What happens in Vegas…

… Stays in Shepherds Bush.

This is what happens when *this* much coffee is shared between two people at lunchtime.

I makes tinternets

I am officially edumacated: last week I went on two - count 'em - TWO courses. The first was a 'high-fa-luting' Adobe InDesign course in a posh building near the Houses of Parliament. So posh, in fact, that Sting and his strangely duck-like wife brushed past me in the street - no doubt getting some fresh air after six hours of tantric sexiness. That actually has nothing to do with the course, but, um, rwar!

Anyway, so I always go into these sort of things expecting them to be exceedingly dull, but this was actually very interesting, mainly because the guy running it was a top chap who made it very easy for specials like me to understand what he was talking about. In fact, I enjoyed it so much that I actually sent Scanner Dave an email during a coffee break to say "this is awesome." 

He thought I was being sarcastic.

Another benefit of being sent on this course was that it's given me a new skill, it was very expensive, and work paid for it. Hurrah!

The second course I did took place on Saturday, beginning at the horrifically early hour (for a Saturday) of 9:30. And this was one that I paid for myself, so I have no one to blame but myself. Oh, and Willowc, who talked me into it because she wanted to do it too.

Anyway, this one was all about the basics of HTML (no, not 'how to meet ladies') and CSS (that's 'cascading style sheets,' not the jaunty Brazilian pop combo), because I've had the urge to learn all about making websites for ages, and I thought I'd scratch it for the fairly reasonable cost of 85 Earthly pounds and two Saturdays, the latter of which was particularly erksome because it was the hottest day of the year so far and I was couped up in a classroom that overlooked a pub garden. Bah!

On the plus side, this class, like the InDesign one, was fascinating, and I'm pleased to say I wasn't quite as stupid as I thought I might be, and both Willowc and I seemed to pick everything up with relative ease (although she did tut at me on one occasion, and I subsequently called her "dummy" when she missed a hyphen out of a line of code).

The upshot of the day was that both Willowc and I are now the proud owners of really basic, rather shitty little intranet sites currently residing in the college's server. They're like tinternet throw-backs from the early nineties; cro-magnon websites, if you will, but heavy-browed, straggily haired, Captain Caveman-like offspring that we love all the same.

The last session is this Saturday, and I'm really rather looking forward to it. I'm hoping I can make some jaunty colours flash in sequence.

A true gentleman

They say you can choose your friends but not your family, but in my case, I struck lucky on all fronts; Mum and Dad are awesome. They’ve always been supportive of whatever crazy scheme I come up with, always encouraged me to follow my own path even if they might not necessarily agree with me. My brother is the guitar-playing best friend I sometimes take for granted. And then there’s my grandparents. On my Dad’s side, the wonderful, much-missed Georgie and John; she was the mischievous little imp who introduced the phrase “cheeky bugger” into my vernacular, who always opened her Christmas and birthday presents early, and made words up when we played Scrabble. He was the quiet, contemplative man who chose his words carefully, who watched us all with visible pride, and who amazed us with his artistic talents.

On my Mum’s side, there is Stella, our glamorous “little grannie,” as Simon calls her, always radiant, and never sitting still as she busies and fusses around everyone with a remarkable energy that leaves us all exhausted just from watching her.

And then there’s Bill, my Grandad.

It’s difficult to put into words exactly how much I admired this man, a gentle giant who towered over my Nan so much so that he would often affectionately refer to her as his “midget,” before giving her that look that could only be one of absolute and unswerving devotion.

He is a defining figure in my childhood memories. As a kid I was infatuated with buses. Grandad worked for London Transport, and as such, I believed it was him that kept all the buses going. I remember spending summer days at my grandparent’s house, waiting outside for him to come home from work. As soon as Simon and I caught a glimpse of him at the top of the road, walking along with that distinctive gait of his, we would run as fast as we could towards him, literally throwing ourselves at him as we got within reach.

He was a man of such generosity; he would give us reams and reams of paper to draw on, encouraging our burgeoning artistic talents. If we complained that the tree at the top of our road hadn’t produced any conkers, the next thing we knew we’d have a large box of them that he had collected from the riverside for us. And then, of course, there was ‘Grandad’s Bag’ - the giant bag of sweets that he would invite us to put our hands in to pull out a treat. He spoilt us rotten.

He was a charming man of such incredible politeness and generosity. Whether talking to a stranger in a shop or a friend in the street, his speech was littered with “hello dear,” and “thank you, dear.” If someone said something that amused him, he’d point at them as a coy smile spread across his face.

He remained active long after others would have given up and resigned themselves to life in a chair; he took a diabetes diagnosis in his stride, adapting to the new lifestyle he had to lead with relative ease, and happily adopting the nickname ‘Diabetic Bill.’ Despite having both knees replaced, and troubles with his legs and hands over the years, he maintained an allotment for almost six decades, growing his own vegetables and working the land with dedication, often giving away much of his produce to friends, neighbours, and relatives.

As children, Simon and I occasionally accompanied him to the allotment if we stayed over for the weekend. While he worked hard, planting seeds, watering, or digging up vegetables, we would turn an empty corner to marshland in an attempt to create a replica of Niagra Falls. Not once did he tell us off.

As we grew up, he listened with pride as we told him about our school days, our first jobs, our hopes and dreams. I’d sometimes pop over to see him and Nan, and sit with them in their conservatory as the sun shone down. I’d have a cup of tea while he nursed a small beer and a whiskey chaser. He loved war films and John Wayne movies. He thought The Goonies was brilliant. As a young man in the Home Front during the Second World War he lost a hand grenade in training. We continued to tease him about that years later.

He’d take us out for meals, always ordering soup of the day for a starter, and cheese and biscuits after his main course; once, when the restaurant had taken the latter off the menu, he charmed the waitress so much that she popped out at nine o’clock on a Saturday night to buy some just for him.

And just last year he and my Nan invited a load of us together to celebrate their 60th wedding anniversary. He hired the wine cellar of an expensive hotel overlooking the Thames, and we had a fantastic evening. I was sat directly opposite Grandad at the other end of the table, too far away to hold a conversation with him, but I saw him looking towards me, pointing, nodding his head gently and winking as if he had never been happier. Sometimes actions really do speak louder than words.

“There aren’t many of us left,” he would often say, jokingly. Sadly, that’s true now more than ever.

I’ll miss you, Grandad.

-----

Do not stand at my grave and weep;
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.

Groin + coffee = embarrassment

Of all the blog posts I have ever written, I think this one has the most obvious giveaway title. Like Ronseal, it does exactly what it says on the tin.

I had a full-on moment of utter stupidity yesterday lunchtime. I was sitting outside Secret Starbucks enjoying the fresh springtime weather with Yaz and Scanner, seated around a notoriously wonky table; truth be told, I would've preferred to be inside enjoying the nice warm temperature-controlled environment, but *someone* made us sit outside. Anyway, I'd already tried to cover Yaz in coffee (intentionally or not? Who knows!) by plonking her mug down in front of her and letting the notoriously wonky table do its thang, but, damn her, she's got cheetah-like reflexes and managed to swing her legs out of the way before it got her. All that meant was that I then had to go back inside to get some serviettes to wipe notoriously wonky table with. 

About 20 minutes later, though, I went to pick up my almost empty mug to knock back the last of my coffee, when – and I think this is what happened - I thought I saw some coffee about to slosh up and out of the mug. For some reason, some sort of bizarre animal instinct kicked in, and I rather violently slammed the mug back down on to notoriously wonky table. Notoriously wonky table subsequently tilted back in my direction, and I then watched as a large amount of coffee shot up in the air and landed right on my crotch. 

I looked down at my groin in disbelief (and not for the usual reason, fnar fnar). There was a massive damp patch. I totally looked like I'd wet myself. With no other option, I grabbed the last remaining serviettes from the earlier spillage, and unapologetically cupped myself right there in front of the lunchtime crowds walking down the high street. And I continued to do so for the next 10 minutes or so. Fortunately the coffee wasn't scalding hot; if it had been, I think I might've had to order a tall frappuccino simply to dumb it in my pants.

Anyway, by the time I walked back to the office, it was barely visible; at least I think it was. Maybe my mind's eye just sort of glossed over it, and I actually looked like a complete special walking down a busy road with a large yellow groin stain. 

There's a nice mental image for you, eh?

So, the end result of this story? Well, you know Starbucks knock 25p off the price of your beverage if you take your own cup in? Sorted.

Hair update 05: Indiana Jones edition!

In glorious 1930s-style sepia tones! Next!

Tellybox catchup: round two

So, after moaning about Gossip Girl last week, I watched the second episode yesterday and thoroughly enjoyed it. I don't know what that says about me and my fickle nature, but I do think this show could become a full-on guilty pleasure. Not one I'd rush out and buy the DVD boxset of, you understand, but one I'll continue to watch nevertheless. And buy episodes off iTunes if I miss them on telly. 

One that I do think I'd rush out and buy the boxset of, though, is Chuck.

I'd previously said that I was looking forward to seeing this show as I thought out of Josh Schwartz's two new series (Gossip Girl being the other), this one looked most like it might have captured something of The OC-ish like nature. Of course, I'd have to wait until April 7th to see the first episode and form an opinion. But then on Tuesday I clicked open iTunes and…

Ho, ho, ho, good times indeed!

So I downloaded it, and watched it. And I believe I summed up best what I thought of Chuck while having coffee with Yaz the next day:

It's like The OC with guns.

I can't think of a higher recommendation that that.

-----

One show I do feel I'm tiring of ever so slightly, though, is Doctor Who. The new season started last night on the Beeb, and quite frankly on the basis of episode one it was a bit rubbish. Not for the reasons I thought it would be, though.

This new series has Catherine Tate in it as the Doctor's new assistant, and as I'm not a massive fan of her brand of humour, I thought I might be put off it a bit. Tate, however, was quite good. My main problem with it was the fact that it's become apparent to me that the series has started to feel padded out by the use of the characters just running around while overly dramatic music plays in the background. Seriously, last night's episode would only have been about 20 minutes long if they'd cut all the running out. 

There were some really good, dramatic episodes last year, but this one seems to have descended into pantomime. And some of the visual effects were a bit ropey. I wasn't impressed… Although I'm just a little bit giddy at the prospect of Tate shouting "AM I BOVVERED!?" at some point. She has to, doesn't she? Right in a Dalek's sink-plunger.

-----

In other, unrelated matters, I thought Spring had sprung last week. My hoodies were almost put into hibernation - one day I even wore a shirt and light jumper combo! But then this weekend struck and I'm pretty sure I'll soon be back to hugging a hoody like Linus hugs his security blanket.

I popped to Kingston yesterday, and after deciding that the Starbucks in the Bentalls Centre was too busy, I headed out on to the high street to make my way to the other Starbucks - at which point the heavens opened and it hailed on me. Hails stones! Freakin' hail stones!! I had to take refuge in the doors of M&S until it passed.

A cinnamon dolce latte and a short walk later I got back to the car park and just about managed to dive into my car before this happened:

That's proper, full-on rain, people.

Anyway, it continued to do that for the rest of the night - and there's me without a hoody. Bah!

So this morning I wake up about 9am, and just doze about in bed for an hour or so. OK, two hours or so. When I finally sit up and look out the window I see that it's HOLY FREAKIN' HECK IT'S SNOWING! Snow - everywhere! What sort of merry hell is this?! 

I sat in bed just rubbing my eyes in disbelief then looking again. It was totally still there. Crikey.

It's pretty much all melted now, though; just a few bits here and there. Oh, and a snowman on my neighbour's lawn, which I'm totally tempted to go and boot the head off when I go for a run in a while. Talking of which - this is going to be a, um, unique run; I've just drunk half a carton of out of date cranberry and raspberry juice which potentially could've fermented, so not only will it be snowy-cold weather and icy, but I might also be tiddly. Oh, good times indeed!

*Hic!*

Tramp

Highlight of the day is summed up in one word: Tramp.

As longtime readers will know, I have a habit (some might say slight addiction) of trying to get shout-outs on the radio, particularly if I'm a bit bored. Today was no different - but rather than get a shout-out for myself, I aimed to get one for Yaz.

Weekday mornings are now taken up by listening to the George Lamb show on BBC 6Music, which plays some rather awesome music in combination with the most inane banter I've heard in a long time; so inane, in fact, that it a) ranks right up there with the kind of inane banter that Yaz and I throw at each other over coffee at lunchtime, and b) has led to lots of online petitions to get the show taken off 6Music because it's not the kind of show that many listeners to the station want to hear. Another aspect of the show is the shout-outs to listeners, which generally take the form of 'SHABBA!' (as in the classic Shabba-Ranks lyric) or 'TRAMP!' (as intoned by what I imagine to be a sassy black woman) depending on whether they're intended for people who've done something … well, shabba-able or trampy. There's also 'CHARLIE MURPHY!' and 'BAM-BAM!' but shabba and tramp are the most important ones.

Of course, I wanted Yaz to get a tramp. I told Yaz I was going to get her tramped, and she was well up for it; giddy with excitement, in fact.

So, to get the full-on trampage, I had to jump on the slightly surreal bandwagon of 'diva-watch' - basically emailing in a faked sighting of a diva, preferably with some form of meat-based clothing.

After no thought much thought, I went with: 

Just spotted Aretha Franklin riding Ronnie Corbett down the Goldhawk Road; she's wearing a honey-roast ham dress, rump steak shoes, and a meatball necklace. Any chance of giving my mate Yaz a tramp?

And tramped she was, on national radio*. Good times.

-----

I was asked this afternoon what my theme tune was. My initial response was that I'm not a tellybox programme, so I don't technically have a theme tune. But it's an interesting question, not least because I remember the storyline on Ally McBeal where she had to find a theme tune and I was always intrigued by the thought of what mine would be. So I reached for my iPhone in order to scroll through my songs in search of a quality theme tune.

Now, I'm not the sort of person who wants to change his theme tune every other day - I want a classic that will see me through the good times and the bad, so after much scrolling, I settled on Shine a Light by the Rolling Stones (not influenced in any way by the new rockumentary of the same name - I liked the song first!), although it's got to be the version off the Stripped album. I was almost swayed by a couple of tracks of the new Panic at the Disco album, but it's too new to really know how the songs will stand up over time (though I think they will). Anyway, I think Shine a Light is a good choice. 

So, my question to you is: what's your theme tune, hmmm…?

*If you want to hear it, go HERE and click on Friday's show in the 'listen again' section - it'll be up till the end of next week!

Hair update 04: impromptu edition!

OK, so because of time limitations, I've not gotten round to doing the Indiana Jones pic. Would you be mad if I did it another week? At the very least that'll give me a chance to flex my photoshop muscles and give you something truly awe-inspiring instead of something that's slapped together like a kebab in that dodgy-looking van you know you really shouldn't stop off at while you're staggering home from the pub drunk. Again.

While you're pondering whether there should've been more commas or full stops in that last sentence, here's this week's wonderful, spur-of-the-moment photo.

To be honest, I'm quite glad I've not had the chance to do anything else, because quite frankly my hair's been awesome today. I'm rather pleased to announce the return of my sexy little flick-ups at the back (note how I'm pointing at them for you), and I'm going for the beardy look once again because I bought eight new razor blades the other day and they cost me just over 14 quid, so lord knows I'm going to make them last as long as I can. And if that means not actually using them, then by gum, I'm not actually going to use them!

As a matter of fact, I was supposed to do a run with Sweatband tonight, but she bailed because she's sick. If we'd done it, today's pic would actually have been post-run sweat-tastic rather than Indiana Jones-style or just plain suave. Maybe we'll get to that in a few weeks if there's enough demand. 

-----

Talking of runs, I did a crappy one last night. Look at the current graph. See where it dips? That's where I actually had to stop running because my legs were aching, and I had to walk for a few minutes. Rubbish. It didn't help that Spring has suddenly sprung and I was roasting my tits off in a fleece. Bah. You can bet your bottom dollar I'll go out in t-shirt and shorts next time and it'll snow. 

-----

I've come to the decision today that I'm very particular about the brand of porridge I eat. I've been on a bit of a porridge kick, y'see, and have been downing a bowl for lunch each day; it's cheap, very filling, empowers me with slow release energy throughout the latter part of the day, and keeps me regular. Am I alone in saying that there's nothing quite as satisfying as a big poo? Anyway, I couldn't get my regular Oats-so-Simple the other day, so I had to buy Scotts Oats, and quite frankly it's like eating a bowl of glue. 

Fortunately, I had the last of it today, so I'll be hitting Sainsbury's for some of the good stuff tomorrow.

-----

Right, I'm off to watch Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade which I taped last night. Purely for, um, research purposes for next week's update, you understand!

Tellybox catchup

I've been catching up on some telly over the last few days - old favourites and some interesting new shows. I'm finding that a lot of shows I enjoy aren't coming back with particularly strong episodes at the moment– My Name is Earl returned for its third season and was, well, OK (though I hope it will pick up in the coming weeks), while Supernatural hasn't exactly been firing on all cylinders this season (though it's always enjoyable at the very least). Oh, and don't get me started on the craptacular Bionic Woman. I wonder whether the now-ended writer's strike had anything to do with the lack of quality? Were producers rushing scripts through before the strike began last year?

Anyway, there have been a few new shows that have grabbed my attention recently. Let's review!

Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles

A show that I always want to call Derminator: Da Saiwa Konner Kwhronikals in an Arnie-stylee. This was a show that I thought would most probably suck monkey balls, but it's actually turned out to be an enjoyable, if relentlessy-grim series (seriously, I can't ever see them doing a Buffy-style musical episode, or something with a little humour). It's got some woman who is not Linda Hamilton starring as Sarah Connor (damn! there goes any hope of reigniting my childhood crush), some dude who appeared in Heroes for a while as John Connor (who is inexplicably now a tad emo), and the slightly-special looking gal from Firefly as a sexy lady Terminator. There are also a variety of guest star Terminators who all look a little bit like Arnie, but are not actually Arnie. Oh, and it sometimes looks a little bit like it was shot on a shoestring budget, which probably helps them afford to do intense visual effects when they need to (like the one I just watched that had flashbacks, um, maybe flash-forwards, to the future).

OK, so the first episode screws around with Terminator continuity a bit, but that actually helps the writers side-step the events of Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines which we'll let them off for. Weirdly, I sometimes find that I don't actually look forward to watching this show, but when it begins I find myself thoroughly enjoying it. And bearing in mind the first season is only nine episodes long and it's still up in the air as to whether it'll get a second season, I suppose I should enjoy it while I can.

Oh, and it's nice to see that T'Pol's wig is still getting work.

Cheer up, emo!

Gossip Girl

OK, so I've actually only seen the pilot episode of this, so it's possible I might change my opinion of it in the future, but I'm kinda not liking Gossip Girl that much. Which is a surprise, as it's being overseen by the producers of The OC, one of my all-time favourite shows. I think my problems with it (thus far) stem from one main source:

Spoilt posh rich people are hard to sympathise with. And yes, I know there's a not-so-well-off family who are supposed to be our guide into the debauched world of the rich, but they live in an awesome apartment and the dad runs an art gallery while also fronting a band, so I hate them for that. At least in The OC Ryan had had a pretty shitty life, and the Cohens were slightly kooky outsiders in Newport.

If Gossip Girl is just going to be all about rich people having expensive parties and wearing nice clothes, I think I might have to stop watching it. Admittedly The OC started out all serious like this (and I almost stopped watching that after the first two episodes), so I'm going to give Gossip Girl a couple of weeks to see how it develops*. I can't see any of the main characters ending up writing comic books, though. 

I am troubled, though, by the fact that one of the girls (Blair?) looks uncomfortably like a slightly uglier version of Summer from The OC, and the first episode ended with the slightly poorer kid decking someone in a Ryan Atwood-stylee.

Anyway, even if things don't work out for me and Gossip Girl, I've always got Josh Schwartz's other new show to fall back on: Chuck starts on April 7th, and that looks a bit more like my sorta thang.

Set expectations to 'raised.'

*My patented three episode trial period - like I did with Jericho. Although I stopped watching that after two episodes because it was badly acted and shitty.

Hair update 03: Wolverine edition

Without further, or indeed any, ado:

Good grief. This isn't getting ridiculous at all. Next.

Emos - fall back!

It's a bank holiday, and I was up just after nine this morning. Why? Because I'd planned it that way, people. Today, y'see, is the day that the new Panic at the Disco album comes out, and we all know how much I love Panic at the Disco.

So I was in Kingston by 9:50, at which point the sky turned grey and it snowed on me. SNOW! At the end of March?! What merry hell is this?! I was almost compelled to run through the streets yelling "Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas to one and all!" in a cockney accent, but wisely decided against it. 

After a quick coffee, I headed to HMV where I nabbed a copy of Pretty. Odd. off the shelf. And by nabbed I don't mean stole. In fact, I had a curious moment while paying for it; I had been listening to music on my iPhone, and the dude at the till recognised that I had an iPhone by the little mic attachment on the headphone cable.

"Good, innit?" He said while I handed over the cash.

"Yeah," I replied. "You got one?"

"Yeah, got it the day it came out," he said.

We bantered a little bit more, bonding over iPhones before I realised I was holding up the queue, so I decided to head off. "See ya later," we both said, like we were going to meet up later and continue chatting about the über-phone. Which we are not.

After a picking up a few more bits in some other shops (again, by 'picking up' I do not mean I shoplifted them) I headed back to the car, where I slipped Pretty. Odd. into the stereo, listening to it on the way home, then listening to it again when I got home. In fact, my iTunes tells me I've listened to it four times now, so I figure I'm Pretty. Well. (ha, like what I did there?) placed to give my opinion on it.

And I can totally see why Panic at the Disco dropped the exclamation mark from their name. This album is a lot different to their debut - less frantic, and dare I say it, less immediate too.

But I don't think that's a bad thing at all. In fact, I think it's incredibly brave of them to do what amounts to a handbrake turn in style, because this is a lot different to what they've done before, and I think it's a real grower that will reward multiple listens. Their musicianship has improved vastly, and they've ditched their emo-trappings for a sound that pays homage to everything from bluegrass, to Sgt. Peppers, to mid-seventies rock like you'd hear in Smokey and the Bandit. They could've whacked a sticker on the CD case saying 'Panic at the Disco: now 100% emo free!'

I like it. A lot. But I think there might be a fair few Panic fans out there who were hoping for a literal rerun of A Fever You Can't Sweat Out, and they're going to be scrunching up their little emo faces in shock and self-harming in response to what they're getting here. I think Pretty. Odd. might just lose Panic as many fans as it makes them new ones. It's going to be interesting to see exactly how this album is received…

"They're digging in the wrong place!"

For what seems like the first time in ages, I took today as a lazy day. I've literally done *nothing* of any real interest. I'd intended to do a couple of exciting things this Easter weekend, including clean the bathroom (couldn't be arsed), and get out on my bike for the first time since last September (too cold, maybe next weekend). Hell, I've not even left the house today!

Instead, I finished reading the book that I seem to have been reading since mid-January, and I watched Raiders of the Lost Ark, which I recorded off the telly last weekend.

I've not seen this film in what feels like forever, and after seeing the trailer for this year's Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, I've been a bit gee'd up about rewatching the first three Indy movies. I should also say that Raiders holds a dear place in my heart.

Years ago, back in the mid 80s or thereabouts, I'd spend every Friday of the school summer holidays over at my grandparent's house. Sparky Ma would wake me and Big Bro up at a ridiculously early time, somehow get us out of bed, get us washed, and dressed, then get us on the bus to our grandparent's house, where Simon and I would watch Wacaday and bemoan the fact that they insisted on cutting half hour episodes of the Transformers cartoon into five minute segments that they'd show each day throughout the week. Anyway, by the time Wacaday finished at about 9:30, Big Bro and I were at a bit of a loss as to what to do, because all our toys were back at home. So, each week we would raid our grandparent's video library. 

As you'd expect, two kids under the age of 10 don't necessarily have quite the same taste in movies as their grandparents, so among the war movies, Clint Eastwood films, and John Wayne collection, we had but one choice: Raiders of the Lost Ark. And this wasn't even a proper VHS - it had been taped off the TV, and came complete with adverts interspersed throughout.

But every Friday, Simon and I would sit there, watching as Marion got herself kidnapped in Cairo, laugh as the naughty little monkey did a Nazi salute, then go "awwww" when it ate the bad date and died, shout along with Indy and Sallah (the dude with the axe in Lord of the Rings) as they gleefully discovered that the Germans were digging in the wrong place, and cheered as Indy once again foiled the Nazi's plans to get their grubby little mits on the Ark of the Covenant. We watched it so often that by the time we started back at school in September we could literally recite the dialogue word-for-word (including the ads).

And today it was every bit as good as I remembered it being; maybe even better, because I actually did reach a saturation point after a few years at after which I refused to watch Raiders ever again. I think this was the first time in at least 15 years that I've seen it. Even better is the fact that I've just recorded Temple of Doom* and I expect Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade will be on next week. This is working very well as a primer for Crystal Skull which comes out in May - let's hope it lives up to the standard of the originals, eh?

*I still can't take the title of this movie seriously since I saw an interview with Josh Hartnett where he said the name of his favourite porn movie was In Diana Jones and the Temple of Poon. I've had a lot of respect for him since then.

Jeebus phone plus one month

I've had my iPhone one month today, so I thought it was an appropriate time to look back at how we're getting along together, and whether I think this relationship is going to last (ignoring the fact that I'm tied into an 18 month contract).

OK… so let's do this in a 'good iPhone/bad iPhone' way. First up: THE BAD!

So as everyone knows this is Apple's first stab at a mobile phone. But that shouldn't be an excuse for any potential balls-up, because they had the established competition to look at, and look they undoubtedly did. That being the case, while there aren't what I consider to be any massive mistakes or missing features in the iPhone, there are a few … well, oddities. Let's review:

• Vibrate - I tend to leave my phone on vibrate all the time, because I get annoyed by loud ringtones, but the vibrate function on the iPhone is very quiet. Almost like it's afraid to alert you to the fact that there's a call or text coming in. I genuinely can't feel it if I've got it in a pocket, so I might have to relent and go for a ringtone.

• Case. So I spent my hard-earned cash on this beautiful phone, but to protect if from knocks and bangs I felt compelled to buy a hard case to put it in. Downer. I'm not too terribly worried about ruining the appearance of the iPhone by hiding it in a dull plastic case, but it's annoying that very few of the available cases provide easy access to the dock. The one I bought proved so difficult to squeeze the phone into that I've not dare take it out since the day I bought it, leaving the dock gathering dust on my desktop while I make do with the connecting cable trailing across the desk for syncing purposes. I can't help but think that Apple's missing a trick in not designing their own cases in their own inimitable elegant style. In the meantime, I'm thinking I might have to replace my existing case with one of the new Incase Sliders, which would appear to fit my requirements, but sadly don't seem to be available in Britland just yet…

• Notes. Not one of my complaints, but one that Scanner at work mentioned he found annoying. You can write notes on your iPhone, but unlike Mail, iTunes, iCal, Address Book, and iPhoto, they don't sync back to your computer when you connect your iPhone. This doesn't actually bother me, but I can see that it might be a pain for some people.

• Video. Another one that's not a biggy for me: the iPhone lacks a video camera. Meh. I think I read somewhere that it actually has the capability to record footage, but Apple just hasn't activated it in a software update yet. 

• Cut and paste. Yeah, you can't cut and paste text yet. A bit of a bugger if you want to copy some text and slap it in an email, but again, not a problem I personally have found myself damning iPhone for so far. I'm sure it'll come in a future update, anyway.

Um… so that's about it for the complaints. Will the good stuff outweigh the niggles?

Oh yeah.

• Gorgeous. That's how I described the iPhone from the first moment I used it, and it's a word that still sticks now. I'm still amazed at how incredible it is to use even after a month of using it. The touchscreen interface is just a joy to use - easy, intuitive, and slick. It really is like something sent back from the future, and instantly dates everything else I've ever used. No word of a lie - this is the finest piece of technology I've ever had the pleasure of using (yes, it's actually a pleasure to use it).

• Easy syncing. From the initial setup process to my daily sync of email, photos, and contacts, iPhone does it all without a quibble. It's best friends with my computer, something that can't be said of any mobile phone I've previously used. They might even be secret lovers. Rawr!

• Typing. The iPhone is literally a mind-reader. Say you're typing a text or email, and you've got massive sausage fingers that hit all the wrong keys on the virtual keyboard: not a problem - iPhone works out (faultlessly) what you want to say. It's so good that I've found myself writing an email on my computer, just pounding away at the keys and expecting it to self-correct all my mistakes for me (hopefully it's something that Apple will port over to their Mac Mail App at some point). Genius.

• Web and mail. Being able to check my email at any time has been a real boon, as has the ability to check the news, reply to blog comments, and, in fact, look at any webpage on the go. A lot of people have complained about iPhone being slow while hooking up to the internet on GPRS, but I can't say I've had reason to moan about it; it seems reasonably fast, so long as you're not looking at an intensely graphics-heavy site. So fast, in fact, that I couldn't see myself instantly swapping my current iPhone for the rumoured 3G version when it appears at some point this year. Similarly, I've found myself almost always within easy reach of the ever-so-slightly-faster EDGE network.

• Impending Apps. In a few short months, Apple will unleash the iPhone Apps store upon the world - at which point there will be hundreds - maybe thousands - of new applications (including games) available for the platform. Three words: Super Monkey Ball.

I kid you not.

• Software. The real beauty of the iPhone is that it's a growing, evolving platform. New software, bug fixes (if needed), and enhancements can be downloaded straight to the phone from iTunes. So the iPhone you might buy now has a number of enhancements over the iPhone you would've bought last year. And because the iPhone's interface isn't tied to a rigid screen and numerical keyboard like the vast majority of other mobile phones, it can theoretically change in any number of unexpected ways in the future.

So, um, I really could whittle on about this for hours (seriously, if you ever meet me, don't start me off on a conversation about how good the iPhone is - you won't get a word in edgeways). Of course, there will always be people who don't want an iPhone, or who don't like them, which is fine, and I'll quite honestly say it's not the right phone for everyone (the tariffs are a tad expensive, if I'm being truthful). But I love mine, and I'm glad I bought it.

And despite what you might think after reading this post I am neither a) on Apple's payroll, or b) Steve Jobs' bitch.

The working life

I got my first job when I was 17. It was helping out at a playscheme that was run at my school during the summer holidays. You'd think that the desire to get away from school would outweigh the desire to actually work there for two weeks for a paltry £20 per week wage, but it was fun and I'm pretty much a whore when any amount of money is dangled in front of my eyes. And anyway, it was fun because as a group helper I basically just got to be the cool older kid in the group, as demonstrated by the afternoon spent finger-painting.

I returned to the playscheme a year later, older, wiser and with the added responsibility of leading my own group, which came with a £10 per week pay rise over the previous year's wage. As a group leader, though, I couldn't be the kids' new best friend, and thus ended up playing bad cop to my helper's good cop. Still, the kids in my group - who were about nine years old - were generally pretty cool; I think they reserved the real little shits for someone more battle-hardened. The last couple of days at playscheme are ingrained on my mind for two reasons - the first is that I got my exam results on the penultimate day, which led the kids to give me a round of applause for doing so well, while the second is that we spent the last day at Thorpe Park. 

Somehow over the course of the two weeks, one of the other group leader's young daughters latched on to me, I think because one hot day I called her a "sweaty Betty" and she found it hilarious. So at Thorpe Park she decided she wanted to hang out with me and my group of nine-year olds. Everything was cool until we hit Thunder River, and she massively freaked out at the first hint of water splashing over the side of the boat, despite the fact that she'd merrily watched other boats full of drenched occupants zooming past while we were queuing. I subsequently spent the entire ride clinging on to a screaming four-year old who was determined to jump ship, before quickly giving the sobbing red-faced thing back to her mum and heading back to Mr. Monkey's Banana Ride despite the fact that I'd already made the kids go on it about four times.

As jobs go, playscheme was fun but tiring. I had, at one point in my life, considered teaching as a career, but two weeks of fun was just about enough. On the plus side, I was Police-checked and am 100% kiddie safe.

-----

Two months later I was back at Thorpe Park, this time working in the 'olde-English' style pub in the dying weekend days of the summer season. I was roped into this by a mate who'd worked there all summer, and was somewhat ill-prepared. I had to steal a pair of Big Bro's black trousers (which were too large), and was forced by the manager to wear a manky old oversized sweatshirt; the combined effect left me looking like the Tom Hanks character in Big when, at the end, he returns to child-size while still wearing his adult clothing. I also had to keep hoisting trou up, in case they dropped down in a comedy style while I served an irate parent a decidedly dodgy looking pint.

Good times were nevertheless had, although I was without a doubt the worst barman ever; Once, I accidently clipped the bottom of a pint glass (well, actually it was plastic) on a beer tap and emptied its contents over the guy I was serving. Fortunately he was cool about it. I also had an unerring inability to remember the prices of the drinks, so I generally made my own decision about what to charge based on the nature of the person I was serving; sometimes it was excessively expensive, other times ridiculously cheap. 

In hindsight, its possible I was the best barman ever, depending on how polite you were to me.

Thorpe Park's bar was notable for a couple of other reasons, one of them being the fact that it was located next to a fast food joint. You'd get a lot of parents sending their kids to the fast food place, while they came to the bar for some 'proper food.' What they didn't know, though, was that all the food was prepared in the same kitchen, with the only difference being that the fast food stuff was slung in a box, while the pub stuff was slapped on a plate; presentation aside, it was all the same crap.

The other thing I remember - well, kinda - is that all the alcohol had to go by the last night of the season, so the four of us working in the bar got *completely* shit-faced on alcopops (this was '96, after all). Despite that, I still managed to keep my trousers up.

-----

After leaving school I had some desire to work in the film industry (behind the scenes, I hasten to add). About a month after I left Thorpe Park I went for an interview at Shepperton Studios, which meant I had to go clothes shopping because my wardrobe consisted solely of jeans and t-shirts, which apparently don't go down too well in a job interview. So one shopping spree later I was decked out in a crumpled white shirt (like Agent Mills' in Se7en) and some awesome pinstripe trousers (despite Sparky Pa telling me I looked like I'd bought half a suit). Combined with one of Sparky Pa's ties and some hastily polished shoes I actually looked halfway presentable.

So the job was for a company that … made stuff. To be honest, I didn't really do my research then, and I can't for the life of me remember what the company was called now. But this was the first round of interviews for a job they listed as a runner, which I subsequently found out consisted of just driving various pieces of equipment round in a skanky van, then hauling it into place on a location. Hired muscle, basically. 

Anyway, the interview was going OK - until the point when the guy looked me straight in the eyes and said "so where do you see yourself in five years?"

Without a moment's hesitation I replied "well, not here."

I wasn't invited back for a second interview, funnily enough.

-----

Three days after my 19th birthday, I started work at - mentioning no names - a company that published, and continues to publish (much to some people's surprise) various film and television-related magazines. I had written to them out of the blue asking if they had any jobs going, and they were kind/stupid enough to take me on. I think of this job like a first girlfriend - cheap and easy. No, no, just kidding! Yes, the wages were incredibly low, but I learned some incredible new skills (make your own jokes there) and made some awesome friends, many of whom I'm still in touch with today. In fact, when I was offered the job at the company I'm at now, I dithered for a while because I didn't want to break up the gang. But, as I said waaaaay back at the beginning, I'm a whore for cash, so I ultimately couldn't resist.

Also I felt massively ripped off by someone senior stealing my parking space and wanted to do an almighty 'screw you' to him. In hindsight, I doubt my little hissy-fit had any effect whatsoever, but it made me feel slightly more proactive.

-----

I'd first been made aware of my current company when a friend who'd ended up working there asked me if I wanted to do some freelance writing for them. I said yes, because it looked like a good opportunity and the extra cash seemed nice, and about six months later they offered me a job as an editorial assistant. Within a few months I'd scrambled up the ranks to a more senior position because other people started leaving (I don't think my arrival and their departure are intrinsically linked, but you never know). I've been there nine years in July, and it's been a pretty wild experience - I've met my Nemesis, made some awesome friends, seen some friends become enemies, found myself in a flooded office, worked my arse off, had my arse pinched by a tranvestite Ginger Spice, hated it, loved it, thought about leaving and ended up staying.

And I think after nine years I finally feel at home there.

Hair update 02: By jove, Holmes! edition

Crumbs, it feels like ages since I last posted, so, um, apologies for that. Anyway, let's crack on, shall we?

First order of business - after the immense success of last week's hair update, it's back for another round! And following on from Tara and Missy&Chrissy's suggestion, I've gone for a Sherlock Holmes look this week.

Ta-daaaa! That's my Sherlock Holmes: a stunning and uncanny transformation, I think you'll agree, that was definitely not thrown together while I was playing Scrabulous on Facebook or thinking that I might have to watch the first episode of Bionic Woman that I recorded last week. I'm particularly pleased with how I've used a Mr. Incredible Pez dispenser in lieu of a pipe.

So, what do we learn from this? Well, having slicked my hair down to appear as if I'm from the Victorian era* you unfortunately can't tell if it's grown at all since last week. It's also become quite apparent that I have just one expression, which always seems to involve a raised eyebrow. Please note, however, that this week I raised THE OTHER ONE.

Variety is, after all, the spice of live.

Don't forget to exercise your democratic right and vote for next week's exciting look in the comments section!

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Exciting news abounds elsewhere: I got my awesome new beanie. Over the last few years I've had a bit of a beanie obsession-thing going on; I've got shedloads of them in a variety of different shapes and colours, but I've always lacked an oversized one - y'know the kind that covers your entire head and most of your face.

As you might remember, I posted about the fact that I was thinking about getting one a while back - anyway, long story short, I ordered it, it arrived, I wore it, my boss compared me to Eminem, everything's groovy.

Notice how I've turned a little to camera to give you a better idea of how accommodating it is?I did that just for you, and you alone.

I love this beanie with a worrying passion.

-----

And now for something completely different: for what seems like an eternity, Thames Water have been replacing the water pipes in the roads around my office, and seem to be making a right mess of it. Roads are closed, the workmen don't seem to be doing anything, and on at least two occasions huge jets of water have been sent hurtling into the sky. Well, evidently some local joker has taken note of their incompetence - I saw this on the walk from my car to the office this morning.

Oh it's like a Banksy!

*An image that is quickly and utterly smashed into oblivion by the fact that I'm wearing a hoody rather than proper gentlemanly attire.

Two

Aaaaaw, ain't he a lil' sweetheart? And then he grew up to be … me! Yep, that cheeky little bugger pictured above is me as a toddler (or thereabouts). Damn, I don't mean to be bigheaded or any more egocentric than usual, but I was as cute as a button. That picture's like an advert for a potential Abercrombie and Fitch baby range.

And look - I was even rockin' the hoody fresh out of the oven.

Anyway, so why am I posting pictures of Baby Tim? Well, it's because today is my second birthday. Not my actual second birthday - it would be impressive if a toddler could write a blog for two years, and would put IDV's constant pursuit of me in a whole new, rather unsettling light. No! It is, in fact, my second blogger bloggy-blog birthday! Good grief - can you believe I've been inflicting this nonsense on the world for two whole years - isn't it time someone stopped me? Whatever. Anyway, I thought a baby pic would be more suitable than just doing a screen grab of my first post, which really you could just look at HERE, although I would suggest you didn't bother; it was – and I know this is hard to believe – even worse than everything that's followed it. In fact, it's very clingy and needy: "ooo, come read my blog, blah blah blah."

So there we have it. I'm two. Who's going to bring me cake?

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To mark this historic occasion, I've decided to open the secret Sparky vault to reveal some never before seen titles and designs that I considered using before this blog evolved into the Sparky Malarkey you all know and loathe today!

Some of you might find they look just a little bit familiar… Enjoy!

(Special thanks to the Coven for unwittingly allowing me to rip their blog headers a new one, and to everyone who's stopped by over the last two years - here's to many more!)

Hair update 01

Following on from Missy&Chrissy's wonderful suggestion, may I present to you - yes you - the first in a new weekly series: Hair update!

Yes, as my efforts to grow my hair longer continue apace, here's your chance to follow events as they unfold! The excitement is, well, exciting, so here we go:

Ta-daaaa!

OK, so this kind of looks better than it actually is; I've been wearing a wooly hat all day, so I had full-on hat-hair which meant that as soon as I got in I damped it down and spruced it up a bit, because there was no freakin' way I was going to post it as it was. Notice also how I'm aiming for a sizzling, sultry look; I don't know why - it was either that or mimic two annoying pre-adolescent emo girls who kept gurning into an iMac in the Apple Store yesterday, but seeing as none of you were there you probably wouldn't get the joke, and I'd just end up looking like a goddamned emo. Maybe we could turn that into another aspect of this feature - pick a stupid expression for me to model? Some unsavoury types would say a stupid expression is about all I can do…

Um, so that's about it. Obviously we've still got a long way to go. And by 'we' I actually mean 'me.' Unless you all want to join me in growing your hair, like a special hair-growing super-club. 

I'll make the membership cards. It'll be awesome. 

Kids do and say the funniest things

The Sparky clan were overcome by a brief wave of nostalgia this evening. Sparky Nan was over for dinner, and we got talking about years ago when Big Bro and I were much, much younger; around the time when I had chubby little cheeks and a mop of blonde hair that was so fair I could almost be mistaken for an albino.

Almost.

Anyway, the thing that sparked this conversation off was a recollection of one of the greatest achievements in Big Bro's life. At the age of four, you see, Sparky Nan entered him into a competition to draw an Easter card. So Sparky Ma duly set him down with a piece of paper and some paints, and told him to paint something … Eastery.

And, as she watched, he did. He painted a lovely, very well-proportioned Easter egg; he painted a lovely colourful border; and he painted a beautiful yellow chick. Then he started to paint another beautiful yellow chick on the opposite side, with careful little dabs of yellow paint. 

It was at this point that, for some reason, Sparky Ma left him alone for all of about 30 seconds time. And it was at this time that Big Bro decided that the chick needed some legs. 

Some legs that were about five times longer than they should've been.

Sparky Ma can still recall the utter horror she experienced upon seeing the mutant chick Big Bro had unleashed, but with the deadline for the competition looming fast, there was no time to get him to paint another picture, so she submitted it regardless. And what do know? The little bugger won. The prize was a £15 gift voucher for Dickens and Jones in Richmond which he swiftly spent on a large green plastic van that provided hours of fun throughout our childhood (and quite possibly slightly inappropriately beyond).

Anyway, so we were chatting about that painting tonight, and Sparky Ma said that she thought she still had it somewhere, before popping upstairs to rummage through her cupboards. Five minutes later she's back with an old plastic bag containing various treasures she's kept from our early years, including, for some reason, a headband decorated with silver milk bottle tops and a big star that I fashioned, aged five, for a school nativity play - the mere sight of which, allied with the overwhelming smell of mouldy 26-year dairy products imbued upon it, brought the memory of the event back with a jolt.

Ahem

Within a few seconds, the prize-winning artwork was found (how we laughed at that chick's exceedingly long legs!), after which we continued looking through the bag. 

And that's when we found an Easter card that I'd made for Sparky Ma and Pa way back in 1982. Now, the only explanation for what was inscribed within is that a) school teachers in the early 80s were sorely lacking in proofreading skills, b) I loved rhyming couplets, or c) Sparky Pa had done something to majorly piss me off.

Because I'd written: Dear Mummy and Dummy. Happy Easter. Love Tim.

It was at that point that I thought I might've outstayed my welcome for the evening and promptly headed home.

Rage

Changing my hair's not the only decision I've made this week: I've decided that Angry Tim might be have to be released into the wild a bit more often.

There's a reason for this: twice this week the same person has made comments to me that were, initially, just plain rude, and in the second instant, downright offensive. And as I'm generally a reasonably chilled out person, I stupidly let them slide.

No more, though; oh no. 

Let's review the said comments, and the setting in which they were uttered:

While walking back to my car one evening, I noticed that this individual (not a stranger, I hasten to add), was running down the road after me. I was listening to music on my lovely, lovely iPhone, and as this person can be quite annoying and I was in a bit of a rush, I carried on walking rather than stop and wait. 

Said person then started yelling my name to the point that a random on the street actually stopped me and said that someone was trying to get my attention. Said person then proceeded to lecture me about how people who use iPods are ignorant, and how I was the sort of person who would step out into the road and get knocked down, then blame the driver. I very politely replied that I use my iPod when running, and am always very careful to check for traffic when crossing a road.

My response should've been: "Actually I was just ignoring you because you bore the tits off me."

The second instant was the one that really tipped me over the edge. Said person asked me if I'd be up for playing a particular sport with him, and I said "not at the moment" due to events in my life outside of work involving a member of my family which are taking up a lot of my spare time. 

Said person then proceeded to make what was not only a deeply insensitive, but also incredibly offensive comment 'in jest' about that particular member of my family. Somewhat startled, I snapped back, indicating (far too politely, in hindsight) that the conversation was over.

My response should've been: "F**k off, t**t."

So that second example took place two days ago, and I keep thinking about it because I am genuinely shocked that some people think it's fine and dandy to be so insensitive to someone who, I'm not afraid to admit, has been through a bit of an emotional wringer over the last four weeks.

Which is where Angry Tim comes in. Because if said person tries to make another comment like that again, they're going to get a freakin' hell-storm of words right back at them that will be so colourful everyone in the vicinity will feel like they're on a really bad acid trip. And why not? If people like this can get away with it, there's no reason I can't in response.

I'm rather looking forward to delivering a vocal bitch-slap of epic proportions. Bring it.

Hair care crunch

The votes are in and have been independently verified - with your help, I've decided on a course of action for my hair!

Well, by 'the votes are in' I actually mean 'some of you mumbled a bit and didn't actually choose between long or short until I moaned and whined at you.' Geez, you lot are indecisive to the point of not knowing what to think.

Although this, coming from the person who had to ask what you thought he should do with his hair is, I think you'll agree, a bit rich.

Anyway - this is what I've decided (drum roll please):

I'm going to grow it until the first week of May. My reasons for this are twofold:

• I'm a little intrigued by trying to grow it long; and if I have it cut now, I'll only have to have it cut again in May ready for whatever pitiful summer will be thrown at us this year. 

• I intend to take the first week of May off, and I traditionally have my hair cut in my week off. So if I just aim for the May cut and ignore the interim period I'll be quids in, too.

I'm actually a little bit excited now I've made this monumental decision, which just goes to show how simple and easily pleased I really am. Um… Seriously, though, I quite enjoyed having longer hair a couple of years ago, and have always been just a little bit disappointed with myself that I never persevered with it longer. And to ensure I don't snap and shave it all off, I'm going to employ two distinct tactics to keep everything under control.

Tactic the first is:

• A hat. Yes, yes, this is a pretty straightforward way of managing the unmanageable hair that I anticipate I'll be facing in the coming weeks, but it also works. It also gives me an excuse to buy that oversized beanie I've been dithering over for the last few weeks.

Tactic the second is (*shudder*)…

• A parting. Good god, I haven't had a parting in my hair in donkey's years, and the initial thought of one scares me just a little. And no doubt best mate Jo will go utterly ballistic when she sees me with one, because she loathes them with an almost homicidal intensity. But I figure there's plenty of people around these days who've helped make it more socially acceptable, and if done correctly (a little rough, rather than a perfect straight line) it'll certainly look no worse than the horrific mess my hair has the potential to turn into over the coming weeks without one. It might also make me look sultry and dangerous - who knows?

So there we have it guys and gals - that's the plan. There are at least 61 days until I'm allowing myself to go get my haircut.

Unless I turn seriously mentalist around mid-April and hack it off with a kitchen knife.