woe. I feel a bit better for getting all that off my chest; it was quite therapeutic. Feel free to sound off in the comments if you've also wanted to thump someone recently.

Ingrid

While enjoying my first cuppa of the day and surfing the interwebs before heading off to work this morning I came across a story on the BBC website that turned my mood from surprisingly chipper for a chilly Wednesday to deeply saddened - because I discovered that Ingrid Pitt, star of many classic Hammer Horror films, had died.

And the reason it saddened me? Because I have an Ingrid Pitt story that is one of my fondest memories.

My first job out of school was as a - as we liked to call ourselves - graphics monkey at Visual Imagination, the late lamented publisher of such science-fiction magazines as Starburst and TV Zone. I'd been working there just short of a year when, in November 1997, the news spread around the office that someone famous was going to be stopping by. That celebrity was Ingrid Pitt, and I can state the exact date with certainty because it was my birthday.

To be honest, I wasn't actually terribly familiar with Ingrid's work, having only seen a few Hammer Horror films in my time, and although I knew her name chances are she could've walked past me in the street and I wouldn't have recognised her. Still, a FAMOUS PERSON was coming to the office.

Ingrid was stopping by to meet with David, the editor of Shivers, another of VI's magazines and one that was devoted, as you might guess by the title, exclusively to horror. And because the graphics department was hidden away on the ground floor and all the editorial staff were upstairs, we would be the last to meet her. I remember distinctly getting a phone call from one of the other members of staff soon after she arrived saying something like "she's here!" so obviously I wasn't the only one who was a bit excited at the prospect.

So anyway, eventually we hear footsteps coming down the stairs, the door opens, and David ushers in this lovely, dare I say buxom lady with a warm smile on her face. Despite being somewhere around the age of 60 at the time she was still beautiful, and incredibly unassuming. I was immediately won over.

David introduced her to all of us in turn, with me being the third person to meet her. I watched out of the corner of my eyes with anticipation and mounting nerves as she said hello to my two colleagues closest to the door, and then before I knew it she was standing by my desk.

"This is Tim," said David. "It's his birthday today."

I mumbled "hello."

Ingrid looked at me and her already wonderful smile exploded. She held both hands out towards me and said in her softly accented voice "Oh, darling! You are so young - come to me!"

And like countless victims of her seductive vampiric Hammer Horror characters, I rose from my chair and stepped closer. From the way she held her hands out I expected something like the sort of birthday greeting you'd get from an aunt - y'know, a quick kiss on the cheek and a bit of a hug.

What I did not expect was for her to place one hand on either side of my head and quickly pull me down face-first into her delightfully ample bosom.

And then proceed to hold me there for the best part of a minute.

At one point I actually thought I might suffocate while wedged between the lovely boobs of this wonderful actress, but then I realised if I was going to go that would probably be the most magnificent end to my then 20 years on the planet, so I decided not to struggle and just give in to my fate.

Eventually, however, Ingrid released me, and I emerged smiling, red-faced, and a smidgeon embarrassed while all my colleagues - and Ingrid herself - erupted in laughter.

Ingrid had come to the office that day to discuss writing a monthly column for Shivers, which eventually resulted in the brilliantly entitled The Pitt of Horror, and while I never had the privilege of meeting her again after that day I often asked David how she was, to which he would often reply "oh, typical Ingrid!" before relating some witty story about her. And somehow, rather fortuitously for me, I always ended up working on the pictures for The Pitt of Horror which meant that I got to read - and always thoroughly enjoy - her column before everyone else.

So here's to Ingrid Pitt - a wonderful, larger than life lady who entertained millions of horror fans around the world, and gave a 20 year-old chap one of his most treasured and amusing memories.

*doffs cap*

The bitch and the bell

I popped to Westfield last night for a spot of post-work shopping, ostensibly of the Christmas variety, but we all know I always have a hidden agenda geared towards treating myself to anything that takes my fancy so expectations for finding any presents for anyone but me were running spectacularly low. Surprisingly, however, I did actually find a something in one particular shop that I thought a certain person would like, so I decided to buy it. And this, in turn, led to a bit of an awkward situation.

Now, you know I have no qualms about naming and shaming any shops that I think disrec' me, but in this instance I'm going to have to keep schtum, if only because the certain person in question does have a habit of coming here as a result of Googling his beloved offspring - which quite frankly sounds like the sort of alarming statement that would usually have the authorities leaping into action.

So anyway, with item in hand I walked up to the counter, where there are a number of tills arranged side by side, each of which had a shiny bell in front of it that you could tap to call for service if all the staff were outside having a cheeky fag or boffing in the stockroom. In this instance, though, there was a member of staff at the till.

"Ooo, shiny bell!" I said (no, really, I actually did) as I walked towards her. "Can I ring it?"

She gave me a look of absolute disdain.

"No you cannot," she replied.

I chuckled, assuming she was being faux serious, and raised my hand to give it a jaunty tap. The assistant looked at me again, reached forward, and pulled the bell away.

"I said no."

I totally did the sad face bottom lip quiver to no avail, and completed my transaction without contributing any of my traditional flirtatious banter (her loss). Never one to give up without a fight, though, as she handed me my bag, I reached out once again to tap the bell.

"NO!" she said, yanking the shiny thing away from me. I glared at her, and walked out.

But mark my words: at some point I'll be back, and using all my ninja training I'll get to that counter and ring that bloody bell if it goddamn kills me (or security cart me out like a common criminal in a painful armlock).

I like a challenge.

One reason why I would make a rubbish 19th century housemaid

There was a point this afternoon, a half hour period - somewhere between 14:15 and 14:45-ish, I'd guess - where everything went to hell in a handbag at Sparky Towers. Ironically immediately after a phone conversation with Sparky Ma where she told me she was having a terrible day and I replied by saying mine was going brilliantly. That'll be karma then.

You see, I own two pairs of jeans that came with instructions not to wash them for the first six months, and instead to bung them in the freezer for a couple of days. I was slightly dubious of this at first, but amazingly they come out smelling fresh and looking brand new. And as something of a bonus, I soon discovered that during the summer months there was nothing more pleasant than covering one's gentlemanly assets with trousers fresh from the arctic wastes of the poultry drawer.

Anyway, the freezer thing worked so well that I decided to keep doing it after the six month period was up - with one caveat: they would be washed if I dropped something on them. Lo and behold, while giddy on gingerbread latte last week I managed to drop milk froth on my leg. I can't remember why I decided the other pair needed a wash as well, but I guess I just decided to go all in.

Let me segue off on a tangent for a second here. A few months back I bought a top that came with the washing instructions 'handwash only.' In hindsight, you'd think I'd just bung it in the freezer, but no, I did as I was told and handwashed it in cold water before hanging it on the shower curtain rail to dry. It went marvellously.

Emboldened by my newfound washer-woman skills, for some reason today I decided I would handwash these two pairs of jeans, despite the fact I was putting the washing machine on anyway. This actually went quite well - until I made my fatal mistake. I decided to hang two sodden pairs of jeans on the shower curtain rail, just as I'd done with that top a few months ago.

And as Yazzle Dazzle later pointed out to me via a sarcasm-laced email:

top: light. Jeans: not. Nuff said!

I might've called her a bitch in my reply.

Another tangent: when I decorated my bathroom a few years ago I couldn't for the life of me get the shower curtain rail down, so I had to paint around where it connected to the wall. Experience now tells me that I should've weighted it down with two wet pairs of jeans, because let me tell you, that thing was ripped CLEAN OFF.

So there I am, moments after the curtain rail has bounced impressively off my head (lucky there's nothing to damage in there), leaving the curtain itself draped over me like the brightly-coloured cape of an inept superhero, with two pairs of jeans and a broken hanger in the bath, swearing like ranty old Mel Gibson despite the fact that no one is around to hear my admittedly creative and excessively colourful metaphors.

It took me about 15 minutes to work out how to hang the shower curtain rail back up again (yes, I'm simple, move on), at which point I thought "I wonder if it would stay up if I hung one pair of jeans at each end…?

The answer, dear reader, is an emphatic NO.

After hanging the shower curtain rail up for a second time, I decided to hang the jeans on either side of the bathroom door. This worked. Unfortunately, they were dripping quite a lot of slightly dye-y water. I'll put some newspaper underneath, I thought! But wait - I don't buy newspapers. I read that sort of tosh on my iPad, and I certainly wasn't going to pop that under them.

And so, of course, I unfurled a leftover roll of birthday wrapping paper and popped that beneath them. That works, I reassured myself, and would also be a super nice surprise in the morning when it actually is my birthday. It'd be like the floor was wishing me a happy birthday.

Then I jumped on a train and headed up down for a bite to eat with Lee who, after I'd related this tale of woe to him, looked at me like I was an utter special. Thus, to cut a long story slightly shorter, as soon as I got home I tutted, rolled my eyes, and bunged both pairs in the washing machine, which quite frankly is exactly what anyone with the merest sliver of sense would've done in the first place.

Let's chalk it up to my imminently advancing years and never speak of it again, yes?

'Tis the season

Now, I *hate* the early arrival of Christmas. The sight of a Christmas tree in a shop in October or November makes my blood boil. You don't know how often I've had to suppress the urge to pick it up and beat it against something like Basil Fawlty. The one aspect of early Christmas that I do enjoy, though, is the arrival of Starbucks' festive beverages - specifically gingerbread lattes.

During one of my daily visits to Secret Starbucks last week I was given a sneak preview of this year's red cup (nice) and promised that I could have a gingerbread latte one day ahead of all the regular civilians that frequent the store. This gave me a happy, which I openly displayed with some special clapping and excited jumping. Sadly, however, upon swinging by on the day of promised advance gingerbread latte, the member of staff who'd made the offer was nowhere to be seen and no one else would honour her promise, so I had to make do with a misto and a massive sulk.

But then, yesterday: UNMITIGATED JOY.

Basically I got into work ridiculously early in a surprisingly successful attempt to miss the maddening traffic that would undoubtedly ensue as a result of a tube strike, so I was in Hammersmith just before eight. The thought of actually starting work that early was utterly terrifying, so instead of going to the office I carried straight on down to Hammersmith high street and into a Starbucks.

"Can I have a gingerbread latte," I asked the lovely barista.

"No," she said, before smiling and saying "ha ha, of course you can."

I was *this* close to saying something along the lines of "bitch, please; you do not joke about that sort of thing," but I behaved myself and just chuckled along with her.

Anyway, because it was the first day of festive beverages, I decided to treat myself and go venti, and so, two minutes later I'm confronted with a towering vat of fresh coffee, sickeningly overpowering gingerbread syrup, and whipped cream. I almost needed to sit down to let my visible arousal subside gather myself, but instead, and much to the horror of the other customers, I jauntily wished the barista a Merry Christmas and skipped out the door.

Cutting to the chase, it was awesomely amazing. And I love this year's cup design (although maybe not so much when Yazzle Dazzle reads the words on it out to me in a patronising fashion that makes me look like a complete and utter speshul).

I am slightly curious as to why Starbucks chose to put Joey's massive porcelain dog from Friends on the new red cup, though.

Any-hoo, so one thing I'd not banked on was the slightly odd effect my first syrup-fuelled latte in 12 months would have on me. Basically I had a bit of a funny turn, put the cardboard sleeve that goes around the cup on my wrist…

…and started strutting around the office, crossing my arms and shouting "WONDER WOMAAAAAAAN!" a bit like Darth Vader Stewie in Something, Something, Something, Dark Side.

You'd think I would've learnt my lesson after that, dear friends, but alas no; I had another gingerbread latte at lunchtime, and another one at around nine o'clock in the evening. I was turfed out of Starbucks in Westfield when they closed, at which point I staggered about like a drunk demanding to be let back into a pub. Oh, the shame.

But hey: IT'S CHRISTMAS!

Aloha!

Remember earlier this year when I was struggling for something to blog about so I basically asked you lot to come up with content for me by encouraging you to unleash your imaginations using an OFFICIAL SPARKY TIM CUT OUT 'N KEEP ACTIONLESS FIGURE? That was all good fun, wasn't it? I loved what you all did with me, even if I fear that one actionless figure in particular might've been forced into taking part in some things that it might never quite recover from.

What I knew at the time, however, was that there was another contender eager to take part in the fun, but one that was waiting, biding her time until, like John Denver, she could leave on a jet plane headed for more exotic climes…

That contender was iPandah. And she took me to Hawaii.

Now, you might look at this and, like Senator Vreenak, thinks "IT'S A FAAAAAAKE!" After all, you can get a picture of a pineapple to pose in front of pretty much anywhere. And my nips are well perky, so it must be a cold day. Set eyebrows to 'QUIZZICAL.'

This photo is more convincing for the simple reason that I'm a sucker for pretty girls in grass skirts, particularly when they appear to be grazing my shoulders with their boobs. WIN.

Still need convincing?

The view from, I believe, the 24th floor. Suck it up, bitches. Now where did my sexy hula-girls go?

Flight of fancy

As I mentioned here, I saw the 25th anniversary rerelease of Back to the Future the other week and thoroughly enjoyed it. Not only did it remind me what a truly great movie it is, but it also made me want to watch parts two and three of the series, both of which are also great movies, if not quite as awesome as the original.

When I was younger I was one of those kids who got totally sucked into the hype of big movies; in 1989 when I saw the first Tim Burton Batman movie I was the dumpy little kid in the queue clutching a bag of Minstrels in my sweaty little hands while wearing a Batman baseball cap and a Batman t-shirt with several Batman badges attached to it. Four years earlier I'd been similarly obsessed with Back to the Future; I wanted a denim jacket like Marty; I wanted a red body-warmer I could wear over the top of said denim jacket like Marty; and I wanted to be able to ride a skateboard. When Back to the Future Part II came out I wanted one of those gaudy reflective baseball caps worn by Marty McFly Jr. in 2015 (and apparently now I can have one).

But what I really wanted was a time machine made out of a DeLorean.

So there I am on Saturday night, curled up on the sofa watching Back to the Future Part III with all these childhood memories flooding back, and I'm thinking "yes, I would totally still rock that red body-warmer." And then I'm thinking "that DeLorean still looks totally bad-ass" (I assure you that I only use the phrase 'bad-ass' in my inner monologues). I mean, it's without a doubt one of the most easily identifiable and iconic movie cars of all time. I still lust after it.

And then I remembered that the difference between the me who saw Back to the Future back in the 1980s and the me who was watching Back to the Future on a Saturday evening in 2010 is that this me can drive. Ha - in your tiny, cherubic face, 80s me!

So anyway, I picked up my iPad and started Googling DeLoreans for sale.

Turns out there are quite a few of them around, they all look like they're in relatively amazing nick (and if they're not there are plenty of specialists who'll get them up to scratch for you), and some of them are quite reasonably priced - like HERE. Eighteen and a half grand - and it's just down the road from me (not *literally*, but you know what I mean). The DeLorean Motor Company in the States will even build you a 'new one' if you've got the cash - in right-hand drive and with all the mod-cons like an iPod connector and bluetooth!

God I love this ad. There just aren't enough car adverts featuring sexy, wistful shots of seagulls these days.

Inevitably, this all led to me getting a wee bit excited and a smidgeon carried away. I had some work to do on Sunday afternoon that would've taken me about two hours if I'd knuckled down and got on with it, but because I spent a considerable amount of time continuing my internet search for DeLoreans and daydreaming about how awesome I would look cruising around West London in one, it actually ended up taking something more like eight hours. I did, however, come to the conclusion that there would be no fear of accidental trips through time while pootling around in my theoretical sports car; I'm lucky if I hit 8.8 miles per hour on my drive into work, let alone 88.

Eventually, after many hours of drooling and clapping my hands excitedly like a special, the rational part of my brain talked me out of buying a DeLorean. I mean, I only bought a new car last year - surely it makes far more sense just to get a hover conversion done on Clubbie?

The terrifying tale of Fatback and Shrewface

Back in the summer when it was hot and sunny and lovely and Yazzle Dazzle was working not far from my office we would meet each lunchtime for coffee and good times. Each day we would grab our beverages then hurry outside to nab one of the four tables situated outside Secret Starbucks where, because we're silly buggers, we often found ourselves descending into panicky, breath-restricting laughter as our conversation devolved into the latest round of inane banter (I've mentioned to Yazzle Dazzle on several occasions that we should do a podcast). Not only that, but while sitting there day after day we found ourselves seeing the same recurring cast of characters passing by, and we started giving them names: there's Michael, who bears an uncanny resemblance to Michael J. Fox; the trolley boys, two chaps who just seemed to walk up and down the road dragging trolleys behind them; and one old man who looked so much like a notorious serial killer that we dubbed him Harold.

Unfortunately there were also a number of characters whose presence we did not appreciate each day, such as the two ladies who would plonk themselves down at a table and spark up a ciggies without actually buying anything from Secret Starbucks. Outrageous, I think you'll agree; this is a reputable coffee bar, not fag-break alley!

And then there was ... THEM.

They are a fairly respectable middle-aged couple on first glance, but then you look closer; she is aloof looking and wears floral skirts held up by immense belts that would appear to do double duty holding in her not inconsiderable girth, and he has one of those horrible squished up faces and a nasty nasally voices that just makes you want to poke things up his nose in an attempt cure it and surgically rearrange his facial features in an attempt to make better use of the available space.

OK, so this sounds like a harsh judgement based on physical appearances, but let me explain their crimes further:

They hog the available space; there's not that much room outside Secret
Starbucks and they spread themselves out like they own it, or don't bother shuffling their chairs in if you're trying to squeeze in. They favour the same prime location table as we do. They don't even buy coffee - they buy tiny little bottles of fruit juice and take an age to finish them. And most heinous of all, when they do finish them THEY DUMP THEIR RUBBISH ON OTHER TABLES RATHER THAN TAKE IT TO A BIN.

I shit you not; one day Yazzle Dazzle and I were heading over to the only available table and as we walked toward it he - of the squished face and nasally voice - saw us coming and brazenly dumped his rubbish on it, leaving the table that he and his spherical accomplice were docked at clean and clear! Some withering glances were fired off that day, let me tell you.

And it was not long after that incident that we arrived at Secret Starbucks one day to find them sitting at our favourite table and Yazzle Dazzle angrily muttered "Shit! Fatback and Shrewface are here!"

Beautifully creative yet wonderfully fitting names, I think you'll agree.

And so, over the course of the summer months, the four of us engaged in a silent war of staring and scowling in an attempt to win the table of choice. One day we would get it, the next day they would. Every lunchtime was a new and exciting battlefield.

Then, one day, they were gone. we had won. Fatback and Shrewface had been vanquished.

I'm now lunching on my own again, Yazzle Dazzle having finished her tenure at summer job and skipped off somewhere else for autumnal job. And because few people like to sit outside Secret Starbucks on a breezy, potentially rainy autumnal day, I've had the pick of the outside tables each lunchtime. Well, assuming those two chain-smoking, non-coffee drinking harridans don't rock up for one of their fortunately infrequent appearances.

So there I was the other day, sitting there listening to some tunes on my iPhone, sipping coffee and watching the world go by, when I noticed that something large was moving in front of the West London skyline and blocking out the sun. Startled, I turned my head to the right and all was revealed.

Quickly I whipped out my phone and tapped out a text to Yazzle Dazzle. It read:

"OMG! FATBACK AND SHREWFACE ARE BACK!"

And this time, I'm facing them solo...

Big day out

Back in August when I had a week off and Best Mate Jo and I trundled off to the zoo for the day, we had a moment - possibly on the train on the way home - when we looked at each other and said "geez, we should do this sort of thing more often."

Actually it was definitely on the train on the way home, because I gazed wistfully at the London Eye and said "I've never been on that." Best Mate Jo looked at me and said "I've been on it twice, but I'll go again if you want to."

And so today we went on the London Eye.

Incredibly, after a grey and slightly miserable start, as our train pulled into Waterloo there was literally not a cloud in the sky. This was good. I'd like to say we got off the train and made a beeline straight for the Eye, but we didn't because I got off the train and immediately said "I NEED A COFFEE" like some dead-eyed addict, and immediately headed off in the direction of the nearest Starbucks. I wanted to be functioning and alert, y'see.

Coffee sourced and in hand, we subsequently headed for the Eye.

The excitement started with some queuing. Admittedly the queue did move quite quickly, but because we get restless and bitchy just standing around, after about two minutes we were quietly taking the mickey out of the people around us: specifically some woman in a pair of ill-advised leather trousers who was also wearing sunglasses inside. That kept us entertained until we got to a till, at which point I looked at the lady behind the desk and said "we'd like two tickets for the, er, London Eye," and she looked at me like I was an utter special.

With tickets in my sweaty little mitts, we were then shepherded into an area where they took one of those excrutiatingly awful tourist pictures of you against a green screen, and then into a screening room where they show a 4D (WTF!?) four-minute promotional film of London and the Eye, which I thought was pretty pointless because I was already in London, and had literally just bought tickets for the Eye. And a dragon in the film sneezed on us. Seriously - real moisture hit us. Gross.

After that we were out into the open for some more queuing.

Admittedly, again, the queue moved pretty fast, but not before I'd ridiculed some woman's vile boots and some old dude's awful ponytail.

It was as we neared the front of the queue that I turned to Best Mate Jo and said "you do know I'm petrified of heights, don't you? This is possibly the highest I've ever been, and chances are I'm going to scream all the way round." She gazed at me with a look of utter contempt that even I'll admit I was deserving of.

So, anyway, we got on, and it was awesome. There actually comes a point where you're so high up that the height becomes absolutely meaningless and inconsequential. And I didn't scream, before you ask.

Some pictures, yes?

And we're off. At this point, if you suddenly decide you're busting to go to the toilet you are WAY OUT OF LUCK.

Obligatory Kids in the Hall-style 'I CRUSH YOU!' picture.

Awesomely blue, utterly cloudless sky. Also, note brightly-coloured office buildings that look like they've come from IKEA.

Jaunty angle.

About the Eye's highest point. Amazing how close the Houses of Parliament and Battersea Power Station actually are. Got an awesome mobile phone signal up here too.

And the fun didn't stop there. Having come back down to Earth we scrambled over to Leicester Square for a big fat awesome lunch. The only thing that wasn't awesome here was the fact that it took about 20 minutes for them to rustle up the bill, by which time we were running perilously close to missing out on our planned afternoon activity. Matters weren't helped by Best Mate Jo almost making a faux pas as she handed the waitress the cash as we hurried out, and said "we NEED to go - NOW!" which made it sound like one of us had left an epic shit on the table or something.

The waitress looked at us with a look that was a combination of utterly perplexed, extreme concern, and unmitigated fear, and replied "um, slightly worried…"

"Oh, god, don't worry," said Jo. "We've got to get to the cinema!"

And we vamoosed in a cloud of dust. Ish.

After accidentally veering us towards the wrong cinema, we eventually got to the right one, just in time to watch a 15:10 screening of the 25th anniversary rerelease of Back to the Future, my very favourite movie with slightly incestuous undertones. I'm pleased to report that the film is every bit as great as I remember it being, and it was an utter joy to see it on the big screen again. Like Marty, I too was transported back in time - but instead of 1955 I was reminded of the glory that was the mid 1980s - a truly awesome period for popcorn movies. And I also now have an overwhelming urge to buy a red body-warmer, and I can't stop listening to THIS.

All-in-all, a great day.

Dot-to-dot-to-disco

Last night I went somewhere that has immediately become MY NEW FAVOURITE PLACE and did something that swiftly became MY NEW FAVOURITE THING.

It was in Kings Cross. No, not *that* you filth-bag.

A couple of weeks back, thanks to the social networking behemoth that is Twitter, I found out about a place on Caledonian Road called Drink, Shop & Do. Rather than bang on in my own ditzy childlike way about what it's all about, I'll let the people who run it explain (because, quite frankly, they know best):

After reading that I decided I HAD TO GO.

And so last night a few of us went along - to take part in dot-to-dot-to-disco. Now, when I told people I was off to do dot-to-dot-to-disco I got lots of blank stares followed by "what's that?" This can only lead me to believe that there's some kind of stupidity virus going around at the moment, because what else could dot-to-dot-to-disco be than dot-to-dot pictures done to the tune of disco music? OF COURSE.

What I wasn't quite prepared for, however, was how awesome Drink, Shop & Do is from the moment you step in the door. It's a mish-mash world of retro furniture and bright colours that somehow all seem to coordinate beautifully. And did I mention the building used to be a Victorian bathhouse? No? Well it did. It's all high ceilings and ornate fixtures. And lampshades made out of jay-cloths.

It's shambolic and beautiful and I want to live there.

So, safely ensconced in the 'shop' part, I turned my attention to the 'drink.' What shall I have … oh, what's a coke float? It's coke with a dollop of ice cream in it. Really? Marvellous - I'll have one of those (or rather four - shhhhh!).

When the nice lady brought it to our table she set it down in front of me and with a smile on her face and a glint in her eye cheerfully said "that'll explode when you stir it."

My terrifyingly explosive coke float pre-detonation.

I looked at my drink a little warily, then thought "of course it won't explode," and started stirring.

It exploded.

Well, a slight exaggeration perhaps, but it fizzed madly and threatened to spill over the top of the glass so quickly that I had to start frantically guzzling it through the straw to prevent it from running on to the nicely laminated table and thereafter my lap.

And then we came to the 'do.'

We - along with quite a few other people who had turned up - were handed dot-to-dot sheets and a glass of vibrantly-coloured felt-tip pens, and told that the effort judged to be the best would win a free drink. In total we each had three different sheets to complete, all of which showed an album cover. The winner would be judged on their colouring in skills. Oh, and to fulfil the disco aspect of dot-to-dot-to-disco, awesome disco music played throughout the evening's proceedings.

This was The Emotions, apparently. No, I've never heard of them either.

This looked familiar but I couldn't think of the artist. Still can't, to be honest, but I later enhanced my effort here with hugely-defined boobs in the possibly mistaken belief that it was a lady.

Assuming that I was doing a brilliant job here, I was slightly mortified when the lovely lady who'd brought me my explosive beverage swung by our table and looked at my masterpiece. "Is this yours?" she asked. "Yes!" I replied, thinking she'd spotted an early winner. She nodded once. "Hmmm. You've lost."

As a result, I determined that I'd really have to bring my A-game to the third sheet. I grabbed my purple felt-tip and, with my tongue poking out the side of my mouth as a sign of my increased determination, furiously set to work. Simple colouring in would not suffice here: I needed to freestyle. I did this by adding an illustration of Garfield to the picture.

WHO DOESN'T LOVE THAT HILARIOUS FAT CAT?! Before submitting this work of art to the judges, I also added my name to the top left-hand corner in a jazzy 1980s typeface. I didn't want some random trying to claim responsibility for my masterpiece!

With my artistic labours complete, I settled back with another coke float, a mouthful of an orgasm-inducing chocolate brownie, and some serious Connect-4 action. Oh yes, they had board games as well. A couple at the next table started dancing to a 70s disco hit (sadly they did not break into a zombie routine when Michael Jackson's Beat It came on next). Some bloke came in, paused at the entrance and marvelled at the room in which he found himself like a little kid unleashed upon Disney Land (except little kids usually don't mutter "what the fuck?!" in amazement). Pear drops and pink shrimps were passed around. I had felt-tip ink all over my hands.

And then I won first place in the dot-to-dot competition. I threw my arms in the air like I'd just won the Grand National. My prize was a drink of my choice, so I had another coke float. Lee cut my straw in half with some scissors, but I was so hopped up on coke, ice cream, and the sweet taste of victory that I didn't care. It was an utterly, totally unexpectedly brilliant evening.

What I'm getting at then, is that if you find yourself wandering the streets of London YOU SHOULD DEFINITELY go to Drink, Shop & Do. There should be one of these places on every street. I'm planning to go back next Saturday. Why? To make a clay David Bowie head of course.

Vandal

So, in addition to drawing a rather impressive series of satirical Star Trek cartoons back in my school days (here, here, here, here, and here if you're particularly bored), a recent email from a long-lost friend appears to have uncovered evidence suggesting that I might've, um, defaced school property with my sketches of Kirk and Picard.

Oh well, it was only Hamlet - who the hell has bothered reading THAT?!

The car wash story

If, for some reason, you found yourself in a static position just staring at my blog last week, first of all what's the matter with you? Why aren't you outside scampering around and doing exciting things? That aside, if you *were* just staring at my blog, you would've seen a series of furious tweets on my Twitter sidebar thing relating to the fact that I was washing my car.

Apparently the weekend before I'd happened to mention to Big Bro that my car was filthy and needed a wash. At the time so was his, and he apparently offered to delay washing his so we could take part in some sort of brotherly bonding experience and wash them together. I, apparently, said yes.

By the following weekend I'd completely compartmentalised this fact in my tiny brain, only to be terrifyingly reminded of it when I happened to remark to Sparky Ma that I intended to have a lazy Sunday in front of the telly. One furious look and a series of choice words from Big Bro shot that idea down in dramatic flames, and so on Sunday afternoon I arrived back round at my parents' house ready for a quick once over my adorable car with a wet sponge and some bubbles.

Or so I thought.

I've always been full of pride for every car I've owned, and particularly with my Minis this has been reflected in a car washing technique that has lasted around about the two hour mark. When Big Bro changed his car last year, however, he surpassed even my dedication to the art of wiping bird poo of a motor.

He researched it on the internet. He bought the biggest car washing kit known to man. He formulated STAGES.

I had forgotten this.

The first instance of scrotum-tightening fear I experienced that Sunday afternoon came when he barred me from helping in the initial two stages of washing his car. At first I thought this was A GOOD THING, because I got to sit inside with Sparky Ma watching Kindergarten Cop and drinking a cup of tea. About an hour later, however, Big Bro stormed in and said "I'll complete mine on the road - get your car in the front garden and begin stage one."

"What's stage one?" I whimpered.

Big Bro tutted and looked at me like I was a special. "It's the rinsing stage, OF COURSE."

I looked over at Sparky Ma, but she just slipped ever lower behind the newspaper and pretended not to notice what was going on.

"WELL COME ON THEN!"

I scurried outside.

• Stage one, as I noted, is the rinsing stage. To achieve this, you use a high-pressure hose to dislodge any chunks of dirt that may have become attached to the body of the car. You do not use the high pressure hose to mimic urinating on the front garden, unless you want to be the focus of a withering stare from HE WHO MUST BE OBEYED on the other side of the road, having paused momentarily to watch you with disdain while he delicately dabs water away from his car with what looks like a fine lace hanky.

• Stage two involves cleaning the wheels with what looks like a hung, drawn and quartered hedgehog, and apparently weathering a further series of humiliating comments about yours truly.

• Stage three actually involves sloshing some car shampoo on the car. The car shampoo appears identical to Predator blood, and I was carefully monitored to ensure that I didn't waste any (as if I was going to drink it or do my hair with it or something – admittedly both distinct possibilities if left unattended). This was followed by another rinse stage, which was admittedly made more enjoyable by almost dousing one of the neighbours when she came out of her front door and I turned to say hello.

• Stage four involves wiping any remaining water from the bodywork of the car using a Californian Water Blade. It was when I'd almost completed this stage that Big Bro came over to check on my progress and, upon finding it did not even meet, let alone equal, his lofty standards, flicked dirt on my bonnet and made me repeat stages three and four.

• Stage five saw me ordered to apply tar remover to those hard-t0-remove pieces of road scum that get flicked up off the road and stuck to the doors. This was an utterly soul-destroying task.

Brief pause, possible tears. MANLY TEARS, I MIGHT ADD. Helpless looks from frightened mother. Tweeting cries for help. Stern-faced brother orders me to put down iPhone and get back to work.

• Stage six involves dabbing any remaining water away from the bodywork using the aforementioned fine lace hanky, which I discover here is a microfibre cloth. I don't even wash my face with something so soft and sophisticated.

• Stage seven is the wax stage. Big Bro joins me on my car at this point, having finally finished his own motor. As with when I offered to help him paint his bedroom and actually ended up doing the whole thing myself, I find that he concentrates on about 10 square centimetres of the roof while I am left to do everything else. By the time we've applied wax to the entire thing my previously shiny car looks like … well, a massive bird has taken an epic shit on it.

Sparky Ma comes out and so as not to enrage THE WRATH OF BROTHER, hesitatingly offers us both dinner. I have been doing this for three hours. I am inexplicably soaked from the waist down. I want to go home, but I am hungry so I say "yes." Big Bro turns to me and says "we will finish this stage in 30 MINUTES!"

I look at him, but all I hear is Mrs Kim from Gilmore Girls.

• Stage eight is initiated exactly 30 minutes later, with the furious buffing of wax off my car. What is revealed underneath is very clean, and very shiny, and, I can't help but think, slightly smaller than what I had at the beginning, as if some of it has eroded away with the all the strenuous sponging and furious buffing required by all the earlier stages.

• Stage nine was the 'black trim stage,' where we walked around the car applying a cream that looked a bit like semen to the black trim to transform it from a weathered grey to showroom-fresh black again. I can't help wondering at this point if I am the subject of some horrific practical joke.

• Stage 10 required me to walk around the car, liberally spraying 'fast glass' on the windows, headlamps, and my face. One of those things should not have been sprayed with 'fast glass.'

By the time we finished it was night. Sparky Ma said "mmmm, that looks, um, clean," but the truth was it was so dark she couldn't see it. The whole thing had taken four and half hours. I got home and immediately vetoed any thoughts I'd had about going for a run. There is only one photo of the afternoon's events; I did not take any more because Big Bro shouted "YOU'RE NOT GOING TO TAKE A PICTURE EVERY FIVE SECONDS AND PUT IT UP ON TWITTER, ARE YOU?!" It can be seen here; you can see the car-washing commie in the background.

It rained the next day.

Genius!

I've been providing technical support to the wonderful Glittering Lee as he embarks on his initial faltering baby steps as a new iPhone owner, and as thanks for my help he waved his magic photoshop wand and imagined me as one of Apple's in-store geniuses.

The result, I think you'll agree is, well, genius.

My arse hurts: the Richmond to Windsor bike ride 2010

The Richmond to Windsor bike ride crept up on me a bit this year; in fact, I actually only signed up for it about three weeks ago, and at one point was even debating whether I'd even bother doing it. Just last night I was complaining about it to Sparky Ma. The reason? I dunno … I think I felt woefully unprepared for it. The last time I'd been on the bike was last year's ride. But then again, the last time I'd been on it before that was 2008's ride, so if anything I was just as well prepared this year as I was last.

But seriously, three rides in two years? Ouch.

Anyway, having payed £17 for the privilege of taking part I thought I'd better do it, so I was up at seven this morning for a nutritious breakfast (porridge - slow release energy), got my kit together, and got out the door.

The day immediately took a bad turn when not one minute from my house I was stopped by some local busybody wanting to discuss a new recycling plant the council want to build in the area. I barely discuss anything at 10 past eight in the morning, let alone debate the merits, or lack thereof, of a recycling plant. While he was busy pulling an A3 laminate of the plant out of a worn plastic bag I told him I had the council's information pack in doors (technically I do - ironically it's in the recycling bin) and that I'd consider it in my own time (a lie). He then asked if I'd sign his petition against it. I rolled my eyes (behind my sunglasses so he couldn't see) and repeated what I'd just said.

Then, basically, I just cycled off.

En route to Richmond I had the unerring sensation that something wasn't quite right with my bike, although on the face of it, aside from being a bit dirty from the accumulated muck of the last two rides (particularly 2008's horrific washout), it was fine; I'd oiled the technical-looking bits and pumped up the tyres earlier in the week. Still…

Upon arriving at Richmond I decided that the rear tyre was a smidgeon under-inflated, so pulled out my pump and went at it. And then the valve broke and all the air came out. Well, some of it. I quickly and wisely put the valve cap back on to contain the leak.

I was thus confronted with a dilemma, the options available being thus:

• Phone Sparky Pa, tell him of my predicament, ask him to come get me, and bail out of the ride.

• Do the ride with the valve cap in place and hope it was sufficient for the 40 miles to Windsor, and the 10 or so home.

• Get someone to fix it.

While option two was dismissed almost instantly (even I can't believe I considered it), option one appeared VERY tempting. But then I realised that Sparky Pa would probably say something like "no, I'm not coming to get you, you lazy tyke," and I'd have to walk home from Richmond with an epic sad face. And anyway, having got to Richmond Green the sight of all the other participants boosted my spirits somewhat. I (kind of) wanted to do it!

So I went over to the mechanics tent where a nice chap changed the inner tube in about five minutes for the princely sum of £5 (they also had a box in which you were supposed to throw loose change as a donation for their tea fund, but I only had notes so I just looked at him with apologetic eyes, although in hindsight he probably didn't see this as I was still wearing my sunglasses). This was good because, quite frankly the last time I tried to change a tyre I was about 9, it all went horribly wrong, and I threw an immense hissy fit. Chances are if he'd told me to do it myself I'd still be sitting on Richmond Green sulking now.

Anyway, with my stead restored to full working order, I headed off to join the queue for the start line. Unlike previous years, though, the queue this year stretched right to the opposite corner of the green and had begun to loop round again.

I tried to take a picture, but I couldn't get it all in frame, so I did a video instead. Look:

That done, I faffed about putting my phone back in my bag, only to turn around to find about 50 more people had joined the line. I sighed, and tacked myself on the end.

It took about 25 minutes to reach the front, at which point I heard the compare (alas, not the usual Shatner lookalike) make a fascinating comment about most men not being secure enough in their sexuality to have a wicker basket on their handlebars, and then I was off.

So, yeah, the ride went OK. Good, actually. I think I did it in about the same time as the last few years, obviously arriving at Windsor a smidgeon later than usual due to the delayed start, but physically I don't feel too exhausted - with one exception: my arse.

I don't know whether I've shed fat in my posterior, or whether it's just a case of not being anywhere near as prepared for the rigours of being perched on the saddle for so many hours as I should be, but it REALLY HURTS. At one point I sat down on some damp grass to try to alleviate the pain, but that just made me look like I'd suffered some sort of horrific downstairs accident. Cycling home from Windsor was especially painful. As a result, my saddle and I are currently NOT FRIENDS.

Evil.

On the plus side, based on my recent cycling history, I won't have to deal with this problem again for at least another year.

-----

Bonus photo!

This adorable pony was tethered at one of the rest stops. While I sat soothing my aching posterior, I watched a woman approach it to take a photo. The pony just wanted some attention, though, so she stroked it and they both appeared to be having a great time. Then the woman walked away and the pony started spazzing out a bit, shaking its head like it was having a bad reaction to some E or something. This went on for about a minute, at which point I decided I'd had enough of seeing a pony having what looked like an aneurysm, and jumped tenderly back on my bike before cycling off at speed. I hope it's OK!

Out and about: walkabout

After the excitement of Wednesday's trip to London Zoo, I decided that I'd spend one day just wandering around London. Whenever I go into town it's always with a purpose - a meeting, a trip to the cinema, meeting friends in a bar - never just to take in the city. So I decided to remedy that with what can only be called a walkabout.

I got the train to Waterloo, and then just walked. For about six and a half hours. I started in Covent Garden, where I checked out the gloriously huge new Apple Store, and basically spent about 15 minutes looking around in awe like OMG Cat.

It's basically a very beautiful, very well restored building packed full of my favourite shiny tech. Essentially, Heaven.

Then I walked through Covent Garden and down Charing Cross Road to Oxford Street, where I fought my way through the heaving masses of slow walking mouth-breathers to the Selfridges end. After that I ducked and weaved through some back roads round to Carnaby Street, down Shaftsbury Avenue, and basically back to Covent Garden where I then headed east, eventually ending up just past Tower Bridge. And when I ran out of exciting stuff to look at, I turned around and walked all the way back to Waterloo, where I hopped on a train home.

All on foot, and with only one 15 minute pause for lunch, and another five minutes nursing a bottle of juice outside a Starbucks at Butler's Wharf. Glorious weather for it too; I've got a bit of a tan.

Some photos?

One of these shops is lying about what they sell.

This was the size of a toddler and probably costs a small fortune, but I WANT ONE.

A Spongebob Squarepants drum kit. Why not?

I finally fulfilled my desire to walk over the Millennium (formerly wobbly) Bridge. I also walked through the Tate Modern - lovely building.

I think I'd rather have liked to give it a go while it was still wobbling. I imagine it would be a bit like walking on jelly.

This is the Golden Hinde, the ship that Sir Francis Drake circumnavigated the globe aboard. Oh, but wait a second - what's that, Senator Vreenak? Yes, that's right: it's a replica because the original rotted away.

I first visited this little shopping centre when I was on a school trip years ago. It's a serene and welcoming little place just back from the Thames.

Love the criss-crossing walkways in Butler's Wharf.

I have decided that I would like to have a central base of operations here, please. Donations gratefully accepted.

That's not the river - that's mud.

Classy photo, eh?

Some plucky anti-war protestor obviously made a little stand in Foyles using a copy of Tony Blair's new autobiography.

Morris dancing Storm Troopers of course!

Yeah, J.J. Abrams isn't the only one who can throw a lense-flare in randomly - and I guarantee mine was done a whole lot cheaper.

And when I got home I bought a coat off the internet that I've been assured will make me look sexy.