I'm a scrubber!

Ah, the first day of a long Christmas break... And how did I spend this much-needed first day off?

By cleaning my house from top to bottom and going into work, of course!

(It's not as bad as it sounds, stick with me!)

I'd planned for today to be my cleaning day for quite a while, actually. Quite frankly I'd been neglecting household chores for a while now - and by that I don't mean I was sitting in a pile of poo amid tons of washing up. No, rather I'd just not hoovered for a while. And you know it needs doing when there's tumbleweed-stylee dustballs rolling over the floor; on the plus side, it does keep your feet toasty while you're playing Xbox.

So anyway, there I was at 11 o'clock this morning, hoovering, washing the downstairs floor (it's wood, not carpet - I'm not THAT stupid), then scrubing the bathroom till it shone - bless the amazing cleaning power of Cillit Bang. I contemplated eating my lunch off the toilet - it was that clean. But then I would've felt compelled to clean it again.

After that, it was a quick shower, then into work to check over those last bits that got away from us last week, courtesy of my Nemesis' dicking around. Three hours later I was on the drive home.

Christmas can truly start... NOW!

-----

There was an interesting thing on the radio this evening - apparently some survey has revealed that most kids today want to grow up to be... a celebrity, of course! Who the hell needs doctors and engineers!?

I wanted to be a bus driver when I was a kid. I was besotted with red London buses. But I've ended up editing Star Trek magazines. Fortunately, I also wanted to be Captain Kirk, so you could say it all kind of worked out OK. Ironic, though, that I've gotten closer to being Captain Kirk than being a bus driver - but we'll label that under 'a good thing,' I think.

And now I'm intrigued: what did you want to be vs what you are now?

Total nerd

I finally got round to hooking my Xbox up to the intermaweb yesterday.

OH.

MY.

GOD.

Who the hell knew online gaming would be so much fun? OK, I feel a bit of a twat sitting in my living room with a headset on shouting "sorry" to the various people I smaah into on Project Gotham Racing 3, but on the whole it's a damn brilliant thing.

Strangely, I've found that there's a lot of Livepudlians on there; did the entire city buy a job-lot of consoles? The French player tend to talk a lot too. And by 'a lot' I mean 'A LOT.'

There are a couple of worrying things, though. Other people can rate your performance. My rating currently stands as this:

50% of people prefer to play with me.
50% of people prefer not to play with me.
100% of people find me 'unsporting.'

WHAT!?

OK, I'm still kinda getting used to the game, but 'unsporting'? Yes, I might've been involved in a few huge pile-ups, but c'mon... the dudes were in my racing line - they caused it!!

It's all good fun though, and not half as geek-tastic as I thought it was going to be.

Downsides? I've got crip-hand from holding the controller too tightly. And I'm feeling compelled to go out for a run tonight just to see some real people in the streets so I remember they actually exist.

Anyway, if anyone out there is on Xbox Live, look me up. My username is, what else, sparkymalarkey, and I'll be more than happy to be unsporting towards you too.

Driving home for Christmas

...And I'll totally be driving BACK to work on Monday. Yep, that huge-ass argument that I had with my Nemesis the other week has done exactly what I expected it to do and buggered things up a bit. So there's a couple of little bits here and there that need tidying, meaning that I'll swing by the office on Monday afternoon to (in my best Saaaaaf London accent) sort 'em aaaaaaaout!!

On the plus side, my tickets for the Xfm gig on Monday night haven't turned up yet, so as I asked for them to be sent to work I kinda need to pop in anyway. Might as well make myself useful for once!

Anyway, aside from having to go into work while I'm on holiday, I'm currently feeling a little bit "aaaaaaaaaaah..." relaxed.

I hope you are too.

Altogether now:

"AAAAAAAAAAAH..."

Doesn't that feel better?

-----

I've brought my office plant home with me for the Christmas break for two reasons. Firstly, I'm worried that it might, erm, die if I leave it there; and secondly, although it's not an evergreen I reckon it'll make a reasonable Christmas tree alternative. I won't weight it down with baubles or anything though - that would just be silly.

Hopefully it won't die; Sparky Ma has already nursed it back to health once in the last couple of years in a Florence Nightingale stylee, and I think she'd go "harumph" and look at me in a stern fashion if I asked her to do so again. On the otherhand, I do think she quite liked it in that spot by the window (which looks a tad bare now), so it's swings and roundabouts really.

-----

Ooo, look - end of worky, bye-bye beardy!



Hmmm... kinda regret doing that, actually...

-----

Can you believe it?! I the hell can't! I sailed by the 300 posts mark the other day. This is officially, I reckon, the most consistently written thing I've ever written. Shame most of it is tat, but fortunately I've set the bar pretty low so things can only get better!

Thoughts for the day

How do you know if a cat is lost?

I was walking back from lunch today with Yaz after a pleasant coffee (pleasant except for the moment when she said "f**k Christmas"; I think the festive stress has got to her), when I noticed a rudimentary poster stuck to a tree.

TORTOISE SHELL FOUND!

I was briefly struck by a vision of a naked tortoise with its little front paw-clawy things held tentatively over its little tortoisey groin, but then I realised that the poster wrapped around the tree a bit, and the obscured part had 'CAT' written on it.

That got me thinking. How do you really know if a cat is lost? I mean, a lot of cats wander past my house, but I don't automatically nab the poor thing off the streets and print out a load of flyers.

So what are the signs of a lost cat? You'd probably automatically say something like it has a pensive look on its face, but cats are pretty emotionally void unless you know them really well. Maybe a lost cat looks around a bit more, like it can't quite believe where the hell it is? Or it's looking furiously at a tube map, turning it this way and that like a tourist? Tube maps can be a bugger unless you know where you're going.

Or maybe I should just call the number and ask the person on the other end how they worked out that the tortoise shell cat was lost?

-----

Popped to Kingston this evening just to get a few bit 'n bobs, and I sorta felt like I was in a bit of mischievous mood.

How did I know this? I saw a young emo couple; she was stripe-tastic, he was wearing eye shadow.

I almost - almost - said to her "Aaaw, look - your boyfriend's wearing eye shadow. Doesn't he look special!"

-----

Word up grandma!

I saw an old woman today who kept saying "mega!" and "wicked!" She bought three Guitar Hero IIs for her grandkids' Christmas presents. But she's not sure if they have PlayStations, so she bought three of those as well.

-----

Anyone seen the new PC World ad? Y'know, the one where the clueless woman walks into PC World and says something along the lines of "I'm looking to buy a new laptop" and then the helpful PC World man runs her through the spec of a laptop, and then she says "but money's a bit tight!" and he says "But it's only two-nine-nine!" and she lets out a little orgasmic squeak and picks one up?

First of all - what sort of dumbass actually buys a computer in PC World?

Second - who the hell stands there and nods sagely like they actually understand what a celeron pro 1.21 gigawatts chip actually is?

And thirdly - since when has anyone in PC World actually known what they're talking about? The last time I went in there to ask for something for a Mac, three assistants either ignored me or ran off, while the fourth said "maybe you should try an Apple dealer?"

-----

I went to my resident's association Annual General Meeting last night. It was an interesting experience, and one I'm glad will only be repeated annually. It was kinda boring; we discussed parking, drains, the annual resident's fee, and how we're not going to give the bin men a Christmas gift this year.

The lady who hosted it tried to give me a packet of crisps as I left.

-----

Eight. Working. Hours. Left.

I encountered another problem today, which makes about three in total since my last post. Fortunately, I seem to be maneuvering around them in a very skillful, zen-like way Ninja way.

I've also grown a full on beard. Not a pervert beard, but a stylish beard. I'm quite liking it, and I've resolved only to shave it off when I've finished work. This time tomorrow I should be all smooth and looking like a 12 year old again. I might post before and after pictures.

Keep your fingers crossed that I can survive the remaining eight working hours.

If we were all in the same room I'd be asking you to hold hands with me right about now.

Cautiously optimistic

If my life were a movie, it would be right around now, just after the climactic shootout, that I'd stand up, turn to my comrades and sexy love interest, and say "see - that wasn't so bad..." – before being shot in the back in a final act of vengeance by one of my mortally-wounded foes.

You see, we're now at ... T-minus 22 working hours until I finish work for the year and begin my obscenely long Christmas holiday of crap telly, Xbox, and junk food.

And yet I can't help shake the feeling that everything is going a little too well...

We were set a pretty tight deadline on things that needed to be done before I swagger out of the office on Friday afternoon with a skip in my stride and a twinkle in my eyes - but somehow everything seems to have gotten done, or at the very least almost done; certainly do-able. And that still leaves me with three days to tidy up any loose ends.

But I've been in this sort of position before, and I know that someone or something always comes along to shat on the parade. Call me a pessimist, but I say it's better to be prepared. Or at the very least braced for impact (any old excuse to randomly shout "ALL HANDS BRACE FOR IMPACT!" in the office - hee hee, watch those confused faces!).

So I think I'm prepared. Although no doubt if something untoward does crop up I'll throw a hissy fit and get all sweary. Hell - give the people what they expect!

-----

Has anyone else noticed that in the adverts for Iceland (the supermarket, not the country), Kerry Katona has a different fella in EVERY SINGLE ONE?

I think we can all guess why that particular mum is going to Iceland...

I refer the honorable reader to the post below.

Yes, she's a slut!

You are a slut - AND YOU LOVE IT!

My appreciation of Strictly Come Dancing is increasing by the week, for one particular reason: judge Bruno Tonioli.

If you've not had the pleasure of seeing him in action, trust me - the guy is comedy gold.

Whereas all the other judges are somewhat staid in their comments regarding the dancings ("nice footwork," "you missed a step," etc), Bruno brings some fire to proceedings. And it's particularly funny because he sounds like Ricardo Montalban, which is just ace.

In recent weeks we've seen him almost slap another judge in the face with a sweeping arm gesture as he shouted "you were spinning LIKE a beautiful princess!" along with my particular favourite, which was directed at goody-two-shoes TV presenter Carol Smilie, and spat out with such overpowering vengeance: "You are a slut - AND YOU LOVE IT!"

I can't help but tune in every Saturday now, and for some reason, anything I say during the show and in the hours that follow, must be said in a Bruno Tonioli-stylee.

What am I going to do when the series finishes? You sluts.



(In contrast - Tess Daly. She sounds funny when she says "judges" and "couples." But on the plus side her boobs are bigger this series)

-----

I was buying some bagels at lunchtime and the woman in front of me in the queue paid by cheque (or check, depending on where you live in the world). Does anyone pay by cheque in shops anymore? I'd say she was some kind of evolutionary throwback, but she was actually about my age.

Most galling, however, was the fact that her bill came to about £8.40. And I could see a wad of tenners in her purse! I almost paid for her just to hurry the queue up, but that's a little bit too Pay it Forward for me, and I ain't Haley Joel Osment.

-----

I'm a winner! Yes, after weeks of trying, I finally came up with a pun headline worthy of Shaun Keaveny's What's the Story radio pun game.

The basic idea is that Shaun nominates a person, then we (the listener) have to come up with a fake story and a pun headline about them.

Today was Lionel Richie.

My two suggestions, based on the titles of Lionel Richie hits, were:

The story: After seducing former U.S. secretary of state Madeline Albright, Lionel Richie is shocked to discover that she's actually a man!
The headline: Albright schlong.

The story: Sympathising with his pet dog when he takes him to the vet to be 'snipped,' Lionel Richie agrees to undergo the same procedure.
The headline: Spay you, spay me.

And for my trouble I've won two tickets to an Xfm session at the Islington Academy next week. The Maccabees are playing, and I think I like them... Hurrah!

Tree'd off

I'd always thought that buying a Christmas tree would be a relatively easy proposition. It seems I was wrong.

I've been looking for weeks for a decent artificial Christmas tree (I don't like cleaning at the best of times, let alone having to sweep up after a disgruntled tree that keeps flicking bits all over the floor), with a four ft. one being the the ideal height. Sparky Towers is, you see, not the biggest abode on the face of the Earth; small but perfectly formed, I like to say. That being the case, I don't particularly want to over-egg the pudding with some seven ft. monstrosity that'll loom over the living room in an omnious fashion unbecoming of a symbol intended to celebrate the festive period.

So today I've been to three different places to try and track down the perfect tree: Tesco, and two different branches of Homebase.

Tesco was a complete waste of time. They only had six and seven ft. trees. Seriously, I wouldn't even be able to get one of them in my car. They were ma-hoo-sive. And as soon as some middle-aged woman started crying by the crackers because someone was blocking her trolley in I knew I had to get out of there.

Homebase proved to be a little more helpful in the fact that they had an easy to read guide to the trees they have available. Unhelpfully, they'd sold out of what would clearly be the perfect tree for me. The nearest equivilent was a four ft. fibre optic tree (ooooo sparkly!), but there's something in me that prefers a traditionally lit tree. It was also about 40 quid more than the sold-out tree I really would've wanted.

On to Homebase branch numero deux! This branch proves a little more helpful in the fact that they had one non-fibre optic traditional tree of suitable height. On the downside it was inexplicably priced at £30 (!), and the branches were covered in what the box described as "traditional frosting," and what I'd describe as "some weird white shit."

I'm also troubled by tree decorations themselves; fashion appears to be dictating that black and white are 'this season's colours.' Now, far be it for me as a fashion guru to argue, but black and white don't seem very festive. Where's the reds, the blues, the golds!? I want multi-colours, not monochromatic monotony!

So, somewhat disgruntled, I decided that Homebase can shove their tree - I'll make do with some festive detailing. And by that I mean lots of tinsel.

As I walked out of the store, I noticed that they were selling tiny baby real Christmas trees in pots. I almost succumbed. But then I figured it'd eventually grow up, get all rebelious, and start shedding on my floor and then I'm back to square one.

Also, they all looked kind of like the weedy tree from A Charlie Brown Christmas.

A night at Sparky's

Last night was so old school. Or is that old skool? I don't know - answers on a postcard please.

Anyway, so I totally turned time back last night. It was like being 19 again or something. This is the evening in a nutshell (post Happy Feet, I should add):

• Home.
• Microwave curry (Mmmmm!)
• Washing up (OK, kinda shouldn't have mentioned that because I NEVER did washing up as a 19 year old)
• Xbox on.
• Play Project Gotham Racing 3.
• Find an Xbox arcade game where you have to make a space station profitable (so addictive - it's like what I imagine Deep Space Nine mixed with crack would be like).
• Look at clock. Hot damn it's 2am!

I haven't played video games into the night in YEARS. I'm liking this Xbox thing. Unfortunately, I sorta figure that everyday life might get in the way at some point.

Work?

Washing?

What do you mean you expected your Christmas presents to be wrapped?

Happy me, happy feet

I am a happy man. Because what's that there, nestling under my TV? Why - it's an Xbox 360!

Join me in an air-punch people!

AWESOME!

So my bro was also excited about my Xbox, to the point that he got himself over to my place (not myspace) extremely quickly. We plugged it in, got it going, I sorted out my gamer profile (my picture is of cheeky monkey - oo-oo!) , and then we loaded up Project Gotham Racing 3.

OH. MY. GOD.

I might've let a bit of wee out.

The graphics are AMAZING. The choice of cars is great. The wireless controllers are incredible, even if I do swoosh them every now and then to move an imaginary wire out of the way (hey, I'm working against the best part of 25 years worth of wired up experience here!). At one point we had a Ferrari F430 and a Lamborghini Gallardo going head-to-head round Piccadilly Circus at 185 mph, which I never thought I'd ever get to do. No doubt there'll be a congestion charge fine in the post soon...

Anyway, I'm super impressed. And so was Simon. So much so that I had to chuck him out when I wanted to go to bed.

My plan here is to big-up my PGR3 skills then get that bad-boy online and try to show some people how it's done!

-----

Yaz and I went to see Happy Feet this evening - y'know, the film about the dancin' penguins.

A couple of things:

• First of all, although it wasn't quite as great as I thought it was going to be, it was still a good way to pass 90 minutes.

• My favourite scene was the baby penguin singing "don't push me, 'cos I'm close to the edge." Genius.

• Like my Xbox, the graphics were amazing!

• Hot damn that penguin can dance!

Things I didn't like? Hmmm... That kid just along the row who insisted on tapping along to the dance sequences REALLY LOUDLY. Grrr.

And the result of the film? Well, I really want to go dancing. I want to bust some moves like that penguin. Maybe not tap dancing, but dancing nevertheless.

Bizarrely, I've also got right into Strictly Come Dancing recently. I can see a pattern developing here, and there's only one way I think it's going to reach a resolution...

Although it'll have to wait until I've got some quality Xbox time in.

From bad to worse

Just before I head out the door in the morning I have what I refer to as the'pat-down.' No, there is nothing deviant about that - rather it's my last minute check that I have all my necessary bits. There are five parts to the 'pat-down,' which are, in no particular order:
1. Car keys
2. Wallet
3. House keys
4. Phone
5. iPod

This morning I was alarmed to discover that component 5, my barely one month old iPod Nano, was missing. Did I leave it in the car yesterday? No.

Uh-oh. Don't say I...

Yesterday I was wearing a red hoody with a single central pocket. A uni-pocket, or marsupial pouch, if you will. And I had left my iPod in that pocket.

And I'd put the hoody IN. THE. WASHING. MACHINE.

Numerous thoughts raced through my 126 IQ-rated brain, the first being that I knew I'd put some washing on last night, but the machine was rather full. Had there been room for the hoody?

Find out next week on SPARKY MALARKEY!

...


...

Like I'd do that to you guys! Ha ha.

Aaaaah...

OK, I'll stop dragging this out. No, fortunately there was not room in last night's load. I had, however, popped the hoody in afterwards. Fortunately, there was my iPod, safely ensconced within the confines of the marsupial pouch, and otherwise unscathed by its ordeal.

Unfortunately, I must've nudged it on at some point, and it'd played out its entire library of tunes over the course of the night from within the washing machine, emptying the battery completely.

It could've been worse though, dear reader, IT. COULD. HAVE. BEEN. WORSE.

-----

The iPod-related incident was one of those things that makes you wonder if it's going to be:
a) The worst incident of the day - things can only get better!
or,
b) The prelude to something far worse.

Unfortunately for me, today it was the latter.

To cut a long story short, an encounter with my Nemesis left me feeling incredibly angry today. He had the nerve to call me a four-letter word. One beginning with 'L' and ending in 'azy.'

Three words immediately spring to mind: 'Pot,' 'kettle,' and 'black.'

To be honest, he could've called me a multitude of other things, maybe even 'complete looney,' and I would've taken it in my stride. But the 'L' word... well, my blood was boiling.

It's the sort of thing that makes you think you should've added a punch-bag to your Christmas list.

RIGHT HOOK, LEFT HOOK, JAB, JAB JAB!!!

-----

Let's end on a more positive note, hmmm...?

More Christmas tree related malarkey!

It's Sulu in the Christmas tree! Hello Mr. Sulu!!

Look - he's waving ba- Hang on, why's he making that gesture with his hand?

*Gasp!* Phasers on stun! A little bit of inter-series canoodling going on under the tree between Mr. Spock and Captain Janeway!!

Um... So, that's not... ah, a Vulcan nerve pinch, is it? TURN THE CAMERA OFF!!

Decorations ahoy!

Have you noticed that Christmas is creeping up on us? Exciting, innit?

No?

What are you, the Grinch?

Anyway, we got our Christmas tree at work last week, and aside from Scanner Dave just lobing a bit of tinsel on it, it's remained undecorated and wholly unfestive.

What else to do but jump into action!

SPARKY TIM TO THE RESCUE!

Now, I don't know what says Christmas more to you than putting a plastic Captain Kirk action figure at the top of the tree, so that's exactly what I did.

Isn't it stunning?



Phasers on stunning, actually!

And against all expectations my workmates agree. Captain Kirk is remaining atop our little tree. I added Sulu this afternoon. He's also allowed to stay, but I've been told that's my limit.

Might have to rearrange the tinsel a bit though...

Cereal killer

I'm trying out a new breakfast cereal at the mo'. I usually have some sort of triple choc oat thing from Sainsbury's, although recently I've gotten back into the microwave porridge because it's SOOOOOO good and very simple to make. If you have a microwave.

During a trip to Sainsbury's yesterday, though, I noticed a new Kelloggs cereal:


Or Honey F**ked Cornflakes, as I like to call them. They are, you see, basically Honey Nut Cornflakes without the nuts. And I'm sure there's a joke in there somewhere, but even I'm not going to stoop that low.

Really.

Anyway, so today I had a bowl. And do you know what? They taste pretty good. And do you know why? Because they're essentially EXACTLY the same as Frosties, except grown-ups can buy them safe in the knowledge they're not going to be caught buying something with Tony the friggin' Tiger on.

Hilariously, though, even though they're nutless, people with nut allergies can't eat them because they're made in a factory that also produces nutty products. That'll be Honey Nut Cornflakes, then.

So, as tasty as they are, I'm actually kind of failing to see the point of them.

Ta-daaa!

I am Charlotte Simmons...

...And I've been fooling you all along!!!!

Muwahahahaha!!!!!!

*ahem*

Actually, I am NOT Charlotte Simmons, but I have finally finished reading the Tom Wolfe novel of the same name. And because the mere mention of it when I bought it led to some degree of uproar from the cheap seats, I thought I would share my thoughts on it.


The Basic Plot:
Charlotte Simmons is a gentle teenage girl raised in the isolation of the mountains of North Carolina. She is an extremely intelligent, moral, god-fearing young woman, and she is awarded a place at Dupont, one of the most prestige (and fictional) universities in the U.S. So off she toddles, expecting to find an academic haven full of intelligent, well-spoken, and welcoming students. Instead she is thrust into a heaving den of promiscuity and 'sexiling,' where her morals begin to erode as she tries to fit in… (slut).

What I Thought:
I approached I am Charlotte Simmons with a degree of trepidation; I knew it hadn't received particularly glowing reviews, and indeed, I nearly bought it at the beginning of the year and decided against it, based on the what I'd read about it. This is another example of why you shouldn't always listen to reviews; sometimes it really is better to base an opinion on your own tastes. Or judge it by the cover which has a killer rack on it.

The general idea behind the novel appealed to me. I tend to like things like this, which probably explains why I love The OC. Also, I was intrigued to see how a writer in his seventies would approach writing a novel from the perspective of a 17 year-old girl. Would he fall flat on his face, basing Charlotte on some archaic concept of the teenaged female from his own youth? No, not at all. Tom Wolfe did his research. If you read this book without knowing the author you'd swear it was written by someone fresh out of college themselves. He's perfected the language and the style of the youth of today, a phrase which incidently makes me sound about 65.

Any criticisms? Well, yeah; it is, at 676 pages, a tad too long and does sag in places. That said, some of the criticisms levelled at the book do appear to be intentional - is Charlotte a little too prissy? Hell, yeah - you want her to let her hair down a bit, you might even dislike her in places for her superior attitude, but that's who she is, and it's essentially what the book is about.

I'd also like to mention the fact that Wolfe got an ward for the worst sex scene in 2004; he defended it saying that it wasn't supposed to be perfect, and I can see where he's coming from. She's a half-willing, incredibly drunk participant in a split-second shag - it ain't all candle lit rooms and soft music, my friends.

The Verdict:
Should you read it? Yeah, I think you should. I've not read any of Tom Wolfe's other novels, so I can't comment on how it compares, but I really liked this as a story in its own right. It wasn't an idealised picture perfect reflection on life at college, rather it was a painful snapshot of what real life can be; a life-changing moment; a desire to fit in; the constant struggle to fulfill your potential and the expectations of your loved ones.

I believe the novel has been optioned as a movie. Let's hope Hollywood doesn't screw it up and turn it into another teen movie with a sugary happy ending.

Super brain

I just did an IQ test:

"Your IQ score is 126!

You are gifted with the natural fluency of a writer and the visual and spatial strengths of an artist. Those skills contribute to your creative and expressive mind. Insightful linguists can take complex concepts and articulate them to just about anyone. You have a gift with words and an insight into processes and the way people think.

These talents enable you to explain things clearly to people as you can conceptualise ideas internally and understand patterns on an abstract level."

PSYCHE!!!!

Warpaint

I went down the gym this afternoon - which is the first time I've been down the gym on a Sunday afternoon for, like, forevah.

I'm really trying to make the effort to jump back into the ol' fitness routine again having slobbed around for the last couple of weeks; I mean, really, I haven't done a run in two weeks! Anyway, I thought I better go this afternoon because there's a chance I might get my Xbox tomorrow, and I'd feel really guilty if I didn't do some exercise today to make up for the fact that I probably won't do any next week. There's dedication!

Hmmm...

So, as I'm driving toward the gym I notice that there's an awful lot of cars parked in the road, and the car park is really full too. It's been a while since it has been that busy - in fact that was the time when there was that awful-

Oh. My. God.

Yes, it is that time of year again. Beauty pagent time.

Every year or so the leisure centre in which my gym is located houses a beauty pagent dance competitiony thing. Believe me when I tell you that it is horrific in the extreme. The foyer is packed full of chavvy power mothers instructing their horrendously made-up post-foetus, pre-teen, and post-teen offspring how to twirl, cartwheel, and pout, and god-forbid if you want to get through the crowd to actually get to some of the other facilities. They glare at you, hands on hips, like an army of midget Dolly Parton drag queens ready to beat you with their battons at a moments notice.

The way they look just freaks me out. Five year-olds dolled up in so much make-up that it looks like they applied it in the dark under instruction from a prostitute of pensionable age, and unspeakably skimpy clothing (I could've walked through there in my pants and I'd still have been considered overdressed). If I met something like that in a dark alley I'd be inclined to whack it in the face with a plank first and find out what was later. S-C-A-R-Y.

So anyway, I got into the gym, did a reasonably awesome workout, then decided to head home. But - ARRRGH! - they'd multiplied in the space of an hour. The foyer was packed full of them, leading me to ask the question - what sort of mother puts their daughter (and in some instances sons!) through this merry hell? I was still pondering that question when a three year old in flourescent pink lycra attempted a cartwheel in front of me and almost clipped me in the gentlemanly bits.

All by myself

OK people - last Xbox-related post until I actually get my grubby little mits on one.

So, here I am. As you can probably guess, I'd sort of planned to base this weekend around stupid amounts of Xbox malarkey. No Xbox, no Xbox-based malarkey.

And so I find myself with an empty weekend ahead...

Hmmm...

Well. I plan on spending tonight settled on the sofa reading I am Charlotte Simmons and listening to Christmas songs. And before you say "that's painting a pretty pathetic picture," let me assure you that a) I really want to finish reading that book because it's very good, and I've been neglecting it recently, and b) Yaz gave me a belated birthday present today - Sufjan Steven's Songs for Christmas boxset.

I'm very much looking forward to the latter; I *big-time heart* Sufjan Steven's music, and this is five CDs worth of traditional songs and his own festive compositions, so it's quite likely that it will seriously tip me over the edge into hardcore Christmas mode and I'll start wrapping anything that comes to hand and over-eating. BINGE-PURGE-BINGE-PURGE!!!!

Just for laughs I decided to paint an altogether more grim impression of the weekend ahead for my workmates, which basically consisted of me telling them that I'd be sitting around in my pants knocking back a bottle of vodka. Now, they all know that I don't drink, and yet they all believed me. Quite possibly they were all taken aback by the horrific/stunning mental image that provided.

I then pushed the idea a little further and asked for a hug. This proved to be a step too far, as no one actually approached to clutch me to their bosom, but it's nice to know where the limits are. And to be honest I actually didn't want a hug. Although I like to think that I am quite huggable. A hugger, and huggee, of good quality.

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Inexplicably I dressed very smartly for work today; black shirt, black fine-knit jumper, browny pinstripe trousers, and trainers (hey, they match, and I didn't want to look too much like a professional); hell, even my hair looked styled for a change, rather than just 'ruffled.' And for the first time ever, I was not asked if I was going for a) an interview, or b) a hot date.

The answer to both is neither. But on the plus side, although I may be sitting here alone listening to Christmas songs and reading a thick novel, I *KNOW* I look goooooood doing it...

Love nor money

The sheer fact that I'm writing a blog entry today, on what should be the Holy day of the mighty Xbox, should be enough to let you know that once again "the best laid plans of mi-"

I think you know the rest.

So I am without Xbox. Sans Xbox. I have no box of the X. Basically because the comics shop sold out of the bundle pack I wanted, and I didn't want a different combo deal with a different game that I pretty much know I won't like. But that's OK, because they're going to get me another one in, probably for Monday, and you know that they say about absence making Jane Fonda.

Henry Fonda?

Da-do-ron-ronda?

Something like that. So I'm biting my lip and clenching my butt cheeks in anxiety, because I'd really worked myself up to getting it today in an uber-nerdy sort of way.

Maybe I should hyper-ventilate into a paper bag?

On the plus side, it does give me a bit of time to catch up on some things I've been meaning to do, chiefly finish reading I am Charlotte Simmons. Did you know that Tom Wolfe won the Bad Sex in Fiction Award for that book in 2004? I read that scene (at least I presume it was that scene) a couple of days ago. Charlotte described her boyfriend's penis as a ball-peen hammer, which struck me as a slightly unsual description for that particular part of the male anatomy, but no worse than a baby's arm, I suppose.

So, yes, I'll hit Charlotte again (not literally), polish her off (again, not literally), and move on to one of the other books I've got sitting in my stack. Probably the Star Trek Manga anthology, because I know one of the writers (he used to write for me on the Star Trek Fact Files) and he's eager to know what I think.

So... um, this is me... Xbox-less... signing off for today...

Oh, hang on, Scrubs is just about to start. Awesome!

Loitering with intent

"The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry."

As regular readers of this blog will know, I'm currently hankering after an Xbox 360. In fact, I intend to buy one tomorrow. At least, that was the plan... until Xfm started givin' 'em away...

To be honest, I wasn't really paying too much attention to this competition on the first day. The basic idea is that they're sending someone out to a specific location in London with four Xboxes, and you have to decipher three ridiculously easy clues to work out where he is. Then you go there and he gives you an Xbox. Nice.

On Monday he was outside Buckingham Palace. On Tuesday in a pub near Leicester Square.

And today, I decided I'd work through lunch, leave early, and bag myself one of those bad boys. I conspired with Martin so that he would call me and let me know the location I needed to head toward; to be honest he wasn't getting anything out of it, except, perhaps, having an extremely happy Tim bouncing around the office tomorrow. So, at 15:30 I left the office and tubed it up to Leicester Square.

And what did I do then? Well, I loitered outside Xfm's office like a stalker, of course (I figured that it was quite possible I might see Xbox chappy staggering out with the four machines, and I could then tail him - a bit like how Marty follows Biff in Back to the Future Part II).

So I stood there, rather close to Joan Collins' handprint.

And I stood there.

And I stood there.

After about 25 minutes, while I was fiddling with my mobile and acting all nonchalent, a shadowy figure appeared in front of me. Shit, I've been rumbled, was my first thought.

Turned out it was actually Lee. Now, it's always a pleasure to see Lee, although quite understandably on this occasion he was rather intrigued as to why I was lurking in London. So I explained about the Xbox competition.

"How marvellous," he said, although I'm pretty sure he actually meant "standing around on the off-chance of nabbing a stupid games console? I still can't fathom why you don't have a girlfriend, dear boy."

Then he merrily slapped me on the arm, said "do let me know how you get on with that" (i.e. "you're a bit of a twat sometimes"), and scooted off to do important Lee things.

So I went back to my solitary stalking. Then a man came out of Xfm's offices, and looking quite shifty, went and settled on a chair outside a pub.

Ah-ha, I thought!

Suddenly, my phone rang! It was Martin!

"Where do I need to go?" I shouted excitedly!

"Erm, Camden," he replied.

"Bugger," I said. Camden is, you see, not exactly in the immediate vicinity of Leicester Square. They obviously got wise to my plan.

I hung up, and took one last look at the shifty guy outside the pub. Maybe I should just strut up and ask him for an Xbox, I wondered? Then I looked a bit closer, and thought probably best not to. He might steal my iPod.

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One post-stalking coffee later and I was walking the streets of Londinium town with the intention of maybe filling the last remaining gaps in my Christmas shopping list and perving over the Xbox stuff in HMV. As I was pounding the streets, I saw the actor Geoffrey Palmer.


Sadly, he was not accompanied by his regular onscreen wife, Dame Judi Dench, but his legendary jowls were in attendance; he looks like he's storing food in his mouth for winter. When he realised that I'd recognised him he quickly looked the other way; I wonder how interested he really was in HMV's seasonal sale? V for Vendetta on DVD for under a tenner, Geoffrey?

He toddled on down the pavement where a young couple pushed passed him and he gave them a bit of a mouthful. Awesome.

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Anyway, chances are there won't be a post tomorrow because I fully intend to walk into the comics shop and say "Xbox me up, bitches" (though probably not with the word "bitches" as I don't like to offend), so I'll be playing that all night and through into Friday morning.

To be honest, you're lucky you got this post; Yaz convinced me yesterday to eat some out of date roast potatoes that I had in the freezer, and I was certain I was going to wake up dead this morning.

When franchises collide!

I was a little bit bored at work this morning, and this was the result.

Oh, sorry, should've said: NERD ALERT!

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Yaz and I went to see Hollywoodland this evening. Now, this movie - which is about the mysterious circumstances surrounding the death of George Reeves, the guy who played Superman in the 1950s - was originally called Truth, Justice, and the American Way, which strikes me as a better title. Seems that they were made to change it by the studio that owns the rights to Superman; they also, apparently, almost made them remove all traces of the name Superman, and the 'S' logo on the costume, from the film. Which, quite frankly, would've made the film a bit odd. Because then he would've just been 'man,' and no one wants to see a film about some random man, do they?

Hmmm...

Anyway, it was quite good - more intriguing than entertaining. There was certainly something weird about the way in which George Reeves died, and quite frankly the movie leaves it to the audience to make up their own mind as to what actually happened; some might view this as a bit of a cop-out, but seeing as no one really knows what happened I'm comfortable being left alone to formulate my own conclusions.

And here's a sentence I never thought I'd write: Ben Affleck in good performance shocker.

Good grief, what's next? A movie about tap-dancing penguins?

Blitzing Christmas

First of all, I don't mean blitzing in the WWII stylee. I thought about titling this post 'Blitzen Christmas' with a little pun on the name of one of Santa's little ol' reindeer, but that's exactly what it was: a little pun, barely worth my time, certainly not yours.

So yes, I 'blitzed Christmas' over the weekend. Jo and I had planned to do a monster shop (not "Grrr, arrrgh" monster, just big) for a couple of weeks, and we'd planned an early start. Terrifyingly, and somewhat biblically, my alarm clock went off at nine, and as I hit snooze and rolled over for "another five minutes" the LARGEST CLAP OF THUNDER EVAH rocked my little house to the core. It was like God was commanding me to shop for Christmas. My heart was thumping like a teenage mum chastising her vile offspring; dare I say it was almost worthy of a "save me Tom Cruise!"

So to Kingston we went! We started with a coffee. Well, I did; Jo doesn't drink it, but I bought her an Innocent juicy water which she seemed quite happy with. Then we shopped. We were there for almost six hours, and I came away particularly laden with bags. And just to rub it in for those of you who haven't started (it's only next month - what the hell are you thinking!), I might start wrapping this week.

On the other hand, being so organised does lead to the nagging feeling that I must be forgetting something...

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I spent the rest of Sunday finishing off my My Name is Earl DVD boxset, and came to the realization that this is definitely one of my favourite shows - quite possibly my favourite live action comedy ever. It looks vibrant, it's well written and acted, and most of all it's damn funny; I think I'm falling for Jaime Pressly who plays Earl's trailer trash ex-wife Joy.

They even filmed a special 'extra' episode for the DVDs in which Earl is influenced by Stewie Griffin from Family Guy to make a list of all the people he wants to get revenge on.

And who the hell knew Jason Lee actually grew his moustache for the show? It takes serious guts to have something like that on your face for eight months of the year. I expect.