Despite the fact that you stroll into work thinking Monday's going to be relatively easy, there's always something that goes wrong. And to be honest, the fact that we're supposed to have an issue at the printers tomorrow and we only started it today hasn't been the pinnacle of today's trauma tree (oh, publishing - it's such a gas! We're all so anarchic and frivalous!)
No, first of all, I bought some new cereal. Oatabix, the new oaty cousin of Weetabix. Shitabix more like. Y'see, it tasted like shit. One to avoid, my friends.
Then, at lunchtime, it took me about a minute to get a plate out of the cupboard. For some reason I couldn't get a grip on the damned thing. I must've looked terribly spackerish squatting on the floor and apparently stroking all the plates. Then, to my horror, I discovered that the toaster had bust, and to actually toast my bagel I had to stand there holding the friggin' button thing down. And I kept having to lean over the toaster to see if my bagel was toasted; quite frankly I'm amazed I actually have any eyebrows left.
To add insult to injury, I then burnt my finger getting the bagel out of the toaster. For a brief minute I considered plunging it into my fresh from the fridge tub of butter to cool it off, but then I realised that's probably quite unhygenic. So I put it in someone else's butter instead.
And then, in the afternoon, I discovered that penology means something completely different to what I assumed it meant!
You learn something every day, huh?
Monday, September 18, 2006
Sunday, September 17, 2006
All good things...
Well, this has been a weird couple of days. Weird good, not weird bad. I seem to have entered some sort of bizarre comfort zone/nostalgia spiral.
First of all, yep - I finished that last TNG issue on Friday; ran it close to the wire too. It was like the old Star Trek Fact Files days where we just about got everything finished at the same moment as the Fedex guy walked in the door to take it away. Of course, there are still little bits to tidy up here and there, but editorially I'm done. So that left me kind of relieved, exhausted, sad, and elated all at the same time. Thinking of the old Fact Files days. Thinking of how fast three years on TNG has gone by (my boss couldn't believe it either; "F**K! You still look 16," he said to me). Realising we've still got a LOT to do on the new TOS project. Maybe that's part of the nostalgia thing too. The original Star Trek has always been a bit of a comfort zone for me, and I'm looking now at potentially (all things going well) a years worth of work dedicated to it.
Then there's The OC. I love this show, and I've been mainlining the third season DVD boxset over the last couple of days. This is another comfort thing. Even if I'm in a bad mood (which I'm SO NOT!) The OC just takes my mind off it. Maybe it's the beautiful scenary. Maybe it's the bright colours and sunshine. Maybe it's Kirsten Cohen and Julie Cooper?
Next up is music. I got some free downloads from iTunes, so I spent an hour or so trawling around trying to find some decent songs to download; I thought about the new Killers track, because it's grown on me a hell of a lot. I even thought about Sexyback by J*st*n T*mb*rl*k* because I inexplicably liked his last album and this track. But what did I end up buying? Get Ready by Roachford because it's a cracking toon that reminds me of a family holiday we took to Cornwall years ago. Damn, I even almost downloaded Mmmm Mmmm Mmmm by the Crash Test Dummies!
And then there's Love and Rockets. I've made it quite obvious before that I love Love and Rockets, but I usually wait for the collected editions to catch up with what the characters are upto. But there I was in the comic shop on Thursday and there was the latest issue, and I just bought it. I haven't read it yet, and I doubt I'll understand much because it's probably mid-way through a story arc. But I just felt like checking in with Maggie and Hopey and all the other characters to see how they are doing. It's going to be a long time until the next book, y'see.
I also got in touch with an old mate I haven't seen in aaaaaaages. We're meeting for a bevvy later in the week.
And finally, I sorted out some bit 'n bobs to do with my aforementioned scheming, so fingers crossed on that front. I ran my half-formed plan past Sweatband the other day and rather than laugh in my face and slap my forehead repeatedly she actually thought it was quite good. See - even when I'm stuck in a comforting nostalgia zone I've still got one eye on the future...
First of all, yep - I finished that last TNG issue on Friday; ran it close to the wire too. It was like the old Star Trek Fact Files days where we just about got everything finished at the same moment as the Fedex guy walked in the door to take it away. Of course, there are still little bits to tidy up here and there, but editorially I'm done. So that left me kind of relieved, exhausted, sad, and elated all at the same time. Thinking of the old Fact Files days. Thinking of how fast three years on TNG has gone by (my boss couldn't believe it either; "F**K! You still look 16," he said to me). Realising we've still got a LOT to do on the new TOS project. Maybe that's part of the nostalgia thing too. The original Star Trek has always been a bit of a comfort zone for me, and I'm looking now at potentially (all things going well) a years worth of work dedicated to it.
Then there's The OC. I love this show, and I've been mainlining the third season DVD boxset over the last couple of days. This is another comfort thing. Even if I'm in a bad mood (which I'm SO NOT!) The OC just takes my mind off it. Maybe it's the beautiful scenary. Maybe it's the bright colours and sunshine. Maybe it's Kirsten Cohen and Julie Cooper?
Next up is music. I got some free downloads from iTunes, so I spent an hour or so trawling around trying to find some decent songs to download; I thought about the new Killers track, because it's grown on me a hell of a lot. I even thought about Sexyback by J*st*n T*mb*rl*k* because I inexplicably liked his last album and this track. But what did I end up buying? Get Ready by Roachford because it's a cracking toon that reminds me of a family holiday we took to Cornwall years ago. Damn, I even almost downloaded Mmmm Mmmm Mmmm by the Crash Test Dummies!
And then there's Love and Rockets. I've made it quite obvious before that I love Love and Rockets, but I usually wait for the collected editions to catch up with what the characters are upto. But there I was in the comic shop on Thursday and there was the latest issue, and I just bought it. I haven't read it yet, and I doubt I'll understand much because it's probably mid-way through a story arc. But I just felt like checking in with Maggie and Hopey and all the other characters to see how they are doing. It's going to be a long time until the next book, y'see.
I also got in touch with an old mate I haven't seen in aaaaaaages. We're meeting for a bevvy later in the week.
And finally, I sorted out some bit 'n bobs to do with my aforementioned scheming, so fingers crossed on that front. I ran my half-formed plan past Sweatband the other day and rather than laugh in my face and slap my forehead repeatedly she actually thought it was quite good. See - even when I'm stuck in a comforting nostalgia zone I've still got one eye on the future...
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Paper plague
I stayed at work a bit later tonight, and rather than rush off decided to wander down to Hammersmith for a post work coffee (which actually turned into a post work caramel hot chocolate, but that's sorta irrelevent).
Anyway, I was wandering down Hammersmith high street when I noticed something. A sea of people dressed in purple. What was this, I thought, some bizarre cult of... purpalists? No, it was not, I soon realised.
For those who don't live in or around London, let me fill you in on recent events: London is a warzone, and the combatants are free newspapers.
We used to just have the Metro, a free (and rather excellent) newspaper available in the mornings at tube stations. Now there's two new evening freebies - TheLondonPaper and London Lite. And the streets are pratically jam-packed with greasy little people trying to ram them into you hands as you go about your evening business. I reckon I had about five offers in two minutes (for free newspapers, I mean).
And where TheLondonPaper people are standing, London Lite people move in - and vice versa. I actually thought two newspaper numpties might start beating each other with wads of free papers. Well, hoped more like - I could've recorded it on my phone and popped it up on YouTube. There's nothing more exciting than a bit of newspaper-based happy-slapping.
Anyway, I took a copy of TheLondonPaper to read in Starbucks; it was OK, but, and please excuse my editor's eye here, poorly designed and a bit lacking in content. It clearly thinks it's the next best thing in bringing news to the masses. Well I've got news for you, buddy: the internet does it better, quicker, and on better quality paper if you print it out on photographic stock.
As soon as I binned my copy, two purple-clad news warriors zeroed in on me to try and give me a replacement. I gave them the patented Sparky withering glance.
I did not checkout a copy of London Lite, but if the front cover is anything to go by I think the Cockney-rhyming slang online dictionary could have a new definition for shite.
-----
Junk mail is also a growing problem at Sparky Towers; when I bought my house last year, Sparky Ma gave me a 'NO JUNK MAIL' sticker for the front door. And it worked for a time. Then it began to curl at one corner so it kind of read 'O JUNK MAIL' as if I was declaring some sort of breathless exhilaration at the prospect of junk mail.
However, it's continued to curl a bit more, so it now simply reads 'JUNK MAIL,' which suggests that I've designated my letter box as a repository for any and all forms of unsolicited post.
Either way, I've pledged that if I'm ever here and someone tries to push a load through my door, I'll take it straight back out to them, shake my fist in their face, and call them an imbecile. Mark my words - I've learned my lesson from the only previous occasion on which that's happened: by the time I'd unlocked the porch door, picked up the supermarket-based junk mail, unlocked the front door, and noticed in a quick glance at the offending mail that Budgens had six packs of Pepsi Max on a two-for-one special the sneaky bastard had gotten away.
Anyway, I was wandering down Hammersmith high street when I noticed something. A sea of people dressed in purple. What was this, I thought, some bizarre cult of... purpalists? No, it was not, I soon realised.
For those who don't live in or around London, let me fill you in on recent events: London is a warzone, and the combatants are free newspapers.
We used to just have the Metro, a free (and rather excellent) newspaper available in the mornings at tube stations. Now there's two new evening freebies - TheLondonPaper and London Lite. And the streets are pratically jam-packed with greasy little people trying to ram them into you hands as you go about your evening business. I reckon I had about five offers in two minutes (for free newspapers, I mean).
And where TheLondonPaper people are standing, London Lite people move in - and vice versa. I actually thought two newspaper numpties might start beating each other with wads of free papers. Well, hoped more like - I could've recorded it on my phone and popped it up on YouTube. There's nothing more exciting than a bit of newspaper-based happy-slapping.
Anyway, I took a copy of TheLondonPaper to read in Starbucks; it was OK, but, and please excuse my editor's eye here, poorly designed and a bit lacking in content. It clearly thinks it's the next best thing in bringing news to the masses. Well I've got news for you, buddy: the internet does it better, quicker, and on better quality paper if you print it out on photographic stock.
As soon as I binned my copy, two purple-clad news warriors zeroed in on me to try and give me a replacement. I gave them the patented Sparky withering glance.
I did not checkout a copy of London Lite, but if the front cover is anything to go by I think the Cockney-rhyming slang online dictionary could have a new definition for shite.
-----
Junk mail is also a growing problem at Sparky Towers; when I bought my house last year, Sparky Ma gave me a 'NO JUNK MAIL' sticker for the front door. And it worked for a time. Then it began to curl at one corner so it kind of read 'O JUNK MAIL' as if I was declaring some sort of breathless exhilaration at the prospect of junk mail.
However, it's continued to curl a bit more, so it now simply reads 'JUNK MAIL,' which suggests that I've designated my letter box as a repository for any and all forms of unsolicited post.
Either way, I've pledged that if I'm ever here and someone tries to push a load through my door, I'll take it straight back out to them, shake my fist in their face, and call them an imbecile. Mark my words - I've learned my lesson from the only previous occasion on which that's happened: by the time I'd unlocked the porch door, picked up the supermarket-based junk mail, unlocked the front door, and noticed in a quick glance at the offending mail that Budgens had six packs of Pepsi Max on a two-for-one special the sneaky bastard had gotten away.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Bye bye Balok
You might've noticed that I've changed my profile picture. One of the reasons for this is that a lot of people found little Clint Howard a tad scary. My brother hasn't read this blog since I replaced The Brain with Clint.
My new pic is courtesy of comic book pal Graham; he whipped it up as a birthday card for me a few years back. Awesome innit? It's amazing what you can do with a dodgy photo of yours truly and a 'Captain Kirk Ken' (aside from putting him in naughty positions with 'Hailing Frequencies Open Barbie').
So it's bye bye Balok!
Lordy. That is a face only a mother could love.
My new pic is courtesy of comic book pal Graham; he whipped it up as a birthday card for me a few years back. Awesome innit? It's amazing what you can do with a dodgy photo of yours truly and a 'Captain Kirk Ken' (aside from putting him in naughty positions with 'Hailing Frequencies Open Barbie').
So it's bye bye Balok!
Lordy. That is a face only a mother could love.
It's awesome Thursday
I apologise in advance if your Thursday is not quite as good as mine. I don't know why mine is so awesome today, it just is; accept that, go with the flow, enjoy it.
How the hell has yours been?
So we've all had fun with the testicles thing, huh? I'm going to draw a line under them now though (not literally), mostly because you've all made me want to pee every time I've read your comments. Shucks, you lot are funny!
And what am I going to draw a line under them with? Why, my new biro! There's something incredibly satisfying about a new biro. And by biro, I do mean the REALLY cheap ones - the ones that cost about 20p for a box of four million. I don't know what's so satisfying about them - maybe it's the disposability factor. Maybe it's because they taste so ... neutral, and look so natural when I push one to my mouth in a sexy yet thoughtful manner. I don't know. What I do know is that after a tea-based incident this morning which rendered my previous biro moist and able to write only in Earl Grey, I needed a new biro.
And by gum, we got some doozies with our last stationary order. A transparent body, a firm nib, and a matt black cap. Cheap biro heaven, my friends, cheap biro heaven.
-----
I'm officially on the road to stud-muffinliness. A while back I signed up to an Innocent drinks thingy whereby every now and then they drop a few bottles of smoothies into the office - ABSOLUTELY FREE! Hurrah!
Today I was just sitting finishing some work off when a perky little blonde lady walked into the office (through the door, I hasten to add; she didn't just slam into the wall), and called out my name.
"Yes," I said, after determining that she wasn't a nutter. I mean, she could've been, but attractive nutters are acceptable.
"I'm from Innocent," she said, plonking TWO BOXES of mango and passion fruit cartons on the floor. TWENTY FOUR CARTONS OF SMOOTHIES!!!!
"WOW! Thanks," I said.
"That's alright," she replied. Then she just stood there, smiling and blinking at me.
I thus determined that I had a three-pronged course of action:
1) Say "Well go on, your work here is done - bugger off."
2) Give her a free copy of our latest issue. She might've quite liked a figurine of Mister Spock.
3) Pull her towards me and kiss her passionately on the lips like Captain Kirk, and teach her about this human thing called love.
Sadly, while I spent time pondering what to do, she realised that her work here was done, and she turned around and left. Still, I know where she works; I park my car opposite their office. Hubba hubba.
(This is, of course, purely innocent; I just want to make sure I get my five portions per day. Of fruit and veg! Get yer mind outta the gutter!!)
-----
As much as I like Innocent smoothies, I don't like bits in my drink. As such, I often, erm, strain the bits out of juices (or buy smooth if possible). And with so many cartons of smoothies, I decided that I needed to buy a strainer for home. So I did. And then I got home and realised I didn't have it. So I rushed back outside, only to find that I'd dropped it in the road. I swooped it up just moments before it was run over by a Vauxhall Tigra of all things.
Could you imagine the look on the cashier's face if I'd had to take it back to Tesco?
Anyway, the only downside to straining smoothies is that it takes an age, and your left with masses of what can only be described as fruit paste to dispose of. I suppose I could always use it to fill some holes in the wall...
-----
I was sent a photo of me from Tuesday's party today, sporting my school boy/popstar stud-muffin look. Another reminder of the party is in the form of a small plastic heart badge that we were all given and made to wear. It has flashy lights that won't turn off, and I can't quite work out if it's the coolest freebie I've ever gotten at a party, or the stupidest.
You decide:
Oh, and it also gave me quite a fright on Tuesday when I got home. Why are my trousers pulsing with blue light, I wondered? I've subsequently stashed it in my desk drawer, and it scares the tits out of me every time I open it for something. I wonder how long until the batteries run out...?
-----
As good as today has been, it's also been tinged with a hint of sadness. Y'see, tomorrow I will officially finish the final issue of our Star Trek: The Next Generation DVD magazine. I owe this publication a lot; to be honest, almost three years ago, I actually opened a blank word document to write my letter of resignation from the company after spending a year working on non-Trekkie magazines following the end of The Official Star Trek Fact Files which I previously worked on. Just as I was about to type 'Dear...' my boss called me up and said "Star Trek's coming back to life!"
I never looked back - and now we're almost done, something that seemed almost unimaginable back in 2003. So with 70 issues behind us, and the two newbie Star Trek mags now released into the wild, I raise my glass of mango and passion fruit smoothie to The Next Generation. Make it so!
How the hell has yours been?
So we've all had fun with the testicles thing, huh? I'm going to draw a line under them now though (not literally), mostly because you've all made me want to pee every time I've read your comments. Shucks, you lot are funny!
And what am I going to draw a line under them with? Why, my new biro! There's something incredibly satisfying about a new biro. And by biro, I do mean the REALLY cheap ones - the ones that cost about 20p for a box of four million. I don't know what's so satisfying about them - maybe it's the disposability factor. Maybe it's because they taste so ... neutral, and look so natural when I push one to my mouth in a sexy yet thoughtful manner. I don't know. What I do know is that after a tea-based incident this morning which rendered my previous biro moist and able to write only in Earl Grey, I needed a new biro.
And by gum, we got some doozies with our last stationary order. A transparent body, a firm nib, and a matt black cap. Cheap biro heaven, my friends, cheap biro heaven.
-----
I'm officially on the road to stud-muffinliness. A while back I signed up to an Innocent drinks thingy whereby every now and then they drop a few bottles of smoothies into the office - ABSOLUTELY FREE! Hurrah!
Today I was just sitting finishing some work off when a perky little blonde lady walked into the office (through the door, I hasten to add; she didn't just slam into the wall), and called out my name.
"Yes," I said, after determining that she wasn't a nutter. I mean, she could've been, but attractive nutters are acceptable.
"I'm from Innocent," she said, plonking TWO BOXES of mango and passion fruit cartons on the floor. TWENTY FOUR CARTONS OF SMOOTHIES!!!!
"WOW! Thanks," I said.
"That's alright," she replied. Then she just stood there, smiling and blinking at me.
I thus determined that I had a three-pronged course of action:
1) Say "Well go on, your work here is done - bugger off."
2) Give her a free copy of our latest issue. She might've quite liked a figurine of Mister Spock.
3) Pull her towards me and kiss her passionately on the lips like Captain Kirk, and teach her about this human thing called love.
Sadly, while I spent time pondering what to do, she realised that her work here was done, and she turned around and left. Still, I know where she works; I park my car opposite their office. Hubba hubba.
(This is, of course, purely innocent; I just want to make sure I get my five portions per day. Of fruit and veg! Get yer mind outta the gutter!!)
-----
As much as I like Innocent smoothies, I don't like bits in my drink. As such, I often, erm, strain the bits out of juices (or buy smooth if possible). And with so many cartons of smoothies, I decided that I needed to buy a strainer for home. So I did. And then I got home and realised I didn't have it. So I rushed back outside, only to find that I'd dropped it in the road. I swooped it up just moments before it was run over by a Vauxhall Tigra of all things.
Could you imagine the look on the cashier's face if I'd had to take it back to Tesco?
Anyway, the only downside to straining smoothies is that it takes an age, and your left with masses of what can only be described as fruit paste to dispose of. I suppose I could always use it to fill some holes in the wall...
-----
I was sent a photo of me from Tuesday's party today, sporting my school boy/popstar stud-muffin look. Another reminder of the party is in the form of a small plastic heart badge that we were all given and made to wear. It has flashy lights that won't turn off, and I can't quite work out if it's the coolest freebie I've ever gotten at a party, or the stupidest.
You decide:
Oh, and it also gave me quite a fright on Tuesday when I got home. Why are my trousers pulsing with blue light, I wondered? I've subsequently stashed it in my desk drawer, and it scares the tits out of me every time I open it for something. I wonder how long until the batteries run out...?
-----
As good as today has been, it's also been tinged with a hint of sadness. Y'see, tomorrow I will officially finish the final issue of our Star Trek: The Next Generation DVD magazine. I owe this publication a lot; to be honest, almost three years ago, I actually opened a blank word document to write my letter of resignation from the company after spending a year working on non-Trekkie magazines following the end of The Official Star Trek Fact Files which I previously worked on. Just as I was about to type 'Dear...' my boss called me up and said "Star Trek's coming back to life!"
I never looked back - and now we're almost done, something that seemed almost unimaginable back in 2003. So with 70 issues behind us, and the two newbie Star Trek mags now released into the wild, I raise my glass of mango and passion fruit smoothie to The Next Generation. Make it so!
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
A load of old balls - AKA: shameless thievery
Now, I'm not a massive fan of him in general, but there was a feature on Richard Bacon's Xfm radio show today that actually reduced me to tears of laughter.
The basic gist of it was that you had to insert the word 'testicals' or 'testes' into a the name of a well-known television show, the idea being that hilarity would ensue.
Thus, there were answers such as:
Faulty Testicals (towers)
Testicals or no Testicals (Deal or no Deal)
Teletesticals (Teletubbies)
One foot in the Testicals (One foot in the Grave)
America's Next Top Testical (model)
And so on.
Well, seeing as I found it so amusing, I thought you lot would too. So I've stolen the idea. Except let's do it with movie titles, because they're a bit more universal than TV shows.
I'll start you off with:
Desperately Seeking Testicals
The Testical Strikes Back
Testical Story
You, Me, and Testicals
Back to the Testical
Pirates of the Testicals
Sky Captain and the World of Testicals
The Good, the Bad, and the Testicals
Go crazy kids!
The basic gist of it was that you had to insert the word 'testicals' or 'testes' into a the name of a well-known television show, the idea being that hilarity would ensue.
Thus, there were answers such as:
Faulty Testicals (towers)
Testicals or no Testicals (Deal or no Deal)
Teletesticals (Teletubbies)
One foot in the Testicals (One foot in the Grave)
America's Next Top Testical (model)
And so on.
Well, seeing as I found it so amusing, I thought you lot would too. So I've stolen the idea. Except let's do it with movie titles, because they're a bit more universal than TV shows.
I'll start you off with:
Desperately Seeking Testicals
The Testical Strikes Back
Testical Story
You, Me, and Testicals
Back to the Testical
Pirates of the Testicals
Sky Captain and the World of Testicals
The Good, the Bad, and the Testicals
Go crazy kids!
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
2.4 hour party person
I'm back! From the party, that is. D'you know, I actually had rather a good time (I usually dread these sort of things). The Kensington Roof Gardens is an amazing venue (though I didn't catch sight of the much-rumoured native flamingoes). I caught up with some good friends, met some people I hadn't seen in a while, some fascinating new people, and a magician called Sav who did things with cards and coins that no one should be able to do. I actually called him a witch at one point and threatened to burn him; apparently Richard Bacon said the very same thing to him. I suppose it's an occupational hazard.
I was told by one lady that I looked like a pop star. Or a schoolboy. I said I'd probably go with the pop star thing. She replied that the older ladies quite like the schoolboy look. I'm officially a stud-muffin. Or a whore. I don't know which...
Oh, and it seems like my scheming might just pay off... I ran my idea past a very good colleague, and she thought it was great, so I officially have a 'LONG TERM GOAL' now. Which is exciting and nerve-wracking all in one go. Hurrah!
I left after two and a bit hours feeling refreshed, energised, and excited (not in that way, perverts). What a top evening.
I was told by one lady that I looked like a pop star. Or a schoolboy. I said I'd probably go with the pop star thing. She replied that the older ladies quite like the schoolboy look. I'm officially a stud-muffin. Or a whore. I don't know which...
Oh, and it seems like my scheming might just pay off... I ran my idea past a very good colleague, and she thought it was great, so I officially have a 'LONG TERM GOAL' now. Which is exciting and nerve-wracking all in one go. Hurrah!
I left after two and a bit hours feeling refreshed, energised, and excited (not in that way, perverts). What a top evening.
Monday, September 11, 2006
And so Sparky schemes...
Before I begin, look at this:
Sainsbury's have friggin' Christmas things out! It's SEPTEMBER. Goddamn! HAPPY GODDAMN FREAKIN' CHRISTMAS! WOO-HOO!!
*Ahem*
Where was I? Oh yeah, 'Sparky schemes.' How machiavellian (and yes I did spell that right). Indeed, I am scheming. I've got a plan... a possibly exciting plan...
I'm off to an exciting party tomorrow. We tend to have a lot of those in the publishing world. I say 'we,' but I actually mean 'other people.' Either way, I very rarely go to them. Not because I'm above it all, merely because... well, I can't be arsed, actually. That sounds rude, and looking back over it, it is. But, y'know, whatever.
Anyway, I'm going to this one, for a number of reasons; one being that it's at the Kensington Roof Gardens, which aside from being very posh and expensive simply intrigues me, and another being that I'm... scheming... Muwahahahahaha!
Anyway, the dress code says "gorgeous." I'm not sure I can manage that, but I'll definitely wear my shiny shoes.
Sainsbury's have friggin' Christmas things out! It's SEPTEMBER. Goddamn! HAPPY GODDAMN FREAKIN' CHRISTMAS! WOO-HOO!!
*Ahem*
Where was I? Oh yeah, 'Sparky schemes.' How machiavellian (and yes I did spell that right). Indeed, I am scheming. I've got a plan... a possibly exciting plan...
I'm off to an exciting party tomorrow. We tend to have a lot of those in the publishing world. I say 'we,' but I actually mean 'other people.' Either way, I very rarely go to them. Not because I'm above it all, merely because... well, I can't be arsed, actually. That sounds rude, and looking back over it, it is. But, y'know, whatever.
Anyway, I'm going to this one, for a number of reasons; one being that it's at the Kensington Roof Gardens, which aside from being very posh and expensive simply intrigues me, and another being that I'm... scheming... Muwahahahahaha!
Anyway, the dress code says "gorgeous." I'm not sure I can manage that, but I'll definitely wear my shiny shoes.
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Shoe'd!
So there I am, sitting on my comfy sofa watching the first disc of The OC season three boxset, and what do I see?
Another big spider walking across my living room floor.
Well, this time I was ready.
In one swift, ninja-esque move I leapt from the sofa, pulling a shoe off my foot in mid air. As I reached my apex, I held the shoe aloft, and then began to bring it down in a fateful arc of fury.
In an instant justice was dispensed upon my eight-legged enemy, and it was rendered dead in an explosion of legs and spider juice.
Nothing, I repeat NOTHING, comes between me and The OC.
Another big spider walking across my living room floor.
Well, this time I was ready.
In one swift, ninja-esque move I leapt from the sofa, pulling a shoe off my foot in mid air. As I reached my apex, I held the shoe aloft, and then began to bring it down in a fateful arc of fury.
In an instant justice was dispensed upon my eight-legged enemy, and it was rendered dead in an explosion of legs and spider juice.
Nothing, I repeat NOTHING, comes between me and The OC.
Get cape, wear cape, die
Sweatband and I have been talking about the upcoming Hampton Court 10k, which is, ooo, three weeks away (yee gads!).
Anyway, Sweatband, being super-hardcore, is a bit worried that the event is going to be full of, and I quote "beginners," who will hold us up in our attempt to complete the run in super-quick times. I suggested that she could just shout "GET OUTTA MY F**KIN' WAY!!!" or wield an electric cattleprod in the general direction of any ditherers. I think she likes both ideas, to be honest.
We've also discussed ways to amuse ourselves while running. And that's when I mentioned that we could do the run in fancy dress (having just found what looks like an awesome fancy dress shop in Twickenham). I thought Sweatband would laugh this off, then poke me with her cattleprod and tell me to stop being so stupid. Thing is, she actually quite liked the idea.
And so we planned this a little bit more in-depth: I would be Superman (obviously), and she would be Supergirl (because she's a girl).
Sod the times, I thought, we'll have superhero fun instead!
Then I had a bit of an email conversation with Lee, who reminded me of the sequence of events in The Incredibles in which they reveal the fate of several caped superheroes.
And I decided that I'd make do with the traditional shorts and t-shirt combo. There's a reason it's an established athletic classic.
That said, I might just hire the Superman suit and wear it around the house. Or go to work in it.
Anyway, Sweatband, being super-hardcore, is a bit worried that the event is going to be full of, and I quote "beginners," who will hold us up in our attempt to complete the run in super-quick times. I suggested that she could just shout "GET OUTTA MY F**KIN' WAY!!!" or wield an electric cattleprod in the general direction of any ditherers. I think she likes both ideas, to be honest.
We've also discussed ways to amuse ourselves while running. And that's when I mentioned that we could do the run in fancy dress (having just found what looks like an awesome fancy dress shop in Twickenham). I thought Sweatband would laugh this off, then poke me with her cattleprod and tell me to stop being so stupid. Thing is, she actually quite liked the idea.
And so we planned this a little bit more in-depth: I would be Superman (obviously), and she would be Supergirl (because she's a girl).
Sod the times, I thought, we'll have superhero fun instead!
Then I had a bit of an email conversation with Lee, who reminded me of the sequence of events in The Incredibles in which they reveal the fate of several caped superheroes.
And I decided that I'd make do with the traditional shorts and t-shirt combo. There's a reason it's an established athletic classic.
That said, I might just hire the Superman suit and wear it around the house. Or go to work in it.
Saturday night trauma
As you might guess from the post heading, last night was a little bit traumatic for me.
Everything was going fine initially; popped over to see Sparky Ma and Pa after their holiday to Cornwall. Even with bad weather they somehow managed to get a tan - I ask you, what's that all about? I countered with my tanlines from the bike ride last week, but when Sparky Ma tans, she tans good. I looked like a half-arsed tanning spacker next to her.
So we had a lovely dinner, watched The X-Factor together as a family (somehow it's developed into a tradition), then I decided to head off. Bizarrely, as I stood on the pavement bidding Sparky Ma farewell, one of our former neighbours zoomed down the road in his car, almost hit me, waved hello, and zoomed off. It was very random.
Anyway, I got in the Sparky mobile, and decided to head to Kingston for a late coffee in Borders. So I get their, I wander in, have a look at some books, and am just about to go upstairs to Starbucks when the lights go off. "Borders is now closing," said a voice from the ether.
Huh? I thought. It usually stays open till 10. And then I saw the notice on the door: new opening times - 9am-9pm.
ARRRRGHH!!!!!! LATE NIGHT COFFEE IS NO MORE!!!!!
I literally fell to my knees beside the the top 10 bestsellers list, my hands clenched into fists, my eyes squeezed tightly closed, and screamed "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!! WHY MUST YOU TAUNT ME SO?!?!?!?!?!??!"
Then some student employee told me they were closing, and if I wanted to make any purchases could I take them to the till. I stood up, sneered at him, and departed for home.
Perhaps the only worthwhile part of the jaunt to Kingston was that I made a new friend. A pidgeon sat guard over my car while I was gone.
Anyway, with this disastrous news still ringing in my mind, I got home to find that some new neighboury people were having a party - a LOUD party - on their front lawn. Seemingly the entire female contingent of the party was made up of clones of Nikki from Big Brother; "I haven't HAD enough to DRINK!". For those unfamiliar with Nikki from Big Brother, just believe me that this is A BAD THING.
It was as I started writing my long-delayed Ambassador Soval article for the Japanese Star Trek Fact Files, that they began to sing.
And it was as they started singing a drunken rendition of Culture Club's 'Do you really want to hurt me?' that I lent back in my captain's chair, put my hands together in a Mr Burns stylee, and thought yes... yes, actually, I do...
Everything was going fine initially; popped over to see Sparky Ma and Pa after their holiday to Cornwall. Even with bad weather they somehow managed to get a tan - I ask you, what's that all about? I countered with my tanlines from the bike ride last week, but when Sparky Ma tans, she tans good. I looked like a half-arsed tanning spacker next to her.
So we had a lovely dinner, watched The X-Factor together as a family (somehow it's developed into a tradition), then I decided to head off. Bizarrely, as I stood on the pavement bidding Sparky Ma farewell, one of our former neighbours zoomed down the road in his car, almost hit me, waved hello, and zoomed off. It was very random.
Anyway, I got in the Sparky mobile, and decided to head to Kingston for a late coffee in Borders. So I get their, I wander in, have a look at some books, and am just about to go upstairs to Starbucks when the lights go off. "Borders is now closing," said a voice from the ether.
Huh? I thought. It usually stays open till 10. And then I saw the notice on the door: new opening times - 9am-9pm.
ARRRRGHH!!!!!! LATE NIGHT COFFEE IS NO MORE!!!!!
I literally fell to my knees beside the the top 10 bestsellers list, my hands clenched into fists, my eyes squeezed tightly closed, and screamed "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!! WHY MUST YOU TAUNT ME SO?!?!?!?!?!??!"
Then some student employee told me they were closing, and if I wanted to make any purchases could I take them to the till. I stood up, sneered at him, and departed for home.
Perhaps the only worthwhile part of the jaunt to Kingston was that I made a new friend. A pidgeon sat guard over my car while I was gone.
Anyway, with this disastrous news still ringing in my mind, I got home to find that some new neighboury people were having a party - a LOUD party - on their front lawn. Seemingly the entire female contingent of the party was made up of clones of Nikki from Big Brother; "I haven't HAD enough to DRINK!". For those unfamiliar with Nikki from Big Brother, just believe me that this is A BAD THING.
It was as I started writing my long-delayed Ambassador Soval article for the Japanese Star Trek Fact Files, that they began to sing.
And it was as they started singing a drunken rendition of Culture Club's 'Do you really want to hurt me?' that I lent back in my captain's chair, put my hands together in a Mr Burns stylee, and thought yes... yes, actually, I do...
Saturday, September 09, 2006
Branching out
I realised today that I'm in the wrong job. Don't get me wrong, I love what I do, but the events that have unfolded over the last couple of days have opened my eyes to the possibility of a new career that could make me LOTS more money.
Let's turn back time to Thursday morning at eight o'clock...
Picture this: I'm unlocking the office, and as I step in the front door I discover a piece of paper folded in two on the floor. Written on the front in capital letters is the word URGENT.
Intrigued, I unfold the paper.
Written inside, in a barely legible scrawl that would not have been out of place in a kindergarten, was a brief note that read:
Dear All,
Your tree has fallen into my garden. Please remove it and repair any damage IMMEDIATELY. I shall be at work all day.
Hmmm... I thought. Then I wandered outside to take a look. Now, the use of the word 'tree' was a tad misleading. If I had written that note, I'd have substituted the word 'tree' for 'a bloody big branch'; the tree, you see, was still standing. It had merely shrugged a huge lump of wood into this guy's garden.
Now let's move forward to today, where, despite my suggestion of dousing it in lighter fluid and chucking a match on it, we have hired a tree surgeon to come and sort out our devilishly devious deciduous. Lovely office manager Janice tells me that the tree surgeon is coming round to assess the situation, and adds that if we need some emergency tree surgery it's going to cost £230 per hour.
YOU WHAT?!
Yes - £230 PER HOUR! Now, I'm not an expert, but I've always figured that being a tree surgeon basically consisted of knowing what end of a chainsaw was the dangerous end. £230 per hour?! Even a non-emergency situation costs £170 per hour. I consider offering my services to the surgeon as a triage nurse. Triage nurse. I said: TRIAGE nurse. Geddit?
Anyway, my money making tree surgeon fantasies continued to escalate.
"Stand back," I'd say to concerned tree owners. "He's lost a lot of sap... but I'll be damned if I'm going to lose this one."
So there I am, basically tidying up my desk and redistributing my collection of biros in anticipation of my new career, when the tree surgeon turns up. In his manky old Ford Transit. He looks at the tree, lights a ciggie, revs up his chainsaw, hacks away at random branches, looks at me, says "I've curtailed the problem and poisoned the rest," gets in his Transit and drives away in a nebulous cloud of blue smoke leaving us £170 lighter.
I am definitely getting myself a chainsaw tomorrow, people.
Let's turn back time to Thursday morning at eight o'clock...
Picture this: I'm unlocking the office, and as I step in the front door I discover a piece of paper folded in two on the floor. Written on the front in capital letters is the word URGENT.
Intrigued, I unfold the paper.
Written inside, in a barely legible scrawl that would not have been out of place in a kindergarten, was a brief note that read:
Dear All,
Your tree has fallen into my garden. Please remove it and repair any damage IMMEDIATELY. I shall be at work all day.
Hmmm... I thought. Then I wandered outside to take a look. Now, the use of the word 'tree' was a tad misleading. If I had written that note, I'd have substituted the word 'tree' for 'a bloody big branch'; the tree, you see, was still standing. It had merely shrugged a huge lump of wood into this guy's garden.
Now let's move forward to today, where, despite my suggestion of dousing it in lighter fluid and chucking a match on it, we have hired a tree surgeon to come and sort out our devilishly devious deciduous. Lovely office manager Janice tells me that the tree surgeon is coming round to assess the situation, and adds that if we need some emergency tree surgery it's going to cost £230 per hour.
YOU WHAT?!
Yes - £230 PER HOUR! Now, I'm not an expert, but I've always figured that being a tree surgeon basically consisted of knowing what end of a chainsaw was the dangerous end. £230 per hour?! Even a non-emergency situation costs £170 per hour. I consider offering my services to the surgeon as a triage nurse. Triage nurse. I said: TRIAGE nurse. Geddit?
Anyway, my money making tree surgeon fantasies continued to escalate.
"Stand back," I'd say to concerned tree owners. "He's lost a lot of sap... but I'll be damned if I'm going to lose this one."
So there I am, basically tidying up my desk and redistributing my collection of biros in anticipation of my new career, when the tree surgeon turns up. In his manky old Ford Transit. He looks at the tree, lights a ciggie, revs up his chainsaw, hacks away at random branches, looks at me, says "I've curtailed the problem and poisoned the rest," gets in his Transit and drives away in a nebulous cloud of blue smoke leaving us £170 lighter.
I am definitely getting myself a chainsaw tomorrow, people.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Thursday randomness
Oops. It's been a couple of days without a new post, and I know Marcosy gets a bit antsy if I don't write something inane to keep him occupied when he's not perving over Katee Sachoff. And quite frankly I think we should all be moving on from the Ron Jeremy/winky discussion that's been dominating things recently. Ron Jeremy; winky; dominating; three words that should not be seen together, at least on this blog.
Anyway ... fasten your seatbelts kids - here we go!
*****
I keep getting emails from a Russian dating service telling me that Svetlana is waiting for me to reply to her. I don't know, nor have I ever known, a Svetlana. I don't quite know how to stop her from emailing me. I just hope if I ignore her she'll go away eventually. That usually works with girls. (GASP!)
*****
I'd forgotten about this, but I got to realise one of my Battlestar Galactica fantasies during the bike ride on Sunday (alas not the Number Six Cylon fantasy). Yes, while in formation with Sweatband and Mr Chunt, I turned round, saw another cyclist behind Chunty, and shouted in a miltaristic fashion "There's a bogey on your six!" I suppose you had to have been there, but it could only have been funnier if the guy behind him had sneezed on cue.
*****
The lovely Nikki has started her own blog! And having passed the 200 posts mark, I took it upon myself to impart my immense blogging knowledge on the unsuspecting lady.
Fortunately, she ignored me and has forged her own path (but seriously, who doesn't like miniature horses?!) It would be super cool if y'all popped over to check out her fledgling blog; and, just for laffs, if you leave a comment it would massively freak her out. Just click on the Roll Credits link over there on the right...
*****
Excerpt from an email I sent comics pal Graham today:
"Are you going to get an Xbox 360 when the Star Trek game comes out? Because it would be awesome to blow the shit out of each other online. I'll be Kirk and you can be Khan."
Graham didn't like the idea of being Khan. Which reminds me of the time in infant school when I asked my childhood friend Charlie to play Star Trek make-believe with me. I made him be Spock to my Kirk, and lashed him every time he accidently showed emotion.
Seven year-old boys make lacklustre Vulcans, and crap first officers.
*****
Aaaah... that explains...
Because, quite frankly, who hasn't had the murderous asian triplet fantasy?
*****
I went for a run last night, but half way round my regular 30-odd minute route I had to stop. The cause? A strange dull ache in my left foot.
Hmmm... Now this is bad, because it ain't so long until the Hampton Court 10k, and I need to get some training done. And worryingly, the area of pain seems to be in the general region of ... the infamous metatarsal that has plagued so many of England's footballers.
And if it is something to do with that I'll be livid.
Broken metatarsals are *SO* last season...
*****
Well, the bunting's up, and I'm all ready for tomorrow's celebrations. What do you mean "what celebrations?" My god people! Tomorrow is the 40th anniversary of Star Trek!! That being the case, I've cleared the proverbial Friday evening decks, and I'll be settling down for a private viewing (i.e. everyone I invited has politely declined my invitation) of my very favourite example of the franchise - Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan; yes, I know technically I should watch 'The Man Trap', the first episode to have actually aired 40 years ago, but I just think Khan is a much better slice of Trek. And if I'm feeling particularly nerdy, I might just follow it up with back-to-back viewings of Star Treks III and IV.
I believe the neighbours have erected a geek exclusion zone.
Oh, and on a related matter, I think it's safe to reveal why I've been *SO* busy at work recently (and by default, the source of my constant bitching). Find out why I've been such a busy boy here and here.
Anyway ... fasten your seatbelts kids - here we go!
*****
I keep getting emails from a Russian dating service telling me that Svetlana is waiting for me to reply to her. I don't know, nor have I ever known, a Svetlana. I don't quite know how to stop her from emailing me. I just hope if I ignore her she'll go away eventually. That usually works with girls. (GASP!)
*****
I'd forgotten about this, but I got to realise one of my Battlestar Galactica fantasies during the bike ride on Sunday (alas not the Number Six Cylon fantasy). Yes, while in formation with Sweatband and Mr Chunt, I turned round, saw another cyclist behind Chunty, and shouted in a miltaristic fashion "There's a bogey on your six!" I suppose you had to have been there, but it could only have been funnier if the guy behind him had sneezed on cue.
*****
The lovely Nikki has started her own blog! And having passed the 200 posts mark, I took it upon myself to impart my immense blogging knowledge on the unsuspecting lady.
Fortunately, she ignored me and has forged her own path (but seriously, who doesn't like miniature horses?!) It would be super cool if y'all popped over to check out her fledgling blog; and, just for laffs, if you leave a comment it would massively freak her out. Just click on the Roll Credits link over there on the right...
*****
Excerpt from an email I sent comics pal Graham today:
"Are you going to get an Xbox 360 when the Star Trek game comes out? Because it would be awesome to blow the shit out of each other online. I'll be Kirk and you can be Khan."
Graham didn't like the idea of being Khan. Which reminds me of the time in infant school when I asked my childhood friend Charlie to play Star Trek make-believe with me. I made him be Spock to my Kirk, and lashed him every time he accidently showed emotion.
Seven year-old boys make lacklustre Vulcans, and crap first officers.
*****
Aaaah... that explains...
Because, quite frankly, who hasn't had the murderous asian triplet fantasy?
*****
I went for a run last night, but half way round my regular 30-odd minute route I had to stop. The cause? A strange dull ache in my left foot.
Hmmm... Now this is bad, because it ain't so long until the Hampton Court 10k, and I need to get some training done. And worryingly, the area of pain seems to be in the general region of ... the infamous metatarsal that has plagued so many of England's footballers.
And if it is something to do with that I'll be livid.
Broken metatarsals are *SO* last season...
*****
Well, the bunting's up, and I'm all ready for tomorrow's celebrations. What do you mean "what celebrations?" My god people! Tomorrow is the 40th anniversary of Star Trek!! That being the case, I've cleared the proverbial Friday evening decks, and I'll be settling down for a private viewing (i.e. everyone I invited has politely declined my invitation) of my very favourite example of the franchise - Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan; yes, I know technically I should watch 'The Man Trap', the first episode to have actually aired 40 years ago, but I just think Khan is a much better slice of Trek. And if I'm feeling particularly nerdy, I might just follow it up with back-to-back viewings of Star Treks III and IV.
I believe the neighbours have erected a geek exclusion zone.
Oh, and on a related matter, I think it's safe to reveal why I've been *SO* busy at work recently (and by default, the source of my constant bitching). Find out why I've been such a busy boy here and here.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Stupid thought of the day
Why hasn't Ron Jeremy done a cover of the Foo Fighter's 'Generator' renamed 'Penetrator'?
Monday, September 04, 2006
Marcosy's 15 seconds of fame: AKA - tonguing Farah Fawcett
Despite everyone's pleas, Marcosy refuses to post his Farah Fawcett story (although to be honest, have you seen her lately? I'd be frightened too). He's gone a bit shy (cue "aaaaaaahs"); if he was a four year old kiddy he'd be doing that thing where they bury their head in mummy's leg when introduced to a strange elderly relative.
Anyway, I coaxed Marcosy into emailing me the infamous story, which I reproduce faithfully and with his full approval here:
"I wouldn’t know what to write really. I was 10 and so super cute that one of the world’s most beautiful women (she’d just left Charlie’s Angels at the time and it was before she had all that Son’a face-stretching plastic surgery) just had to give me a big snog and my life has been down hill ever since. If you could turn that into a decent post you’re quite welcome to."
So there you have it. I'm not quite sure that I've turned it into a decent post... more like I cut and pasted it from an email, but whadya gonna do about it, huh? Oh, and if you're wondering, he didn't just bump into her in the high street; he knew someone whose dad was working on a film she was in and he wangled a set visit. OooooOOOOOoooo!
Anyone else like to share a celeb snog story? And I mean real life, not your sordid dreams.
Anyway, I coaxed Marcosy into emailing me the infamous story, which I reproduce faithfully and with his full approval here:
"I wouldn’t know what to write really. I was 10 and so super cute that one of the world’s most beautiful women (she’d just left Charlie’s Angels at the time and it was before she had all that Son’a face-stretching plastic surgery) just had to give me a big snog and my life has been down hill ever since. If you could turn that into a decent post you’re quite welcome to."
So there you have it. I'm not quite sure that I've turned it into a decent post... more like I cut and pasted it from an email, but whadya gonna do about it, huh? Oh, and if you're wondering, he didn't just bump into her in the high street; he knew someone whose dad was working on a film she was in and he wangled a set visit. OooooOOOOOoooo!
Anyone else like to share a celeb snog story? And I mean real life, not your sordid dreams.
Sunday, September 03, 2006
Richmond to Windsor 2006: AKA - The Arse, the nipple, and the defective horn ***UPDATED!***
It's bike ride day! Yaaaaaaaay!
Seriously, I look forward to this day every year. The bike ride has become something of a tradition, and it makes me giddy with excitement.
So, with my tyres pumped, my Camalbak bladder sufficiently filled, and my helmet polished, I set off to the rendezvous point where Team Sweatband (formerly known as Team Sparky) had arranged to meet.
I got there a bit early, so I waited a bit. I received a text from Mr Chunt saying "Running a bit late." I replied "bitch."
Then sweatband turned up. Alone. Having made such a big do about recruiting so many people that she'd made me change the name of the team, this struck me as a bit odd. I hope they're not imaginary, I thought. The last thing I wanted to do was spend the day trying to avoid crashing into imaginary cyclists. I was also disappointed that she hadn't brought her cat, who I had suggested we could've put in a basket on the front of her bike like ET.
As it turns out, Team Sweatband had actually fallen apart at the last minute, so I took the initiative and immediately rebranded us as Team Sparky. And when Chunty arrived moments later, we were all set. We departed to the strains of the event compare (who looks amazingly like William Shatner) who noted that "another valiant group of cyclists depart on the inexorable winding path to Windsor."
Hurrah!
I won't go into too much detail about the ride, because basically it's pretty much all cycle, cycle, cycle, stop for a mars bar, cycle, cycle, stop for another mars bar, cycle, bugger, a big hill (that's bugger: a big hill, not bugger the hill), and so on and so forth. Also intersperse in a massive hill, which admittedly has an awesome pay-off when you get to pelt down the other side at warp factor five.
We did the 39 mile route in about three hours, which is within acceptable limits when compared with the last three years, especially when you factor in the following problems we faced en route:
a) Does my bum look big in this? No, because evidently my arse is now constructed completely of bone. It's sore as friggin' hell, despite a super-cool saddle (admittedly not so super cool when a bump in the road rammed it up into my Gentleman's Assets) and two layers of shorts, one of which is padded and no you won't be getting any pictures of me solely in the lycra layer so don't even ask.
b) Sweatband had bought a defective camelbak that wouldn't allow her to suckle any beverage, despite me and Chunty urging her to "bite down and suck." We realised there actually was a genuine problem when she squeezed it and the nipple component shot off into Chunty. Could've taken an eye out.
c) Mr Chunt's air-horn (marina approved for all your boating needs) that he had retro-fitted onto his bike kept dropping off, leading to a various comments such as "my horn's fallen off!" "Don't worry, I've got the horn," and "my horn came off in my hand."
Anyway, when we finished we were welcomed by Shatner, who must've beamed over, informing us that "the fluttering and flexible hands of a masseuse await to rub and relieve those aching muscles." Captain of a starship and king of alliteration - GENIUS!
I didn't partake in a massage, mainly because the last time I had one there the other year the woman nearly snapped me in half. I paid money for her to abuse me - what's that all about?!
Anyway, so we chilled out for an hour, then set off for home. And what did I notice when I got in? I've got stupid tanlines AGAIN. Yes, the battenberg arms have returned, but even worse is where I tanned through the holes in the back of my gloves. It looks like I've been practising my kissing technique on the back of my hand.
More pictures to come when official photographer Chunty emails 'em to me!
*****PHOTO UPDATE*****PHOTO UPDATE*****PHOTO UPDATE*****
We started at the start line, which was at the beginning of the ride. Near the start.
We stopped for a rest at this rest stop. It was actually a car park.
We conquered Butts Hill...
...And traversed Mincing Lane!
Sweatband and I show this season's hot look in cycling chic.
Sparky and Mr Chunt at the end. Crap photography by Sweatband.
Sparky says: Taut: A delicious and refreshing isotonic drink for fitness professionals, sportsman or the family.
SHATNER!
Richmond to Windsor bike ride in aid of Bowel Cancer UK, sponsored by Camel.
Seriously, I look forward to this day every year. The bike ride has become something of a tradition, and it makes me giddy with excitement.
So, with my tyres pumped, my Camalbak bladder sufficiently filled, and my helmet polished, I set off to the rendezvous point where Team Sweatband (formerly known as Team Sparky) had arranged to meet.
I got there a bit early, so I waited a bit. I received a text from Mr Chunt saying "Running a bit late." I replied "bitch."
Then sweatband turned up. Alone. Having made such a big do about recruiting so many people that she'd made me change the name of the team, this struck me as a bit odd. I hope they're not imaginary, I thought. The last thing I wanted to do was spend the day trying to avoid crashing into imaginary cyclists. I was also disappointed that she hadn't brought her cat, who I had suggested we could've put in a basket on the front of her bike like ET.
As it turns out, Team Sweatband had actually fallen apart at the last minute, so I took the initiative and immediately rebranded us as Team Sparky. And when Chunty arrived moments later, we were all set. We departed to the strains of the event compare (who looks amazingly like William Shatner) who noted that "another valiant group of cyclists depart on the inexorable winding path to Windsor."
Hurrah!
I won't go into too much detail about the ride, because basically it's pretty much all cycle, cycle, cycle, stop for a mars bar, cycle, cycle, stop for another mars bar, cycle, bugger, a big hill (that's bugger: a big hill, not bugger the hill), and so on and so forth. Also intersperse in a massive hill, which admittedly has an awesome pay-off when you get to pelt down the other side at warp factor five.
We did the 39 mile route in about three hours, which is within acceptable limits when compared with the last three years, especially when you factor in the following problems we faced en route:
a) Does my bum look big in this? No, because evidently my arse is now constructed completely of bone. It's sore as friggin' hell, despite a super-cool saddle (admittedly not so super cool when a bump in the road rammed it up into my Gentleman's Assets) and two layers of shorts, one of which is padded and no you won't be getting any pictures of me solely in the lycra layer so don't even ask.
b) Sweatband had bought a defective camelbak that wouldn't allow her to suckle any beverage, despite me and Chunty urging her to "bite down and suck." We realised there actually was a genuine problem when she squeezed it and the nipple component shot off into Chunty. Could've taken an eye out.
c) Mr Chunt's air-horn (marina approved for all your boating needs) that he had retro-fitted onto his bike kept dropping off, leading to a various comments such as "my horn's fallen off!" "Don't worry, I've got the horn," and "my horn came off in my hand."
Anyway, when we finished we were welcomed by Shatner, who must've beamed over, informing us that "the fluttering and flexible hands of a masseuse await to rub and relieve those aching muscles." Captain of a starship and king of alliteration - GENIUS!
I didn't partake in a massage, mainly because the last time I had one there the other year the woman nearly snapped me in half. I paid money for her to abuse me - what's that all about?!
Anyway, so we chilled out for an hour, then set off for home. And what did I notice when I got in? I've got stupid tanlines AGAIN. Yes, the battenberg arms have returned, but even worse is where I tanned through the holes in the back of my gloves. It looks like I've been practising my kissing technique on the back of my hand.
More pictures to come when official photographer Chunty emails 'em to me!
*****PHOTO UPDATE*****PHOTO UPDATE*****PHOTO UPDATE*****
We started at the start line, which was at the beginning of the ride. Near the start.
We stopped for a rest at this rest stop. It was actually a car park.
We conquered Butts Hill...
...And traversed Mincing Lane!
Sweatband and I show this season's hot look in cycling chic.
Sparky and Mr Chunt at the end. Crap photography by Sweatband.
Sparky says: Taut: A delicious and refreshing isotonic drink for fitness professionals, sportsman or the family.
SHATNER!
Richmond to Windsor bike ride in aid of Bowel Cancer UK, sponsored by Camel.
Saturday, September 02, 2006
On yer bike!
On Sunday I'll be taking part in the Richmond to Windsor bike ride. It'll be the fourth time I've done it, and it's always a great day out. And before anyone complains that geographically Richmond and Windsor aren't actually that far apart, it's a very twisty route, so shut it. And I have to cycle to the start line, and back home later, so all-in-all I'm looking at around 60 miles in total. It's lucky my legs are so awesomely powerful.
Usually it's just me and Mr Chunt who take part, but this year Sweatband is joining us (she roped me into running, I roped her into cycling; it's only fair). Sweatband has subsequently amassed a few more cyclists, and renamed 'Team Sparky' to 'Team Sweatband.'
She's also claiming not to be looking forward to it, as she thinks that she'll fail miserably. We can always put the stabilisers back on, I assured her, but she reckons the BIG HILL toward the end of the route might be her undoing. Quite frankly, I think she'll be fine - she'll probably latch onto me with a grappling hook and I'll unwittingly tow her up (that is as long as she hasn't rammed a stick into my wheels or smeared jam on my saddle by that point. I think I'll push her off if she has the look of murder in her eyes).
So all in all, I'm a little giddy with excitement. I'm number 136, if anyone cares.
Right, I'm off to pump up my tyres, sterilize my bladder, and polish my helmet.
Here's a picture of a dog dressed in a Star Trek uniform to keep you occupied while I'm gone.
Usually it's just me and Mr Chunt who take part, but this year Sweatband is joining us (she roped me into running, I roped her into cycling; it's only fair). Sweatband has subsequently amassed a few more cyclists, and renamed 'Team Sparky' to 'Team Sweatband.'
She's also claiming not to be looking forward to it, as she thinks that she'll fail miserably. We can always put the stabilisers back on, I assured her, but she reckons the BIG HILL toward the end of the route might be her undoing. Quite frankly, I think she'll be fine - she'll probably latch onto me with a grappling hook and I'll unwittingly tow her up (that is as long as she hasn't rammed a stick into my wheels or smeared jam on my saddle by that point. I think I'll push her off if she has the look of murder in her eyes).
So all in all, I'm a little giddy with excitement. I'm number 136, if anyone cares.
Right, I'm off to pump up my tyres, sterilize my bladder, and polish my helmet.
Here's a picture of a dog dressed in a Star Trek uniform to keep you occupied while I'm gone.
200th!
I've noticed that a fair few people have been marking their 100th posts recently, mostly in highly creative, emotionally deep ways. Well I didn't know this was a major event in a blogger's life (gosh, I'm so darned innocent!), and I sailed past my 100th with nary a backward glance. Still, I think it was an OK 100th. But hell, let's get our groove on with the 200th!
(Just one question - what does it say about me that I've hit 200 in just five months? I'll tell you what it means: the blogging equivalent of verbal diarrhea. Let's move swiftly on)
So how am I going to mark this auspicious occasion? I thought about a statue, but I think I'll save that for 500. Maybe 1000...
I know! 200 things you never knew about Sparky!
Um... OK, let's pretend we lost one of the '0's down the back of the sofa...
Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you...
It's all about me, baby!: 20 things you never knew about Sparky! (In no particular order)
1) I dance rather well for a straight man, according to Glittering Lee. Think two-thirds Mick Jagger and a third Tina Turner.
2) I once sang Spice Up Your Life at karaoke in a pub in Twickenham. There were actually five of us (this was before Geri left), although I'm not quite sure which grrrrl I was supposed to be (although to be honest, picking one is pretty much as desirable as being asked what your favourite STD is...)
3) I can recite dialogue from Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan verbatim. Scrub that - I can recite dialogue from 40 YEARS worth of Star Trek verbatim (but Star Trek II even more so).
4) I thought Baywatch was a well-plotted, intelligent, and thought-provoking television series featuring a host of intriguing characters and a killer theme tune.
5) I prefer winter to summer.
6) (I can't get no) satisfaction.
7) My first crush was on Linda Hamilton during her Beauty and the Beast days, although I remained strangely besotted by her when she bulked up for Terminator 2: Judgment Day.
8) My second crush was Rachel Friend, who played Bronwyn in Neighbours.
9) I know it's wrong, but I find Kirsten Cohen and Julie Cooper more attractive than Marissa and Summer in The OC.
10) The first film I remember seeing was ET. The second was Return of the Jedi; I distinctly recall whispering an in-depth description of who and what Admiral Ackbar was to Sparky Ma.
11) I do love a Nandos.
12) My first gig was The Rolling Stones at Wembley Stadium in 1999.
13) In September 2002 I queued overnight outside the Hammersmith Apollo to buy tickets for a one-off David Bowie concert. Money well spent.
14) I'm a trained Badminton instructor (and I'm now braced in anticipation for the torrent of cock jokes, you filthy blighters!).
15) When I was a kid I wanted to grow up to be a bus driver. Then I wanted to be captain of the Enterprise. Strangely, the latter has turned out to be closer to reality. Read into that what you will.
16) I get very morose when I'm drunk; you're better off plying me with coffee, or lots of coke (the soft drink!) and wait for the sugar rush to kick in.
17) I've got a series of moles on the right side of my face that resemble the big dipper.
18) Every now and then I think I should dye my hair green.
19) I was a dumpy looking kid.
20) Writing a blog has been the best thing I've done in a long time. Big-ups to everyone who has read, left comments, and generally molested, abused, and poked fun of me in this ickle corner of the interweb. You're all awesome buggers, and you all brighten my days.
On to the next 200, hmmm?
(Just one question - what does it say about me that I've hit 200 in just five months? I'll tell you what it means: the blogging equivalent of verbal diarrhea. Let's move swiftly on)
So how am I going to mark this auspicious occasion? I thought about a statue, but I think I'll save that for 500. Maybe 1000...
I know! 200 things you never knew about Sparky!
Um... OK, let's pretend we lost one of the '0's down the back of the sofa...
Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you...
It's all about me, baby!: 20 things you never knew about Sparky! (In no particular order)
1) I dance rather well for a straight man, according to Glittering Lee. Think two-thirds Mick Jagger and a third Tina Turner.
2) I once sang Spice Up Your Life at karaoke in a pub in Twickenham. There were actually five of us (this was before Geri left), although I'm not quite sure which grrrrl I was supposed to be (although to be honest, picking one is pretty much as desirable as being asked what your favourite STD is...)
3) I can recite dialogue from Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan verbatim. Scrub that - I can recite dialogue from 40 YEARS worth of Star Trek verbatim (but Star Trek II even more so).
4) I thought Baywatch was a well-plotted, intelligent, and thought-provoking television series featuring a host of intriguing characters and a killer theme tune.
5) I prefer winter to summer.
6) (I can't get no) satisfaction.
7) My first crush was on Linda Hamilton during her Beauty and the Beast days, although I remained strangely besotted by her when she bulked up for Terminator 2: Judgment Day.
8) My second crush was Rachel Friend, who played Bronwyn in Neighbours.
9) I know it's wrong, but I find Kirsten Cohen and Julie Cooper more attractive than Marissa and Summer in The OC.
10) The first film I remember seeing was ET. The second was Return of the Jedi; I distinctly recall whispering an in-depth description of who and what Admiral Ackbar was to Sparky Ma.
11) I do love a Nandos.
12) My first gig was The Rolling Stones at Wembley Stadium in 1999.
13) In September 2002 I queued overnight outside the Hammersmith Apollo to buy tickets for a one-off David Bowie concert. Money well spent.
14) I'm a trained Badminton instructor (and I'm now braced in anticipation for the torrent of cock jokes, you filthy blighters!).
15) When I was a kid I wanted to grow up to be a bus driver. Then I wanted to be captain of the Enterprise. Strangely, the latter has turned out to be closer to reality. Read into that what you will.
16) I get very morose when I'm drunk; you're better off plying me with coffee, or lots of coke (the soft drink!) and wait for the sugar rush to kick in.
17) I've got a series of moles on the right side of my face that resemble the big dipper.
18) Every now and then I think I should dye my hair green.
19) I was a dumpy looking kid.
20) Writing a blog has been the best thing I've done in a long time. Big-ups to everyone who has read, left comments, and generally molested, abused, and poked fun of me in this ickle corner of the interweb. You're all awesome buggers, and you all brighten my days.
On to the next 200, hmmm?
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