I think I better run, run, run

So Sweatband, my colleague in senseless running for *ahem* 'fun,' has finally gotten round to the oft-threatened abusive text messages and emails ordering me to actually go out and do some training runs in anticipation of the 10K, which is in three weeks time.

Gosh, she can be quite potty-mouthed when the mood takes her.

Anyway, feeling a bit guilty and not wanting to let her down by crumpling into a heap of vomit seven metres in, I've finally kicked myself into gear, and I'm running like a whippet on speed.

That's a lie, but, y'know, I'm trying.

I've realised that I do need my iPod when I'm running, though, and Sweatband is OK with my antisocial tendencies in this respect. To be honest, if smearing myself in marmite would help me run more she'd be opening the jars for me in a flash. Obviously, I need some 'pumpin' choons' to motivate me, so I'm trying to compile a list of quality running tracks. I figure some Rolling Stones ('cos whether I mean to or not I always end up visualising Mick Jagger running from one side of the stage to the other), probably some Foo Fighters...

And that's where you come in! Yes, YOU! Any suggestions? I'll consider anything, but think pounding basslines because they're always good (No Girls Aloud if you're reading, Lee).

And if anyone thinks they're being funny by suggesting 'Runaway' by The Corrs, I will hunt you down and give you a dry slap, OK?

(Oh, and big-ups to anyone if they know the artist and song I nicked the post heading from)

Someone got trolleyed

I didn't see the relevant badge displayed in the windscreen. Some people are so selfish...

It's only rock 'n roll but we liked it

Well that was a nice surprise, for the most part. I actually don't know the name of the band we primarily went to see; they're not The Fades, so they were either Sunset on Vegas or L-Shaped Room. I do know that Jim was in the band, so respec' to Jim and his crew. I mean band. Whatever they're called. I salute you, and your rock. And I do mean your rock music, not an actual rock. Although if you do take an actual rock to your gigs, that's kind of a unique selling point, and I'd like to see it at some point. (Sorry, it's late...)

Aaaaaaaaah...

It must be said, yes it MUST be said, that the first band weren't exactly, erm, great. They all appeared to be 12, with their mums and Dads waiting in the wings, trying not to burst their cool by dad-dancing a bit too obviously. They failed.

They were all trying to be a bit Kate and Pete: The Next Generation, but instead of 'supermodel,' read 'ditzy schoolgirl,' and instead of 'drug-adled singer,' read 'a bit like the one with the potato-shaped head from McFly.' Oh, and don't 12 year-old girls wear a lot of mascara these days? Seriously, I've seen pandas with less black stuff around their eyes.

Am I getting old? Don't answer that.

Look - how rock 'n roll was this? We got stamped!


Although on closer inspection, they look a bit like post marks. Did someone steal a franking machine?

What to do, what to do...

Being the hip young thing that I am, I've hit a bit of a dilemma with regards to tonight's shenanigans (isn't that a great word? Shenanigans. Shenanigans. SHENANIGANS!)

Sorry, got a bit side-tracked there.

Yeah, so, tonight... Jo's mentioned to me that someone who knows someone she knows is playing a gig at a bar that I know, the bar in question being the magnificently named Fighting Cocks in Kingston (Upon-Thames, not Jamaica).


Now I haven't been to the Fighting Cocks in a few years, not since my brother's band went tits up just as they were about to play The Garage in Islington and I'd designed them a super-looking t-shirt.


Aaaah... those were the days. Crammed in the tiny back room of that manky bar, sweat running down the wall (at least I assume it was sweat...), and 50-odd crazed nutters jumping around as if they were completely oblivious to anyone else being there... Why am I getting all nostalgic about this?

No, really?

The alternative, of course, is to sit at home and watch Big Brother with some Doritos dippers and some, er, dip. And I know we should be all holier than thou when it comes to Pete's Tourette's syndrome, but c'mon, the only reason seven million people are watching it is to see him shout the word "WANKER!" every two minutes.

Yeah, I think I'll go to the gig. It's only three quid to get in.

Never a truer word spoken in jest

Made me laugh...

I've seen the future ... and it's chocolatey

Let's make no bones about it: I'm a whore to Starbucks.

A few years back I had a week off work, and I trailed round about four million different Starbucks trying a different beverage in every store. That's how I discovered the Grande Misto, which has since become my coffee-based beverage of choice.

I have withdrawal symptoms if I don't have one at least once every 24 hours.

(If anyone ever needs to coerce me into doing something I don't want to do, a Grande Misto will always serve as suitable bribary. Yes, I'm a reasonably cheap whore, too)

Anyway, today I'd already had one Misto, so I decided that I'd try a different drink on my second visit to a Starbucks. Now... what to have... Oh, how about their new all-singing, all-dancing, most expensive beverage on the board Java Chip frappuccino!? That sounds exciting!

Exciting indeed - it's a combination of coffee (yes, good), chocolate (really? Marvellous!), cream (well it is a treat...), and chunks of cookie dough (Way-hay!). I'm guessing it's also not terribly light on calories, but what the hell...

While enjoying this monstrous coffee-beast, and trying to extricate lumps of cookie dough from my straw, I started thinking how this could be the first step to the science-fiction world of the future, where we all drive flying cars and there's not a damn thing Ken Livingston can do about it.

(I might also be married to Judy Jetson, but that's beside the point)


Whoa! How did we go from coffee to flying cars?! Let me explain. Remember how in sci-fi films and TV shows you see exciting foods of the future - the little coloured cubes you see Captain Kirk chow down on in Star Trek, for instance? Well, we're supposed to assume that those little cubes are a complete meal in one. And the Java Chip frappuccino fits that bill perfectly. It was delicious, without a doubt supplied me with enough energy to light up a small town, and included both drinky and foody elements.

I bet if you popped a Berocca in there you'd be set for the day.

A trip to Londinium!

So I've pissed today away in London.

My reasons for going up town (or "up taaaaaahhhnnn" if you're an Eastenders stereotype) were two-fold. One, to pick up a bluetooth thingy for my iMac, and two, to meet up with my collaborator in unpublished comics, Graham (Or "Gay-ham" if you're the Greek temp we had in the office last year).

Now the first order of business had me a tad worried, because the Apple Store is a dangerous place. Within 10 seconds of crossing the threshold I was holding an iPod Nano in my greasy little paws and thinking "hmmm, both of my other iPods are getting a bit old and would probably break if I accidently threw them against a concrete wall..." A minute later I'd discovered the gorgeous new MacBooks, and having turned into Apple McNerdlinger, was clicking on the 'About this Mac' button to read up on its specs (none of which made much sense, but they certainly looked impressive).

Sweating profusely and shaking a tad, I decided it was probably best to get what I wanted and get out fast. Upstairs... AAARRRGHH - more Nanos, and, oh god, iPod Hi-Fis!!!! Run, run, run... Bluetooth thingy, got it phew! At the till I remarked to the cashier that a detour into the Apple Store could be risky. He laughed, then as he held out my bag, said:

"Hope to see you back here soon."

"Ha ha, I'm sure," I replied. Bastard, I thought as I ran down the stairs toward the door, only stopping to look once more at the MacBooks. Did I mention they're really nice?

The second order of business was fair more relaxing, as Gay-ham, sorry, Graham and I chilled out in Starbucks and discussed a new idea that probably won't get published. He also showed me some new artwork he's done for someone else, which kind of blew me away; he's very good, you see.

Anyway, after an hour, Graham had to go back to work (HA!) while I wandered off to almost get knocked down by a cyclist.

Oh, and I saw possibly the campest piece of movie merchandise I've ever seen in the window of the Cinema Store.

Look, it's Superman Returns Barbie and Ken tie-ins.


Is it me, or does Barbie look more manly than Ken? Oh well... I s'pose you could always swap the heads over.

La la la la looooost

Whoa! I just watched the latest episode of Lost on E4... which is just seven episodes in if you're American. Yep, we're a little behind the times in ol' Blighty.

I was beginning to lose faith in this series. It sort of began following a pattern of teasing, teasing, TEASING, slight revelation, off on a dull tangent. Quite frankly, I couldn't give a rat's ass about Jin or Sun or whatever she's called and her stupid wedding ring. Let's be honest, she survived a plane crash and should be grateful she's still got fingers.

Anyway, that Michelle Rodriguez is bloody hardcore, isn't she? All those drunk driving convictions in real life, and I lost count of the sheer number of people she killed in the episode I just watched. Hell, she probably caused the plane to crash in the first place!

And to top it all, she shot Shannon, the biggest waste of space on the island.

Hooray!

Michelle Rodriguez - I salute you, you crazy bitch.

Gym'll fix it

Now then, now then...

Ignoring the bank holiday, I've had an interesting first day of my week off. I use the term 'interesting' loosely.

I got up reasonably early and thought - hey! I'll go to the gym! Then I went back to sleep. About an hour later, I woke up again, and thought, hmmm. Gym. So I faffed about for around an hour, then buggered off down the gym. Now, you'd think that the gym would be empty around 10:30 on a Tuesday morning, except for, perhaps, a few scrummies. But no. It was full of dawdling old people, ASBO-dodging chavs, and most surprising of all, children.

Children?

Yes children. I'm all for kids using fitness facilities, because around 90 percent of kids these days are tubby little bitches whose faces appear to be covered in what appear to be rorschach tests crafted out of chocolate ("what do you see?" Erm, fat kid? "Yes! Well done!"). But, the thing is, y'know... could they not use another gym?

To top it off, there were no hot scrummies, and all the tellies were tuned to some sort of tweeny-bopper music channel that was only showing Duncan-bloody-James videos. Thank god for my iPod.

I fled after an hour, still pondering why there were so many kids, and so few scrummies.

A few hours later I stopped into Sainsbury's. Now, if you've read this blog before, you'll know my love/hate relationship with supermarkets. Tesco sucks; Sainsbury's is better.

But wait! Sainsbury's was also full of kids, wandering out in front of my trolley, wiping their sticky faces over everything.

What the hell was going on?!

Then I overheard too worn out Feltham mothers chatting in the biscuit aisle.

"I never know what to do wiff 'em during 'alf term."

What?!

Then it all became clear - why there were no scrummies down the gym ... why there were kids everywhere like a packs of wild, uneducated, spitting, swearing, chavvy animals.

Yes readers - have pity on me. Because once again, I've booked my time off during sodding half term.

Ingrid's bits

Shortly after leaving school, I went to work for Visual Imagination, and spent a happy two and half years in their graphics department, creating all sorts of silly nonsense in photoshop. (It's a dangerous tool in the wrong hands, let me tell you)

One of the most memorable moments from my time at VI came almost exactly a year in, on the day of my 19th birthday.

You see, on that day, we were graced with the presense of a *MOVIE STAR!* (you should all be imagining me in gold top hat and tails, arms outstretched in jazz hands stylee here)

And who was this star of stage and screen, I hear you ask? Well it was none other than Ingrid Pitt, star of shitloads of Hammer Horror productions (and no relation to Brad).

So Ingrid, who at the time was nudging 60, came into the office, all bouffant hair and low-slung top, and was introduced to us all, me being last.

"This is Tim. And it's his birthday."

I remember the look on Ingrid's face; watch Countess Dracula and you'll pretty much see the same thing. Here, she clearly thought, was some fresh blood.

I knew what was happening. As the youngest in the company, I was being offered up as a sacrifice to this vampiric temptress.

Closer she loomed, her rosy red lips pursed, and giddy squeal in her voice: "Ooooo - a BIRTHDAY boy!!"

Did she peck me on the cheek? Did she hug me like an elderly aunt?

No she did not.

She clasped her hands on either side of my head, and plunged my face into her ample bossum. And held me there.

It was like being underwater ... sensory deprivation of the highest order; I was unaware of anything outside of the confines of Ingrid's cleavage.

And she continued to hold me there...

... and hold me there...

... and hold me there...

... you beginning to get the idea? I think someone in the office actually went off and made a cup of tea while I was wedged between her boobs. I nearly asphxyated. But by god, I would've gone a happy man!

Anyway, she eventually released me, and tottered off on her high heels. I don't think I did any work that afternoon.

Fast forward nine-and-a-bit years to me sorting through boxes of old stuff...

What's this!? Yee-gads! It's my favourite childhood story book, Bertie the Bus!


I have very fond memories of this book. Basically, it's all about a bus that time travels back to the Napoleonic wars and, er, helps some wounded soldiers.

Look. Here's Napoleon giving Bertie his thanks.


Now, I bet you're wondering what crackhead inflicts stories about time-traveling buses and Napoleon on small children, hmmm? And, for that matter, what the hell it has to do with the rest of this post? Well look closely at the cover - that would be my movie star friend Ingrid Pitt you just referred to as a crackhead. Don't you think you should apologise?

And do you know what's best about this whole story? Some of my old pals at VI reckon Ingrid would be more than happy to autograph my copy of her time-traveling epic.

I wonder if she'll boob-print it too?

Sometimes you've just got to make your own fun

It's a bank holiday! Hooray!!

And how did I spend this wonderful day? Locked inside rooting through boxes that I'd not bothered to sort through since I moved.

Six months ago.

And do you know what I discovered? I've bought a lot of crap over the years.

(And I mean 'crap' as in 'stuff,' not actual crap, before anyone assumes I'm some sort of stool-storing weirdo)

On the plus side, though, I'd actually set aside a couple of days in which to do this herculean task, and I'm a bit chuffed to say that I got it sorted pretty darn quickly. So, as I'm off work this week, I now find myself with a bit more spare time than I thought I'd have.

Muwahahahahah... MUWAHAHAHAHA!!!!!

To be honest I'll probably just fritter it away watching This Morning with Phillip and Fern, but it's alway nice to think that I might use it for something worthwhile like, oh, I don't know ... looking after orphaned baboons?

I'm also going to head up town to the Apple Store. I want to get a bluetooth thingy for my Mac, but it might be a dangerous move. Chances are I could come out of there with a Macbook, an iPod Nano, an iPod Hi-Fi and an empty bank account.

Aaaaanyway, I also discovered something else today. The floor in my house is so smooth, and the wheels on my office chair so ... er, round, that with one gentle push I can role from my desk into the kitchen. Granted, it's not a long distance, but it made me feel a bit like Dr. Evil, and that is, my friends, 'a good thing.'

It's like human curling without the furious scrubbers.

Here comes the bloody sun

Went out on my bike for a couple of hours today.

Just noticed I got some tan lines.


I look like a freakin' human battenberg.

Anita's back!

I just got another message from Anna/Anita on my myspace page.

She still appears pretty naked, but this time she's offering me a new mortgage deal!

What a gal!

Friday, what a day, working all week for you

In addition to the name thing, so much else of zero interest happened last night.

That mean... Yes, my friends, it's the return of the bullet points: •

•

•
Eek! They're everywhere •!

Erm... OK...

• Basically, a group of us went to Leicester Square last night to see X-Men: The Last Stand, which if you've read this blog before, you'll know I wasn't expecting great things of because, well, IT'S A BRETT RATNER FILM!!! That said, it was pretty entertaining, although not quite X-Men 2. Or X-Men 1. There was some cracking dialogue, though, such as Wolverine's stirring call to arms "C'mon, we're X-Men!", that ranked right up there with The Da Vinci Code's "I need a library - FAST!"

• The cinema had some of the film's props on display and we kept trying to goad Lee into putting on Magneto's costume while the staff weren't looking. I think it would really have suited him and his machiavellian ways.

• Lee almost decapitated himself on an escalator.

• In addition to our proposed new porcine-based coffee beverage Porkacino (still waiting for a response from Starbucks on that one), Jeff, Yaz, and I hammered out a possible new Coca-Cola limited edition flavour: Coke Bong-Water. Because, quite frankly, it couldn't have made Yaz any more giddy than the Diet Coke with Cherry Limited Edition that she had last night. Poor woman was all over the place. God knows what they replaced the sugar with...

• We had drinks in a bar called Fudge, which served, er, fudge, in little ramikin-type things. Yaz mistook it for an ashtray, however, so we were all denied any fudge-based fun.

• A new style of dance was invented when Lee asked me why I wasn't drinking. As I had a mouthful of Coke (a-cola), I made the international gesture for using a steering wheel, thus indicating that I was driving later. He thought this meant I was off clubbing. Within ten minutes the dance had been extended to include 'indicators' and 'mirror, signal, maneuvre.' All the kids will be doing it in Ritz's nightclubs up and down the country by the end of the month.

• According to Lee, I can dance "really well." (which is a vicious rumour)

• But wait! The biggest revelation of the night came when Yaz announced that she'd heard of a club on Oxford Street where – get this – dwarves and dogs fight! YES! DWARVES. And DOGS. FIGHTING.

I wanted to go! I wanted to see little people savagely attacking dogs (which, you should all know, I'm not a big fan of). I would've put money on the little people! I want to see midgets body-slamming labradors!!!!!

There was just one flaw that stopped me downing my drink and sprinting round to Oxford Street.

The club shut in the 1800s.

DAMN!

What's in a name?

When I was young I wanted to change my name to Wolfgang. I REALLY wanted to change my name to Wolfgang.

In hindsight, I really don't know why I thought this was a good idea, but I was pretty dead-set on it. I was about ready to rock up to the deed-poll office and... well, get them to cross out 'Tim' and write 'Wolfgang' on all my school books.

Then at some point, common sense came up, ripped off my arm, and hit me with the wet end.

Tim I remained.

Sometimes I wistfully think what life would've been like as a Wolfgang. A bit twatish, probably; I expect people would always be taking the piss.

Anyway, someone asked me the other day what I would be called if I'd been given the chance to name myself.

"Raoul," I replied without batting an eyelid.

WHOA! Where the hell did that come from? But there's something to be said for letting your subconscious do the talking. Raoul, let's face it, is a pretty funky name. And certainly a bit more user friendly than Wolfgang in everyday situations.

Also on the plus side, it suggests something a bit ... dangerous? Exotic? Ooo - 'mysterious' (d'ya like the quotes? I thought that made mysterious seem a little bit more, well, er, mysterious...)

People would say "Hey Raoul," and I'd nod in their direction in a dangerous, exotic, and mysterious manner. And they'd feel blessed that Raoul had deigned to acknowledge them.

(I subsequently realised that Raoul probably came from listening to The Automatic a bit too much, if anyone cares)

But to bring this full circle, Yaz and I were tubing it up town this evening on our way to see X-Men: The Last Stand (last stand my arse), when I overheard some random numpty say "I'm thinking of changing my name."

I nearly said "me too!" but then his conversation took a really bizarre turn.

"Yeah, I know some guy who changed his name to Megatron."

Now that's just silly. Unless Megatron is a Transformer, that is.

Gordon Brown is a monkey lover, apparently

Not THAT kind of monkey lover, pervert.

No, apparently the first thing that wild party animal we all know and love as Gordon Brown: Chancellor of the Exchequer listens to in the morning is... The Arctic Monkeys!

Yes, THE ARCTIC MONKEYS!!

Now this just smacks of some spin doctor whispering in his ear before an interview.

"Tell them you listen to the Arctic Monkeys, that'll win the kids over."

"The who?"

"No, they're a bit too sixties. The Arctic Monkeys."

"Come again?"

I mean, really, there's more chances of winged monkeys flying out of my bum than Gordon Brown listening to anything remotely current.

To prove my point, I stole his iPod, and for anyone who cares, the selection of songs he's currently listening to include 'Money, money, money' by Abba, 'Money' by Pink Floyd, 'Money's too tight to mention' by Simply Red, and 'I want it all' by Queen.

Does anyone see a recurring theme there?

Personally, I think I'll pop over to iTunes and download some Stranglers hits. For some reason I just can't get the line "Gordon Brown, texture like scum" out of my head...

Water is precious, OK?

I got a letter from Thames Water the other day telling me that there's a drought, and I should do my best to try to cut down on unnecessary water usage.


Now, I had a lot of time to think about this while I was relaxing in the bath after spending the afternoon washing not only my car, but those belonging to all the neighbour's as well, with a high-pressure hose. (Which is a pretty exhausting way to spend an afternoon, let me tell you)

So I'd just like to ask that you all take a moment to think about how you use water - let's all be a little more responsible in future, hmmm?

We can all do our bit to stop the water shortage - whether it be drinking your own wee or sacrificing your first-born to the rain gods, it's up to you! (Take your pick of rain gods here and here. I really don't think it matters which one you choose)

Now, I love a good sacrifice as much as the next man, so c'mon people! SAVE WATER!!

Just don't let all the rain we're having at the moment put you off, OK?

Cherie Blair loves tuberculosis

Have you seen the badge she's wearing? She's a very odd woman...

A load of old kabollocks

Has anyone noticed that the Royal Mail have started to use red elastic bands to hold piles of letters together?

No? Well, they have. Just look at the ground in any London street and you'll no doubt find them. I think the posties are engaged in some kind of ongoing street war, only armed with lacky bands not water pistols.

Anyway, these red elastic bands appear to be breeding in the office, so I've started to collect them together in an attempt to make a lacky band ball about the size of a basketball. And when it's complete I'll take it down to Ravenscourt Park and shoot some hoops. More on this project in the future, no doubt.

Where was I? (God, I'm off on all different sorts of tangents today...) Oh yeah, red elastic bands in the office, right. So, in the course of collecting these bands I inevitably put them round my wrist.

Like so:


(Gosh, does my wrist look fat in that?)

Suddenly today, I realised that these bands made me look like a follower of Kabbalah, except my wristbands don't protect me from evil, or cost 26 dollars.

That got me thinking - maybe I should join a religion! Now, the last time I was in a house of worship was when I was about nine, and I was only there because the head of Beavers threatened to chuck me out unless I went to church parade. Bitch. (I later spoke to her in tongues, spat on her, and told her she'd be smote. Smitten? Smitted? Whatever, it had the desired effect and she left me to my own God-less devices, albeit while occasionally trying to splash me with holy water)

Thing is, I wouldn't want to join any old religion. No way. And I'm sure you all know what the most fun one looks to be.

Yes my friends, Scientology!

Scientology looks fascinating on so many levels, not least because Tom Cruise looks like he's having a ball. Well, Katie Holmes actually looked like she was having a ball until she dropped the sprogg. Did you see the size of that girl's bump? Geez!

But, yeah, Scientology looks to be the way forward. Particularly as I was reading the other day that each year a group of followers pay 10,000 dollars to head out into the desert to try and will a spaceship to rise out of the sands and whisk them off to Alpha Centauri or wherever the hell it is they come from.

And let's face it, baby, if there's anyone on the planet who can will a giant spaceship out of the ground with the power of his mind, it's me.

I've been waiting for the chance to snag my very own spaceship since the first time I saw Flight of the Navigator.

Lookey-likey!

I was out and about with my pal Jo on Saturday evening. When I say 'out and about' I actually mean 'sitting in the Haagan Das cafe in the Odeon cinema in Kingston getting an extreme sugar rush from an intense chocolate milkshake and watching trailers being projected onto the wall.'

Oh, and while I think about it:

Dear Jo,
I apologise for calling you 'me ol' pal' in a previous post, when, in fact, you are actually six months younger than me. It won't happen again, and was written purely for comedy value with no intention of causing offence. I understand, however, that girls can be very easily offended by comments relating to age, but don't worry, I reckon you've got a good year or so in front of you before you'll need to take any drastic action to ward off the passage of time.
Love ya!
Tim

Anyway, where was I...? Oh yeah - Jo and I started talking about the Star Trek episode 'Operation: Annihilate' as a clip had been shown on telly the night before. Now, Jo isn't a Star Trek fan, so she was on dangerous ground here because she knows that one mention of Trek and I can talk till the cows come home. Being a polite young chap, however, I reigned myself in on this occasion.

So Jo mentioned that this was the first - and possibly only - episode of Star Trek she'd seen. Hell! Same here!! (Although in contrast to Jo, I subsequently watched every other episode) The scene where that Denevan Neural Parasite flies off the ground and slaps Spock on the back was seared into my mind.

That said, I recall that it freaked the five year-old me out a little; I wouldn't eat pizza for years, fearing it would leap off the plate and savage me.

Got me thinking though... If I equated a Neural Parasite with a pizza, what other things on this planet we call Earth look alike?

Hmmm...

Well, let's start with the obvious:


Mmmm! That looks freakin' appetising!

Now... what else ... Oh, yes:


Although, really, this comparison falls apart when you realise that the toilet brush actually serves a useful purpose.

Um... Riiiiight ... how about this to round off:


Now, seriously, I don't have a clue what's going on in the lefthand picture. But he looks happy, so it's probably best we leave him to it.