It was bound to happen

My decent into lunacy continues. Two weeks after popping a house plant in the oven, this week I put some iPod headphones on a 30º spin cycle in the washing machine.

OK, OK, I didn't mean to do it, but the fact of the matter is that I did. I only realised when I went to head out for a run last night and I found that they weren't in their usual place in my bedroom. And then there was that awful moment of realisation where I kinda went "well, where on Earth could th- Oh." I then wandered downstairs, grabbed my shorts off the airer where they were drying and unzipped one of the pockets. There they were, all coiled up from when I popped them in there while at running club on Tuesday. On the plus side, though, they were exceedingly shiny. I actually thought they might be OK, so I grabbed my iPod, plugged 'em in and hit play. 

Have you ever heard David Bowie's Ashes to Ashes sound like it's being played underwater?

They pretty quickly went in the bin. Fortunately I have a spare pair. Which I will be Watching. Like. A. Hawk.

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Talking of running club, I'm genuinely thinking that they're trying to kill me. There's a road in Richmond - a very steep road, I hasten to add - that runs up Richmond Hill. It's called Nightingale Lane and the mere mention of it is enough to drive fear into the hearts of men. 

For the second time in three weeks we ended up doing hill training in Nightingale Lane. But in contrast to the first time we did it, when we ran it in teams with plenty of rest stops, we had to do it without stopping. Up and down, up and down. Ten times. I thought my thighs were going to explode.

Adding insult to injury, we did our warm-up at the top of Richmond Hill, in clear view of the posh houses and a line of traffic. We must've looked like a speshul cold-weather line-dancing troupe while we did our side-stepping and heel-flicks.

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I've spent each lunchtime this week watching episodes of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia on my iPhone, having downloaded the second season off iTunes last weekend (note to self: is 'watching TV in Starbucks' the new 'I'm writing in Starbucks to be seen in public, writing'?) I think I have full-on hetero man-love for this show. It's hilarious in a very twisted, 'I can't believe they'd do that' kinda way. Charlie Day is a comedy god. I've tried scouring youtube for some clips to show you how great it is, but out of context of a full episode I think it's difficult to really appreciate it. 

What I did find, though, was this behind the scenes clip which gives an idea of the sort of humour at play in the show … although I recommend caution if you're at all uneasy about DeVito-based nudity…

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Whoop-whoop! Nerdgasm imminent! Whoop-whoop! 

So, the first official pictures from the new Star Trek movie came out this week and I thought I'd quickly mention my thoughts on it (on a purely professional basis, you understand).

Well, my first impression, courtesy of Entertainment Weekly's cover image was … well, actually it was "Whoa! Back away from the photoshop – I said: BACK. AWAY. FROM. THE. PHOTOSHOP!" Seriously, someone really went to town on smoothing Zachery Quinto's face out. He looks like he was rendered in CGI. But that's what over-enthusiastic photoshopping can do for ya, and every other image I've seen has given me proper tingles in special places. 

I mean, look at this pic. Just from what I see here I think Chris Pine is going to make a fine Kirk, and from that pose I'd say that Keith Urban has nailed McCoy in a way I'd never have believed possible. From what I can see the bridge looks awesome too; different, yes, but it had to be, didn't it? (note to naysayers: c'mon, did you really think a $165 million movie was going to use a recreation of something from the 1960s? No, of course it wasn't!)

Well over a year ago I wrote about my hopes for this new movie, and I'm pleased to say that everything I've seen so far suggests that JJ Abrams and his team have done a fine job. Which makes it all the more annoying when you read comments from so-called fans saying that they hope the film fails because it's playing hard and fast with the continuity of the Star Trek universe. I find it difficult to understand how people can say these sort of things without actually having seen the movie, and seeing as none of us are going to see it until next May, I'll politely ask anyone who makes such comments to me to shut the f**k up and just be grateful we're getting a new Star Trek film. 

By all means, if, come next May we discover that the movie truly does suck, please feel free to rip it a new one. But I genuinely don't think it will, and I look forward to seeing what I think, on this initial, admittedly very small glimpse of the first new piece of Star Trek in over three years, will be a really rather wonderful movie.

Now, can we have a picture of Leonard Nimoy as Spock please?

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Damn me. I've got a … I s'pose you'd call it a little urge. And I fed it by looking at a special website. Which is where I found this.

Anyone who knows me knows that I want a Mini Clubman. And I'd not even planned on considering a used one (or 'cherished' one, as Mini call it). But I was being nosy on the Mini website the other day and I saw this one. And it's oh so pretty in a snarly "I will eat your babies, bitch!"* kinda way. I'm actually in love with those anthracite wheels. Visually it's not anything like what I'd planned on going for when I eventually get round to buying one (I especially didn't want to go for a red one as both my Minis have been red - and viper stripes? Puh-lease), but my interest has been piqued. It's done about 3500 miles, and it's packed out with more toys and gadgets than I'd ever think about speccing on one.

I'm very tempted to go take a looksy…

*New favourite quote from It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia.

Spiders, Cylons, and wonky-mouth

It's been a while, hasn't it? Sorry - that's my fault. I've been busy, y'see. Enough about me though, how are you? Keeping well? You look well. How's the family? Good? Good. 

Enough with the pleasantries - I s'pose I should do something reasonably entertaining, huh?

Well, you asked for it. You've only got yourself to blame.

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I was alarmed yesterday by a story on the London news (which I'm damned if I can find online) about spiders under Kew Bridge. Not any old spiders, though, but rather Johnny Foreigner spiders hitching lifts on bananas and escaping into the wilds after reaching our fair shores. Yes that's right - asylum-seeking spiders. Anyway, seems a load of the little devils have taken up residence under Kew Bridge (which I drive over every day on the way to work), and apparently they can give a rather nasty bite if you poke them or make 'your mum' jokes at them.

I don't know about everyone else, but until the courts see fit to move these buggers along or ASBO them, I'll certainly be dipping my accelerator a bit harder as I zoom over the bridge on the daily commute from now on. Or, y'know, finding another route. Because you know they're going to start trying to squeegee-ing your windscreen or something while you're waiting at the traffic lights at some point.

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Anyone who's my Facebook friend might've seen yesterday that I made the amazing discovery that you can buy a full-sized Cylon online. This is amazing, and, I think you'll agree, a bit of a bargain at just over eight and a half thousand dollars. Eight and a half thousand dollars?! That's, what, about four grand in real money? Sign me up! 

Seriously, though, how cool would it be to have a real Cylon? I'm having a little fantasy in my mind about it right now*: I'm thinking of us running through a meadow together. I'm thinking of it cooking me dinner and making me a special pudding**. I'm thinking I could ride it to work like a Segway.

And if it did all those things I would totally be OK with it trying to wipe out humanity.

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So, how are we all coping with the credit crunch? I hope you're also managing to keep a smile on your face while vast amounts of your savings go tits-up. Ahem. Anyway, I think I've found a way to help us through these troubled times.

And how, pray-tell, do we do that?

Here's how: Milo Venti-mocha-ccino or whatever the hell he's called. Y'know, ol' wonky mouth from increasingly-unpopular and in-no-way-getting-more-ridiculously-rubbish-with-each-episode tellybox show Heroes. 

I've got this theory, y'see, that anything can be made infinitely more amusing by the addition of … well, a wonky mouth. I started by finding a picture of Milo Double-Americano smiling (which was in itself a tad difficult; you'd think that anyone who has banged both Rory Gilmore and the cheerleader in his time wouldn't be able to stop smiling).

And from there we'll just take the mouth. And apply it to a variety of other pictures for comedy effect. Now, do keep up - there'll be an assignment at the end.

Why so serious? 

Hello Kitty!

OK, admittedly this makes it look like he's having an aneurysm or something.

I don't think I need say anything, except this picture barely needs added wonky-ness.

OK, so your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to apply a wonky-mouth to something with HI-larious results. I've put the mouth below, and it's up to you whether you want to print it out and do something with it manually, or slap it onto something digitally. Either post them on your own blog, or email 'em to me and if I get enough (or any) I'll stick 'em up here.

Bonus points for any with boobs in. Have fun my pretties.

 

* Nothing untoward, you pervert.

**No, really, you're just being dirty now.

And this is why we're all glad I don't own a kitten

As regular readers may recall, at some point in the last two years I appear to have developed a penchant for small cacti in Mexican-themed earthenware pots (newbies can catch up here and here).

Why this is I don't know. I do know that I like cacti, and I've had a bit of a thing about Mexico ever since I saw the Brad Pitt/Julia Roberts opus The Mexican (it's one of my favourite films). That being the case, I suppose my interest in small cacti in Mexican-themed earthenware pots is a bit of a given.

In my time at Sparky Towers I've owned four small cacti in Mexican-themed earthenware pots. Unfortunately, a tragic series of events means that number slipped to three, and an even more tragic series of events means it's actually currently standing at, um, about 2.5. I lay the blame for this totally at the feet of Homebase, who sell a broad range of small cacti in Mexican-themed earthenware pots; indeed, the reason I once owned four was because, like Pokemon, I decided that I 'gotta have 'em all.' 

Where were we?

Oh yes - Homebase. I've come to the conclusion, y'see, that Homebase stick the same instructions tag in every plant they sell. I've bought a spineless yukka, a dramatic green thingy for my bathroom, and the aforementioned small cacti in Mexican-themed earthenware pots, and they've all had the same care instructions. And while I'll openly admit I'm not Percy Thrower, I really don't think a metre high yukka and a small cactus that barely pokes two centimetres above the rim of its Mexican-themed earthenware pot have much in common when it comes to appropriate care. 

This I learned the hard way, because the instructions told me to "keep well watered during growing/flowering season. Keep moist during winter." And, as I discovered, those instruction apply more to me than to a small cactus.

The first sign that something was amiss came a few months back when one of my cacti went … how shall I say this … squishy. And by squishy I mean that it had the general consistency of a rubber stress toy and made a bit of a funny noise when I poked it – which I did often because a) it was gross and weird, and b) it was a funny. It stopped being funny, however, when the whole thing just deflated and dried out.

One down.

After that incident I took to watering my cacti a hell of a lot less, but once again it seems as if, rather than green fingers, I've got blood on my hands – my favourite small cactus in a Mexican-themed earthenware pot has started to go squishy. 

Needless to say, this has left me a little distraught, but desperate times call for desperate measures. And by 'desperate measures' I actually mean 'ever-so-slightly insane measures.' On Sunday night, y'see, I accidently pulled off one of the little spines on the surface of the cactus while I was prodding it with my finger. This left a hole in the surface. By scientifically poking the cactus further I discovered that it was indeed overly moist (stuff dribbled out the hole when I poked it), so I attempted to rectify this by rolling up bits of tissue paper and bunging them in the hole to soak up any excess liquid. 

Stage two of Operation: Save Cactus came to me in a flash on Monday evening. I was sitting watching Gilmore Girls (Lorelai's just had her opening weekend at the Dragonfly - I'm *so* excited for her) when I got to thinking about the environment in which cacti originate: hot, dry, arid landscapes. Hmmm … maybe if my ailing cactus was exposed to a hot, dry, arid landscape it'd lose its excess moisture and may be able to stage something of a recovery? But where would I find such an environment?

I fired up the oven.

Now before you get all prissy on me, I didn't cook the bastard. And I didn't put it in the microwave (just in case it went all mutated and bonkers). I merely warmed the oven to a medium heat, turned it off, popped the cactus in there, and left the door ajar a bit so the hot air would waft out like a desert wind. And do you know what? I'm a genius. Enough about me though - let's get back to the cactus. Post-oven adventure it actually seems to be doing OK - it certainly hasn't shriveled up and deflated as quickly as the last one did. I'm not getting my hopes up completely, though, and I do have a contingency plan if it does look to be failing on me: I could inflate it using my bicycle pump, or fill it with that expanding loft insulation foam stuff.

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And for anyone who accuses me of cruelty to cacti, at least I'm not forcing it to go scuba diving with me.

Choices, choices

Truth be told I'm still on a bit of a karting high from Friday. And yes, that means I'm still suffering from the hardcore alpha-male tendencies that manifested during the race. I just finished watching season one of The OC and was willing Ryan to punch anything that moved.

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Friday night was supposed to be a delightful companion piece to my win earlier in the day. Willowc and I had found out about an Empire magazine film quiz being held at Borders in Kingston, and decided that we'd give it a whirl. After all, we both consider ourselves conniseurs of the finest that Hollywood has to offer (providing, of course, that there's some kind of science-fiction/fantasy element about it, and it was made post 1977). Upon arriving at Borders, however, we found a notice on the door saying that the quiz had been cancelled due to unforeseen circumstances. We both "humphed," and decided to head inside anyway to escape the cold and trawl the bookshelves for exciting things (or, in the case of Willowc, pick up exciting things and put them down randomly elsewhere in the shop).

We eventually headed to Starbucks, caught up properly over coffee, then headed our separate ways.

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On Saturday afternoon I decided to head back over to Kingston as Sparky Ma still wanted ideas for my birthday and I'd seen a pair of boots I liked so I thought I better try them on to gauge what size I might need if someone ended up getting them for me. The boots are *ohmygod* amazing, so much so that I seriously thought about buying them on the spot; I ended up putting them back on the shelf and hurrying out of the shop before I snapped, or just started hugging them.

Another reason for my quick jaunt to Kingston was that I needed some new hair … 'product.' I've been using the same stuff for the last couple of years, and usually pick up a new tub when I get my hair cut. For some reason, though, I decided to have a bit of a change (maybe because I don't plan on getting my haircut till the end of the month). I headed to Boots and ended up staring at the men's hair care range like a speshul. There's a bewildering array of choice these days - do I want cream, gel, putty, paste, mud, clay, or wax? I must've stood there for about five minutes randomly picking up different pots. 

I almost went for one brand because I liked the design of their tubs, but ended up going for another because it was a bigger pot, and was cheaper because it was on specshul. I mean special. The idea of putting mud in my hair was intriguing, too. As I was taught by Sparky Ma many moons ago I put the first one I picked up back on the shelf and reached for one from further back. I then paid for it, and went home. And do you know what? When I got home I opened it to find that some little shit's already stuck their finger in and taken out a big dollop.

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I freaked myself out a little bit on Saturday night. I'd had a bit of a weird dream earlier in the week and thought it would make a cracking little horror story, so I decided to write it out in script format as Grum had hinted to me recently that he wanted something new to illustrate. I started about midday, stopped, obviously, while I headed out to Kingston, and began writing it again at about nine p.m. 

I wanted to write the whole thing pretty quickly while it was still fresh in my mind; plus I've got other things that I want to start writing, and I didn't want it to drag on. That being the case I finished it at about … half 12? And then, for some reason, I decided to check in on the Phantom Planet website in the hope that maybe they might've announced some UK tour dates. Tour dates? No. Freakiest blog update ever? Yes.

I read that, freaked out a bit, and went straight to bed.

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Saw one of the funniest moments in Gilmore Girls so far the other day, and for some reason it made me think of T-Bird (in a nice way).

I love the look on those cats' faces.

Team building: I'm doin it rite!

When it comes to work my general rule is you go in, do your hours (ensuring the work is completed to a consistently high standard, I should add), then go home. I'm not the sort of person to socialise with my workmates, and I once shocked Scanner to his core by telling him that I "don't go to work to make friends, I go there to do what I'm paid to do."

(Fortunately, I have actually made some wonderful friends in the workplace over the years)

That being the case I very rarely take part in our company events - I've been to two parties in the last nine years, skipped every Christmas lunch, and managed to wangle my way out of various other social events. In a similar vein, the words 'team-building exercise' send shivers down my spine. I mean, seriously, what does a paint-balling game really do? Highlights each individual's popularity within the office based on the number of times they're shot, that's what. And when all is said and done there are only so many times you can shoot the same person repeatedly in the head until they can't see out of their goggles anymore. 

Anyway, a few weeks back it was suggested that we should all head out to do go-karting. As you can imagine, I immediately began coming up with excuses as to how to get out of it: "I'm too busy," "it's not my thing," "I hate motorsport," "I'll be rubbish," etc. 

Eventually, though, I just gave up and realised that there was no way I'd be able to get out of it.

Today we went go-karting.

Things went a bit pear-shaped from the get-go as I'd decided to drive myself there bearing in mind that the track isn't too far from home and I figured I'd just head straight off home afterwards rather than go back to the office. Fair enough, but what actually happened was that me and my colleague in all things Star Trek actually made a few wrong turns and almost didn't get there in time. Thank god for Google Maps on iPhone…

Anyway, once we arrived at Surbiton Raceway we pulled on race suits, grabbed helmets, gloves, and a manky balaclava, and waited to be divided up into teams of two ready for a one-hour endurance race. Oh, dear reader, it was like first year P.E. all over again: at the end I found myself standing alone while everyone else buddied up to their partner. 

"You'll have to drive alone," said the track boss.

"Great!" I said, finally getting into the spirit of things and raising two thumbs aloft.

"Enjoy that while it lasts," boss-man said, nodding at my raised arms. "You probably won't be able to move them after an hour in a kart."

"Oh," I replied.

So off we toddled to the track. A consequence of me flying solo was that whereas everyone else would be pitting-in to swap drivers at various stages throughout the race, I had no one to swap with. Bonus, I thought, figuring that it would give me the chance to get a higher number of laps in (the race was an endurance, so the winner is the person who does the most laps of the track). Unfortunately, the track crew had a contingency plan for such an eventuality: four times throughout the race I would have to pit-in, get out of the kart, run around it, get back in, then drive off again. Great - not only was I flying solo but I'd look like an absolute idiot in the process.

Now, let me say here that my Big Bro is a very keen, very good go-karter - he has trophies and everything. In contrast, I've only done it twice, and both those times were silly little kiddy karts that don't do more than about 12 mph. I was not expecting to do very well at all. And the practice lap we did seemed to confirm this; I was reluctant to pick up too much speed, and I thought my kart was broken because the steering was really heavy. Turns out that karts just have really heavy steering.

A few minutes later we lined up on the grid. I was in sixth, not because I'd earned it or anything - that was just the next available space when I pulled up. Then the dude waved his flag and we were off…

…And something happened to me. I don't know whether I was picking up strange psychic-brain vibes from Big Bro or what, but I suddenly transformed - some sort of bizarre alpha male region in my mind kicked into action and I could not think of anything but how to get the best racing line, how to pass the kart in front, and how could everyone else be driving SO SLOWLY?! Seriously, I actually wondered at one point if my kart had a horn so I could beep everyone else and get them to move out of the way. But then it wasn't needed because with my newfound skills and smooth on-track moves I was passing people with ease. I could see other colleagues waiting to take their turn marveling at me from the observation area. I was on fire (not literally). At one point I even shouted "C'MON!" although it all got a bit muffled by the manky balaclava and helmet.

As the race progressed I ensured that I made my four obligatory pit-stops - the last of which was captured on camera (as I jogged round my kart I made a point of holding up four fingers to prove that I'd done all four) - and actually started getting a bit cocky; I waved at my boss as I passed him on the straight. He later retaliated, however, by banging into me and spinning me off the track twice.

Before I knew it, though, the hour was up and the chequered flag was being waved. I pulled my kart into the pit lane for the last time, clambered out (didn't bother running round it this time), and walked up to the observation area. And that's when something else strange started happening. Everyone started looking at me and making comments like "you blasted the rest of us off the track," and "you were moving some!" I laughed it off, and thought that maybe I might've finished in a reasonable mid-field position. 

After a few post-karting photos we moved into the clubhouse bit where the track boss started to read, in reverse order, the results. Out of the seven teams, I was pleased to hear that I wasn't last. And then he kept reading… and by the time he got to the fourth-placed team he was handing out little trophy-thingies. Ooo, I thought, it's a dead cert that I'll get one of those - Big Bro will be pleased with me. 

Then he announced third place … and it wasn't me.

I nervously looked across at the only other team left, realising then that I really, REALLY, wanted to be first. Not 'first of the losers,' but first.

And do you know what? I GOT IT!!!!!!

BAM!

I'd like to thank the Academy, my friends and family… Seriously though, I was well chuffed with this. I immediately took a photo of it and sent it to Big Bro - my first time in a proper kart and I nailed it!! Woo-hoo!

After that we all headed across the road for a slap-up pub lunch, where I was probably immensely insufferable as I gloated about my win.

Now drench me in champagne and get me a gaggle of supermodels to bang!

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Some stats!

• I did 1o6 laps - two more than the second-placed team.

• I took the fastest lap of our group at a smidgeon over 27.5 seconds (.4 of a second faster than the next fastest person, and just two seconds off the all-time track record).

• My fastest lap was done on my 101st lap, just five before the race ended.

• I had the highest average speed over the course of the race.

• My buns looked fantastic in a racing suit.

When boys shop

I met up with Marcosy this evening for a quick look around the shops in Londinium. The main reason for this, though, was that whenever we go shopping he always goads me into buying something but doesn't spend any money himself and I thought it was about time the tables were turned.

The last time we went shopping in Londinium he saw a shirt he liked but refused to buy it. Pretty much every time I've spoken to him since then I've asked him when he's going to buy the shirt - kind of like a kid asking "are we there yet?" to his parents during a long road trip. Finally this week he caved - ha!

So we met up and headed straight for the Cult store in Covent Garden. In addition to forcing a good friend to spend money against his will I also had a reason for going to this shop; Sparky Ma recently asked me if I knew what I wanted for my birthday, and I'd seen a Superdry jacket that I'd taken a bit of a fancy to and thought I'd better try it on to gauge what size I might need. This would be lovely for several reasons, one being the fact that Marcosy and I actually both have identical jackets at the moment, meaning that when we meet up we look a bit like a) twins (I call dibs on the Schwarzenegger role - he can be the DeVito genetic splashback), or b) some sort of all-male Howard and Hilda.

The Cult store is rammed full of clothes to the point that there's very little room for customers to actually get in, but we eventually managed to squeeze in and Marcosy headed straight for the shirts. After a couple of minutes looking through the racks he turned to me and threw my usual excuse - "they don't have my size…" - at me. I humphed, resisted the temptation to slap him, and walked off in search of the jackets. 

The jackets were located just across from the shirts, and I quickly grabbed the one that I like and tried it on. It felt good, and perfect for the any cold weather we might get; it has a high woolen collar (which reminded me of the coat Kirk wears in Star Trek II), and woolen thumbies to keep my hands toastie. It also has three - count'em, three - zips up the front, which might sound excessive but looks quite cool. And by 'looks quite cool' I actually mean 'a little bit confusing in practice.' Because I zipped the wrong bit of one zip with the other bit of another zip and it all got a bit messy. 

I genuinely thought I was going to be trapped in the jacket forever.

Marcosy, of course, found the whole thing HI-larious, so I told him to just shut up and buy a bloody shirt before storming off to look at myself trapped in a jacket in a mirror, meaning that not only did we look a bit like specially-dressed twins/all-male Howard and Hilda, but now we looked like specially-dressed twins/all-male Howard and Hilda having a barney in a clothes shop. By this point as well, Marcosy was holding both my jacket and his own, and I was convinced he was going to do the old switcheroo in an effort to get his mits on my iPhone, which was nestled safely in an inside pocket. Shit, that just reminded me - I didn't check out interior pocket availability on the Superdry jacket. Poo.

Anyway, finding a mirror actually wasn't as easy as it seemed because there's not much free wall space in the Cult store and at one point I was looking at myself in an open doorframe and wondering where my reflection had gone. I eventually found one (a mirror, not another doorframe), and waited a couple of minutes while some gangly emo tried on a plaid overshirt. Eventually he tired of sighing and flicking his hair and moved away, and I began admiring myself in a manly fashion from a variety of different angles straight from a catalogue photoshoot and deciding that, yes, the jacket was awesome. 

"You'd have to leave about half an hour spare in the morning to make sure you had time to do it up properly," said Marcosy, who'd scurried after me. I scowled, then spent five minutes struggling to undo the jacket without arousing the suspicion of the shop staff who might think I was up to no good. I eventually got it off, hung it back up, retrieved my own jacket, checked that my iPhone was still in the pocket, and told Marcosy to buy a shirt - any shirt, WHATEVER.

And he did. Job done.

 

We then headed to a little cafe bit outside the Superdry store where I suggested that his purchase was just part of some elaborate scheme intended to fool me into thinking that he'd bought the shirt to appease my demands, when in fact he was probably going to take it back tomorrow. He laughed nervously, then told me how the guy at the till had spoken to him in street lingo and called him "brother." I asked if he'd tried to do a street-style knuckle-bang greeting.

"What?" said Marcosy.

"Y'know," I replied. "Did he fist you across the counter?" Only realising just a moment too late how inappropriate, rude, and downright wrong it was to refer to a form of greeting in that way.

*sigh*

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Big news people! I'm up for a blogging award!! I know it probably goes against all that's good and honest to encourage everyone - whether you're a regular or a newbie - to go vote for me, but seriously: GO VOTE FOR ME!

And massive thanks to Oddthomas for nominating me!!

Good grief - can you imagine if I win? I'll be even more insufferable than usual! Should I think about writing a speech? Renting a tux?! 

*squeal*

Choose your own adventure: Bringing HI-larity back

Bitches, you know the drill…

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I was up stupidly early this morning watching another [1] before jumping in the car and heading to work. I had a good half an hour or so in the office on my own before others started filtering in, at which point I jammed my [2] in my ears to block out any and all disturbances. At about half twelve I walked down to Secret Starbucks where I quietly read my book while enjoying my regular [3]. I narrowly avoided getting [4] on the walk back to the office, and later in the afternoon I danced along to the M.I.A. song 'Paper Planes' while waving my [5] around (bang, bang, bang, bang!).

I've had a relatively chilled out evening since getting home. I watched [6] while eating dinner, then checked out the first two episodes of the new season of Heroes. I do think there were a few inconsistencies in the plotting, but I'm most intrigued by the realisation that a slicked-back hairstyle signifies you as being either a) from the future (Wonky mouth), or b) evil (Sylar). On the whole it was OK, but it didn't blow my [7]. And I keep thinking of Wonky mouth as being Jess in Gilmore Girls now, rather than powered-up Wonky mouthed Peter; he basically plays exactly the same character, except one worries about saving the planet, while the other just [8] off (wonkily) at Luke.

And now? Now I'm off to bed to [9] a couple of [10].

I cried myself to sleep last night

OK, before I start this isn't an attempt to get everyone to feel sorry for me. It's not that kind of post - it's just a 'this is where my mind's at' sorta thing.

So I feel like I'm in a bit of a rut. There's not necessarily one particular reason for this - more the cumulative effect of several things. My cold is probably one; where I'd normally be out at running club tonight feeling fit and energetic, I'm instead at holed up in Sparky Towers where the only thing running is my nose. What else? I think I'm a bit bored at work (which, admittedly, happens now and again), and I think I'm in one of those sort of moods where I'm inclined to make excuses not to do things whereas I'd normally shout "yay!" and scamper off ready for excitement and adventure. Well, not adventure in the grandest sense of the word, but you get the gist of it. I think there's a general sense of melancholy hanging around me at the moment.

I'm fed up arguing with people over the slightest little things. I'm fed up with people trying to put things on me, or get me involved in things I don't particularly want to do. Have I perfected the art of feigned interest? Perhaps. Maybe a little too well, in fact. I'm fed up with people who act selfishly towards others, and by the fact that I've come to the conclusion that a significant proportion of people I deal with on any given day are self-serving morons whose only way of making themselves look good is to step on everyone around them. And somehow they always seem to get away with it. Should I do that? Is that genuinely the way to be noticed - to make an impression? Be a total arse? I can't believe that – I won't.

Don't start prescribing the prozac just yet - this happens to me every now and then. It's not depression, nowhere near that, in fact (to call it that would be offensive to the people who really do suffer from it), and for all I know I might be perfectly cool tomorrow. At the moment, though, I just want to curl up on the sofa and ignore the outside world. 

I had dinner with Sparky Nan tonight and afterwards I sat down to watch the telly with her for a while. On one of the chairs was a photo album, and I started glancing through it. It was full of pictures from many years ago - a lot of me as a baby and a toddler. And there were a lot of pictures of us together as a family - all of us, I mean; me, Big Bro, Sparky Ma and Pa, and my grandparents on both sides. There were eight of us then, and there's just five of us now, and that kind of gets to me a bit. I don't think I've seen a photo of Dad's parents in a long while now, but seeing them there in those tiny faded images - they were exactly as I remember them in my mind's eye. My grandad in particular - he did not change one bit from when those photos were taken in the late 70s to when I saw him that last time at the very end of '99. 

I often wonder what they'd make of me now - my Nan and Grandad on Dad's side. I hope they'd like the sort of person I've become. I hope they'd approve of the choices I've made in my life. I'm pretty sure my Nan would let me know if she didn't, because she was a cheeky bugger. 

Around this time last year we were getting ready to celebrate one of the happiest occasions I can remember in a long time - Sparky Nan and Grandad's 60th Wedding Anniversary. Sixty years! I can barely deal in 60 minutes let alone 60 years. But everything's changed this year, and I'm not afraid to say that it's been tough. I think of my Grandad every day.

Maybe it's the looming winter that's affecting my mood? I usually like the colder months, but this year just seems a bit darker than previous ones, and I can't say I shall be terribly sorry to see it pass.

*sigh*

(Oh, and by the way, I didn't actually cry myself to sleep last night - it's a line from a Sufjan Stevens song I was listening to while driving home and it just sort of seemed appropriate)

Abort - ABORT!

In my last post I wrote about how I'd bought some honey to have with warm milk in the event that I got a sore throat as the winter months approach - and then promptly got a sore throat the very next day.

Well, thanks throat - you screwed my weekend up big time!

Bah!

I had a quietly awesome weekend planned, y'see, and it all went to pot because I woke up on Saturday morning - well, I say morning; it was probably closer to afternoon - feeling ridiculously gross and clammy. Within a couple of minutes of waking up I'd cancelled my plans for the evening (bah!), and was well on the way to feeling incredibly sorry for myself. The only ray of light I could foresee was the fact that the birthday present Big Bro and I ordered for Sparky Ma had finally turned up, and I was looking forward to seeing her open it. I texted her to let her know I'd be popping over later.

She then called me to let me know that she really didn't want me to come over if I was all gross and clammy and sore-throated-up which, to be fair, I couldn't really argue with.

And so I began my day of just watching The OC. 

About an hour later Sparky Ma called me and told me to come over; she'd been feeling really guilty about basically calling me "unclean" and "diseased" and said that I should pop over. Little did she know I came bearing her much-anticipated birthday present (which she loved).

After heading home it was more OC and a bit of reading. Oh, and learning that there is a prime milk-to-honey ratio and it all turns a bit bleugh if you exceed it.

Sunday's basically been OC overload as well, which is a bit different to the day of writing I'd originally planned; that fell by the wayside because I don't think I'm at my most creative when I'm gross and clammy. On the plus side, the sore throat seems to be on it's way out, to be replaced by its good friends coughing, spluttering, and snotty nose; bending over to get dinner out of the oven I was sure I'd stand up to find myself looking like I was in the process of inhaling a pair of shoe laces.

And so, with my usual routine of a Sunday night run obviously out of the question, I'm going to retreat into two more episodes of The OC, have a long, relaxing bath, then hit the sack early.

I'm such an old man.

Wallpapering

As regular readers (you can try denying it, but I know there's at least one of you) may remember, a while back I pimped my iPhone out with a wicked new wallpaper.

But I'm a bit of a fickle bugger, y'see, and I tend to get bored with things like this quite quickly. Which also explains why I've never had a tattoo; there's a bit of a difference between changing your iPhone wallpaper and spending the weekend trying to rub your skin off with sandpaper.

Anyway, yes, as lovely as the picture of the Enterprise blowing up is, I decided that I wanted something a bit different. And lo and behold, I found the answer in the form of a panel of artwork from Love and Rockets. Not just any panel, though; no, this, ladies and germs, is what I consider to be my very favourite single panel of comics artwork EVAH:

Good god I love feisty Hopey. 

There's something really … human about her expression, her stance, the bluntness of the words she's uttering. I love the way she looks like she's been caught and really doesn't give a damn. She looks angry and defiant. And after my well-documented falling-out-of-love with superhero comics, I love the message she's spray-painting on the wall. It makes me smirk.

OK, so it wasn't a simple 'get picture, slam onto iPhone' jobby - the original panel is a slightly different shape to the iPhone screen, which meant that if I put it on as it was most of the image was obscured; I could literally see her head from the chin up to the top of the speech bubble (what the picture above doesn't show is the date, time, and unlock slider that appear at the top and bottom of the iPhone screen, cropping the available space down to more of a square shape).

Original panel from Love and Rockets: Maggie the Mechanic.

I started by loping off the caption along the top, which gave me more of a square shape, then realised that rather than filling the start screen with the panel I should isolate it in the available space. After playing around with different variations for a while I realised that having the entire thing on a white background (as it originally was) didn't really work for me (I didn't like the start screen being all white - see: fickle; I told ya), so I isolated the cropped panel against black, and voila! New iPhone wallpaper!!

I think I'll be keeping this one for a while. Man, I wish I was as keewl as Hopey.

Alarming

As I mentioned in my last post, I decided that after several weeks of getting up waaaaay later than I should do for work, action needed to be taken by changing the alarm ringtone on my iPhone to the one that makes it sound like I'm under attack.

So I did, and by god it worked. 

No word of a lie, Monday morning when that thing went off at 6:00 AM I leapt several feet into the air, arms and legs waving around like mad things. And by 6:15 I was washed, dressed, and ready for the day ahead. Of course, 6:15 is a ridiculously early time to actually be going to work, so I chilled out with a cup of tea and spent 40 minutes or so on my computer. When I did leave for work at about 7:00 AM the traffic was so light that I was sitting in the office with another cup of tea by eight, and wondering why our new, middle-aged cleaner was blowing me kisses as she left.

Hmmm…

Anyway, I've realised that the time between the alarm going off and me actually having to leave for the day is quite a useful bit of time. This morning, for example, I watched an episode of The OC, which put me in a sterling mood for the day ahead. I'm thinking that next week I could even try - prepare yourself for this revolutionary idea - going for an early morning run. Although to be honest I doubt that'll actually happen as I'd probably have to pass on my cuppa. 

All-in-all, then, it's been a cracking experiment so far. I'm thinking I might have to consider changing the alarm tone again at some point in the future, though; I don't want it to become so familiar that I adapt to it, y'see. For the meantime, though, 'Alarm' works perfectly, and is staying.

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I went to Sainsburys on the way home last night. Didn't have too much to get, but somehow ended up spending £75 on a variety of cakes, biscuits, puddings, and - get this! - limited edition snowflake-shaped Ritz crackers! Yay - Christmas is here!!

No, seriously, Christmas IS here - I also bought some mini chocolate marshmallows in a tub which has a big picture of Rudolph the Reindeer on.

*sigh*

Anyway, as I was walking out and wondering how exactly I'd spent £75 on a variety of cakes, biscuits, puddings, and limited edition snowflake-shaped Ritz crackers, I caught a glimpse of a magazine cover with a massive headline that read:

INSIDE: TWIGGY'S BEAUTY SECRETS REVEALED!

Now, I do actually quite like Twiggy, despite her being a bit patronising and shouty when she presented This Morning a few years back, but there's only one secret that I can imagine helps out with her beauty regime, and I'm going to reveal it here: PhotoShop.

Seriously, I know she's looking very good for her age, but you don't look as smooth and new as this without a little bit of digital manipulation. Unless you've been chowing down on foetuses. And just to prove it, I'm going to demonstrate for you how digital manipulation can make any picture look wonderful.

Let's start with a random, untouched image of yours truly.

Oh crumbs, looking a little bit frowny there, eh? Not going to make it into the latest copy of the Littlewoods catalogue with that expression, are we?

OK, let's start by cropping in a bit and lightening things up a tad.

That's a bit better. Now let's use the wonders of technology to take off a few years and make me look younger.

Ta-daaaa! See how easy that was? With just a few clicks of a computer mouse I've made some subtle changes to the image. An untrained eye wouldn't even be able to tell that the picture's been manipulated - but the end result is well worth it.

If anyone would like me to digitally enhance their assets (snigger) send me a picture and I'll see what I can do. That includes you, Twiggy.

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When I had a sore throat earlier this year, Barista dude in Secret Starbucks made me a honey and milk concoction that he promised would make it better. I'm not entirely certain it did anything, but it tasted nice. So, while I was in Sainsburys last night (spending £75 on a variety of cakes, biscuits, puddings, and limited edition snowflake-shaped Ritz crackers), I decided that as it's getting colder, I should pick up some honey just in case I get a sore throat at some point. So I did. And lo and behold, I woke up this morning with a sore throat.

What's that all about?

So, annoyingly, while I had planned to go swimming tonight I'm now staying home with a gnarly throat. On the plus side… 

Honey and milk + Gilmore Girls + The OC on DVD = awesome night in.

Rock on.

Viewing pleasure

During an argument discussion with Big Bro the other day, I suggested that I didn't actually watch that much TV. Based on the events of this weekend, for which I am laying blame predominantly on Best Mate Jo, it could be said that I outright lied during that argument discussion.

This weekend, beginning from the moment I got home on Friday evening, to the time of writing, I have watched:

• Two episodes of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia.

• Twenty minutes worth of iTunes bonus features for Season One of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia.

• Five episodes of Gilmore Girls.

• Seven episodes of Season One of The OC.

• One episode each of Strictly Come Dancing and The X-Factor.

This is made all the more remarkable by the fact that I slept in until midday on both Saturday and Sunday, so all this viewing took place with the confines of approximately 24-hours.

Hmmm…

OK, so the two episodes of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia were the last two of Season One, and they were just sitting there asking to be watched on Friday night - and it would've been rude not to watch the bonus material around the same time, right? As for Gilmore Girls, well, I had to watch them (not that it was a chore, mind) because there'll be five more episodes next week and I can't have them backing up. And The OC? Why, might you ask, am I watching The OC from the beginning again?

Well, it's my own silly fault, really. Last Christmas I bought Best Mate Jo the first season on DVD because I'd constantly harped on at her about how much I enjoyed it, and how I thought she'd enjoy it too. That and the fact I didn't have a clue what else to get her. This was around the time she was getting ready to move into her marvelous new flat, and she immediately came up with the sterling idea of having a housewarming/OC-fest. I loved the idea, and we made plans to do it sometime in January.

Soon after moving in, however, and for reasons too complex to explain here, she had to move out again, so OC-fest was postponed. And then it kind of slipped by the wayside. 

Last month, though, after I dragged a very tired and hung-over Best Mate Jo to IKEA with me to watch me purchase my LACK, she brought the idea up again. I loved it so much I almost crashed my car, and we settled on a date. In fact, we even settled on what we were going to eat - Old El Paso fajitas, based on the fact that I'd seen an advert on telly for them and they looked, well, YUM.

And so yesterday afternoon I headed over to Jo's flat, picked her up, and we headed to Sainsburys. That was all part of the plan, y'see - go buy the food spontaneously on the day, make kind of a thing about it. Anyway, we rocked up to Sainsburys (although 'lurched' might be a better word - I'm finally breaking in my posh new shoes, and they're a little bit … weird to drive in. Look and feel awesome though), got the food, queued for ages (seriously, who knew THAT many people did their weekly shop at 17:30 on a Saturday?), then headed home.

We watched Strictly Come Dancing first, which both surprised and delighted Jo because she thought I'd hate it and demand that we watch something more manly. I argued with the fact that I love the show (so much so that it makes me want to go dancing), and the first week is always great because you get to laugh at the contestants while they're still rubbish. She also loved my Bruno Tonioli impression.

After that it was over to ITV1 for The X-Factor, the last time that I'll be watching it this year because it's the last week of auditions, meaning all the crappy (i.e. hilarious) people have been sent packing. We sorted out the food at the same time (well, Jo did), and I was delighted to find that, true to expectations, it was indeed YUM.

With dinner, and chocolate cheesecake, out of the way, we said and watched The OC until half 12 at night. And after I buggered off Jo apparently watched another episode. Once again hooked on the life and times of Orange County's finest, I've once again cracked open my DVD boxset and today carried on where we left off, well, very early this morning.

It's like an addiction. 

Oh look, I've got time to squeeze another episode in before bed… (the quicker I get to Season Three the better – that's when Autumn arrives…). And talking of bed, I must remember to change the alarm tone on my iPhone - I've been getting up progressively later the last couple of weeks which means I'm hitting more traffic on the way into work. I think I'm getting too used to the 'Marimba' alarm, so I'm planning on shaking it up with a new one - probably 'Alarm,' if only because it'll jolt me awake thinking that I'm aboard the Enterprise under attack by the Klingons…

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There's more viewing pleasures in the week ahead - aside from the aforementioned five episodes of Gilmore Girls and another new One Tree Hill, I've just hit-up iTunes for some more shows to watch at lunchtime on my iPhone. So what've I got? Well, I'm meeting Willowc on Monday, and it would probably be rude to watch something while she's there, so that leaves me with four days. That being the case, I thought I'd save Season Two of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia for another week, and download a few other treats. First up is an episode of Batman: The Animated Series called 'Legends of the Dark Knight' that I've wanted to see for years, then - and at Marcosy's insistence - I've downloaded the 'Imaginationland' trilogy from South Park's 11th season - if only to better understand why, during a shopping trip to Kingston a few months back, he flung his arms wide while coming down the escalator in John Lewis and belted out "IMAGINAAAAAAAATION!" like he was starring in a Broadway musical.

Just some stuff

I'm becoming aware of the fact that occasionally little things can really piss me off, to the point that sometimes I feel like I mentally shut down so I can rerun events in my head in order to better understand them. Seriously, I just have to down tools and replay a conversation or an action in my head - like I'm trying to understand events from a different perspective. Did I misunderstand something? Was this person who just did something incredibly annoying or selfish acting in a way I can't comprehend, or are they genuinely incredibly annoying and selfish?

Unfortunately, while doing this I must look like a dribbling loon with glazed over eyes; I only reboot when I've worked everything out. That being the case, I genuinely feel like I've spent a good proportion of this last week looking for all intents and purposes like I'm broken while somewhere inside my head things are whirring around and around like a broken film clip. I don't know if that means I have some kind of disorder, but eventually I snap out of it and can get back to what I'm doing. 

Until the next little thing that annoys me sends my brain cells once again into a proverbial huddle. Damn the odd behaviour of other people!

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I have a sign on my front door that says no 'junk mail please,' but I consistently come home to find piles of the stuff on my doormat. Some clever person (who will get a slap if they try it again) even circumvented this request the other day by not actually putting his junk mail through my letter box, but instead wedging it against the letterbox on the outside of the door. Bastard. When I've been at home and someone's shoved something through I've often thought about jumping up, opening the door, and having a go at them about ignoring the sign. Unfortunately, by the time I actually get up and unlock the door they've either scooted off, or I find that they don't speak-a-dee-English, which just leaves me looking like a mentalist shouting at some poor unsuspecting immigrant.

I get really angry with junk mail, particularly now that our postmen delivers it too. I don't want a walk-in bath, or new car insurance, nor do I want my boiler inspected, new carpets installed, or to be told that I can get great deals on reading glasses if I'm over 60. For crying out loud, aren't we being told that we should be going green? Why are people still allowed to distribute unsolicited post in this way? Admittedly all my junk mail does go straight in my recycling bin, but what about the people who aren't so conscientious? What then!? I'll tell you what then - landfills! We're unnecessarily bunging up our landfills with flyers for Chinese restaurants, and offers insurance for the over-50s! 

OK, so junk mail, being paper-based, is a recyclable commodity, but when you think about it, what about all the energy that's expended printing and distributing it! Why isn't the government addressing this!?

ARRGGGH!!

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It's not all been bad this week, though: lunchtimes, in Secret Starbucks (where twice this week I got free coffee), watching It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia on my iPhone.

This show is lewd, rude, and crude; one of the trailers for the fourth season in the States calls it 'an STD for your television.' At least once this week I laughed out loud in Secret Starbucks, which must made me look like a nutter. To be honest, I do think it's probably something of an acquired taste, but I've acquired it, and I want to see more. I think I'll be downloading season two very soon (bless you, iTunes!).

Analyze this

I had a dream last night. Don't worry, nothing fruity. No, it was a bit of a weird one, to be honest, and a bit disconcerting. It was the sort of dream where you wake up just a little bit freaked out.

It kind of went like this:

War had broken out, and so I'd rushed over from Sparky Towers to Sparky Ma and Pa's house. All my family were there, and we could hear explosions in the distance. Despite the fact that it was a bright sunny day we knew that we weren't safe, so we decided we needed to make a break for it - abandoning everything we knew. That included leaving Earth, I should add. And how did we make this grand escape? By hover-car, or course. Fortunately, Sparky Pa had one (in a deep metallic red if I recall correctly). So we all piled in and powered the thing up. Unfortunately, dream-generated hover-cars aren't exactly that good, it seems, and we had to skim along just above the ground for a while before we had enough oomph to gain altitude. 

At the same time, explosions were detonating in the blue sky around us and it was all a bit worrying as to whether we were going to get blown to smithereens before we could leave the atmosphere. Fortunately, Sparky Pa is quite adept at handling a hover-car, and deftly piloted around any missiles that headed in our direction. 

After a little while, though, the explosions stopped. We looked out the windows and couldn't see a soul on the ground below us. Everything looked deserted. So for some reason, we decided to abandon our plan to leave Earth and set down in the middle of a residential road. As I mentioned, it was a lovely day; bright sunshine, blue sky, and comfortably warm. We all decided we'd have a quick look down some of the side roads, and we were at least two roads away from the hover-car when we heard a low murmuring.

And it was as the hordes of zombies lurched into view, and I wondered how the hell we were going to get back to the hover-car, that I woke up.

Now, what the hell that all symbolises I don't know, but if anyone would like to hazard a guess please let me know in the comments. I should also add that at the moment I woke up, when it was still a bit dark outside, someone was walking slowly past Sparky Towers, and hearing their footsteps on the pavement I really did have to consider the possibility that the zombie apocalypse had finally struck.

Of course the burning question on everyone's lips has to be - why the hell hasn't anyone published this shit yet?

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To top the day off with an equally freaky conclusion, I've just been to running club, and as the nights are drawing in we're finding that we're running a substantial amount of the session in the dark. In Richmond Park. 

And for those that don't know, there are no lights in Richmond Park.

It was all quite exciting at first, but as the group spread out many of us effectively found ourselves running alone in the dark. I was OK with this at first, until I glanced over and saw a shape standing in silhouette in the bracken staring at me.

It was a massive deer. With huge antlers.

I'm not ashamed to say I totally legged it from there onwards. Usian Bolt had nothing on me - *nothing*.

A new obsession

This makes me feel a little bit like I'm in an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting or something, but I feel like I have no other option but to stand up, put my hand on my heart, and share with you all that I've come to the conclusion that I'm a little bit obsessed with Gilmore Girls.

Since discovering it was being shown daily during my week off a few weeks back, I've had no other option but to record every episode that's been on while I'm at work. I sometimes hate the fact that work gets in the way of my tellybox habits. Anyway, that meant that all these episodes were stacking up pretty quickly, especially if I didn't watch one every evening.

Which is why I had a five-hour Gilmore Girls marathon yesterday.

So I've come into the series, I think, towards the end of season three/beginning of season four, because E4 are just running straight on through 'em, which makes me think I'll be having weekend Gilmore marathons until at least November, by which time I reckon they'll have reached the last season. But knowing E4, that means they'll just start over again at the first season so I'll have to continue watching up until the point at which I first jumped on, meaning I'm pretty much tied-up until Christmas. Anyway, I don't usually like starting to watch something halfway through a series, but it's an easy show to get onboard with, and I know all about the Friday night dinner stuff thanks to Wikipedia and some badly-written episode guides. The only thing that isn't really obvious is why Luke is always so angry. Does he have some sort of weird medical issue? I bet he has high-blood pressure.

Anyway, it's a good show. And I really mean that. OK, it's a little bit more … soap-operish than my usual fare, and there's never any conflict in it like you'd find on The OC or One Tree Hill, but that's fine because it just gives me a weird warm fuzzy feeling (I must be going soft in my old age). It's like a cup of hot chocolate beamed into my telly on a cold winter's night (not that it's particularly cold or winterish yet). On the downside, I absolutely hate the drippy song that plays over the opening credits, and some of the characters – Taylor and Kirk, for example - are so annoying it's untrue. I watched one the other day where Lorelai and Sookie were having problems getting their renovations to the Dragonfly Inn past the Stars Hollow Historical Society, and I thought (hoped) Lorelai was going to throttle Taylor.

But what I really like about Gilmore Girls is the infamous, pop-culture infused machine-gun style dialogue between Lorelai and Rory. I'm actually glad I have to record it because it gives me a chance to rewind anything I've missed, which happens quite a lot, to be honest. Seriously, how do they speak that quickly? It also helps that both Lorelai and Rory are incredibly easy on the eye, and I'm really not too sure which one I'd go for given the chance. 

Bizarrely, I also quite like Emily Gilmore too, which is just leading me into one almightily messy family get-together, if you catch my drift.

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Today is a momentous day people! I've just bought my first TV series off iTunes! OK, so it's not actually *my* TV series - I haven't made one yet - but what I mean is that I just bought an entire TV series off iTunes for the first time. This is notable for several reasons. The first is that I'm of the opinion that DVD is actually the last, real physical format that we'll end up having for buying films and TV, and that within the next few years we'll all be downloading this sort of stuff (through legitimate channels, I hasten to add), and laughing at our younger selves and all those silly shiny disc-things we'd buy. 

HD-DVD and Blu-ray I hear you shout? Well HD-DVD has already gone the way of the dinosaurs, and I seriously believe that history will look back on Blu-ray as being something like laser discs - a format beloved by a minority, but never really able to break out into the mainstream - certainly not like DVDs did. I think it's a last gasp attempt by electronics giants and the studios to sell us players that sit under our tellys and shiny discs to put in them. I could be wrong, but that's what I think.

I've already decided to try to cut back on the number of DVDs I buy. Admittedly there are certain films like The Dark Knight that I know I'll want on DVD, and most TV shows I think I'll want to buy I'd probably want on disc, but other movies - the kind of ones you buy, watch once, then leave on a shelf until the end of time - I've decided I'll be better off renting. And how am I going to do that? 

I think I'm going to buy an Apple TV at some point. 

When I think about it, an Apple TV is kind of the ideal solution for me (or if not ideal than at least 90% ideal). I can rent or buy movies and TV shows from the iTunes store, either on the Apple TV or stream them to it via my computer, or even dump them onto my iPhone to watch while I'm away from home. My shelves will be less cluttered with discs I might only buy once, and I'll be saving money on not buying DVDs for 15 quid a pop (or thereabouts). OK, so the initial outlay for the Apple TV itself is a tad step, but after a while I'll break even on the whole thing.

Plus I haven't bought anything by Apple in a while.

So what was the first TV show I bought? It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia. I caught a few episodes of this on TV a few months back and really liked it - and apparently Autumn Reeser is in one of the episodes. And seeing as you can't get it on DVD over here I decided I'd get it from iTunes for the very reasonable sum of £10.99. The other reason for buying it is that Yazzle Dazzle won't be joining me for lunchtime coffee from Tuesday onwards, so a 2o minute long TV episode on my iPhone will fill the conversational gap rather well while I sit in Starbucks sipping my grande misto.

And once I've finished that series, I'll either buy a few other shows … or get back to my lunchtime writing sessions!

Hurrah!

Because I'm easily amused

Of course you want one. Buy it here.

Getting creative on a Tuesday night

I broke out of my much-loved routine last night, meaning that instead of going to running club I went to the opposite end of Richmond to the adult community college. Why? Because they're doing a series of two-hour taster courses allowing you to get a feel for some of their new and upcoming courses - luring you in, for want of a better term - and one of them, Creative Writing: Unlocking your Creativity, caught my eye. 

And it was free: BONUS.

So, dragging along both Willowc and Yazzle Dazzle (neither of whom had had the forethought to bring along anything to write on, I hasten to add, meaning I had to give them both sheets of paper from my notepad!) we hit the classroom, snagged some chairs (I snagged more than them because I outright stole Yazzle's preferred chair by stating "I'M SITTING HERE" then just sitting down while she stared blankly at me), and looked intelligent. We were ready to learn.

The class was actually very full, which was nice, especially for the teacher I expect, who was a rather lovely lady eager to help us unleash our creativity. Before beginning she wanted to get to know us all a little. She started with me.

"What's your name?" 

"Tim," I replied.

Then we just stared at each other for a while.

After a few seconds she asked "anything else?"

I smiled coyly and squinted Josh Hartnett-style back at her. "What do you want to know?" I let the question dangle in the air for a minute or so while the rest of the class laughed along with me and basked in my aura, before giving her a sensible bit of blurb about something something something, prose, something something something. She then proceeded to ask the rest of the class about them, none of which were as entertaining as me, although Willowc and Yazzle did do a bit of a comedy routine about the fact that we all used to work together which was nice and reminded me a bit of something out of The Muppet Show. A lot of people claimed that they thought they had "a book in them," which made me very tempted to say that they should probably go see their doctor to get it removed.

Anyway, I think we pretty quickly established ourselves as the cool kids that all the other freaks and geeks would idolise and imagine hanging out with during playtime breaktime the coffee break.

After that the teacher explained to us that she was going to hand out some activity sheets which contained a number of 'leaping-off' points that were designed to spur our imaginations into action, at which point we would spend the next 40 minutes or so writing a short piece of prose. Oh shit, I thought; it never actually occurred to me that we'd actually have to write something!

My first thought was to scramble through my bag and dig out a page or two of my book, but Willowc told me that would be cheating, and plus I'd be sitting around for the next 40 minutes or so with nothing to do. On the otherhand, if I had've done that, I would've been able to fit running club in as well, which I think you'll agree would've been a masterful feat of multitasking.

Anyway, the sheets were handed out, and suitably chastised I glanced down the lists in front of me looking for inspiration. Two leaping-off points immediately grabbed my attention: 

• Write your own obituary (set either now or in the future)

• A new ice age

My first thought was that I'd like to think I'll live a long, happy, and heroic life rather than drop dead tomorrow, so the first line of my obituary might read something like "he died as he lived…" or "killed in a tragic hover-car accident…" Sadly, Willowc misheard/misunderstood/generally ballsed-up my thinking here, and started laughing hysterically at the line "he lived as he died: in a hover-car…"

I decided instead to focus on the ice age one.

At about quarter past eight the teacher reassembled the group and said that she'd like some of us to read our pieces out to the class. For a little while we all did that thing where we looked down at the desk or fiddled with our hair, but eventually a few people started volunteering. After about three people had agreed, I poked Willowc and told her to do it. She tutted and raised her hand. Then some bloke did. By this time I was thinking that I'd really like to do it, but, ooo, I'll be all embarrassed and, ooo, I don't want people criticising me, and, ooo, I might cry. But then I realised that if I didn't do it I'd kick myself later and regret it for a long time. So I stuck my hand in the air and manfully said "yeah, go on then, I'll do it."

Like a dude.

The first reader was… well, if I said Willowc wrote on her piece of paper 'I think I might die,' I reckon you'd get an idea what his piece was like. When he finished and we all woke up the teacher made a few comments, then asked if anyone else wanted to add anything. There were a few hesitant comments like "I liked that bit…" and "that sounded nice…" at first, but then the floodgates opened and all of a sudden it seemed like everyone was ripping him to shit and back. 

We soon moved onto reader number two, who had written a conversation piece between two old ladies which was very well received, and reminded me of Beryl Cook paintings, which I thought was good because she'd made me imagine her characters without really thinking about it. This was followed by Willowc's nonsense, which went down very well and got some good laughs, and which she's posted in its entirety here, then some bloke who'd written something about trees.

Now, Tree-man's piece was very highly acclaimed by the group, but to be honest I wasn't really paying much attention to it because I was quite literally shatting my Big-Bang pants at the prospect of reading my piece aloud. Anyway, it came to my turn, so I took a deep breath, looked at the page in my newly-emaciated writing pad, and began trying to make sense of my handwriting.

After the first two sentences the teacher leaned in close to me and told me to slow down a bit. Evidently I was reading too quickly. I think this was a result of having watched too many episodes of Gilmore Girls in a short period of time. Anyway, I started the next sentence imagining that I was on the bridge of the Enterprise during that bit in Star Trek: The Motion Picture when they get caught in the wormhole and time slows down.

To be honest, the reading could've gone a bit better, but I'm putting that down to the fact that I was actually trying to make sense of what I'd written due to my writing being all messy and smudged (I'm a filthy lefty), and several additional lines being added in the margin. When all's said and done, though, I was proud of my work, proud of the fact that I'd had the balls to read it to a bunch of strangers, and proud of the fact that they genuinely seemed to like it. Oh, except for one odd bloke behind me who complained about my grammer in one instance (and who liked to think he was the best writer among us, as shown by the utter contempt he displayed when his own work was critiqued), but I don't care about his opinion. Someone even went so far as to call it 'topical'!

That being the case, I thought you might like to read my hastily-written, post-apocalyptic story of Earth under a new ice age. Unfortunately for fans of The Day After Tomorrow there's no sign of Jake Gyllenhaal (or Jake Jiggly-balls as a certain unnamed friend of mine calls him), nor does it have an actual title. For the time being, I like to refer to it simply as Untitled Apocalyptic Piece Number 1.

OK - so this is copied out exactly as I wrote it last night. There's actually quite a lot I was tempted to change or rewrite while I transcribed it, but that kind of defeats the spontaneity of it all, eh? So here it is, warts 'n all: Untitled Apocalyptic Piece Number 1. Enjoy…

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Shafts of sunlight tore through the grey clouds, revealing for an instant the grim skyline of a world long-dead. I raised one gloved hand to my eyes, marveling in that moment at the city revealed before me, imagining it as it once was, before the clouds rolled in and once more shut off the light. As darkness descended around me again I felt the cold return, and turned back to the task at hand.

It had been almost 20 years since the new ice age had hit with force, and many more before that since we'd first felt the effects of its impending arrival. We had all dismissed it at first, of course; nothing could rock civilization to its knees, could it? No, we were too strong, too advanced for that. We were, unfortunately, too proud.

The first signs had been the unusually harsh winters, followed by the cold, hard frosts long after winter should have given way to spring. Snow flurries in May; unusual, yes, but nothing to be worried about, we were assured. But year after year things just kept getting worse. We'd hear stories on the news about towns and cities in Northern Russia being abandoned, their populations leaving en masse for warmer climes; snow falling in Africa. But we paid little attention because that was over there, not here. We only noticed when things started effecting our own lives. Transport links breaking down due to extreme cold; lack of food and fuel; hospitals beginning to see cases of frostbite.

The government didn't act, at least at first, dismissing it once more as anomalous – an "unusually harsh" season that would eventually pass. But it only got worse. Pipes froze solid. Lakes and rivers began to freeze over. The largest refugee crisis in history began as humanity surged towards the Equator. Civilization as we knew it began to grind to a halt. And we finally excepted that the human race was facing an unprecedented disaster on a global scale.

There were no television fund-raisers to help us, no spectacular rock concerts to bring awareness to our plight. We were dying and there was nothing we could do to prevent it.

Eighteen long years since the human race officially surrendered to nature, only small pockets of us remain in existence. Here in London there's about 200 of us. Maybe less. Africa is the most densely populated continent now, with approximately 15,000 people living there. Well, you could hardly call it living, could you? We survive as best we can in an environment that does its utmost to defeat us every single day. And unfortunately for us, for the human race, everything we've lived, dreamed, and accomplished, it's winning.

Theoretical situation

Imagine, if you will, that you are walking back to the office from lunch and you come across a cat. Awwww, you think, a little kitty. Then you notice that its fur is matted, and in some places missing. It’s painfully thin, so much so that you could probably wrap just one hand around it. It's moving slowly and awkwardly. It’s in a bad way, in other words. So you decide to do the decent thing and call someone who might be able to help it – say, for example, the RSPCA (that would be the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty toward Animals).

You stand just along the road from the cat, thinking that you’ll keep an eye on it until help can arrive. Just far enough away that you don’t cause it to panic or think that you're going to harm it. It’s now lying on the pavement looking exhausted.

After navigating several phone menus you eventually get through to someone in the emergency department who first asks for your full name, then your phone number, then your address, despite the fact that you’re over 12 miles away from home and it’s really not relevant. The woman insists, and because the cat isn’t really looking too good you give it because you just want to get the poor thing some help and unnecessary faffing about just means it'll have to wait longer.

The woman finally asks what the problem is, although she really doesn’t sound terribly interested. As you tell her, the cat gets up and walks unsteadily around the corner into someone’s front garden. The woman asks if you have hold of the cat. You say “no, but…” and then she cuts you off and says they aren’t going to send someone round just on the off-chance they might find an injured cat. She says you should call back if you see the cat again and can confine it. You start to argue but she just interrupts you again and asks if it’s OK for them to keep your details on record so they can get in touch about appeals and fundraising events.

You say “no,” when all you really want to do is shout “get someone the f**k out here to help this cat.”

She says no worries and hangs up.

The cat is gone.

Dark days

I've come to the conclusion that any last semblance of summer I thought we might get is now nothing more than a pipe dream. The weather's been craptacular since last weekend when I got drenched on the bike ride (I think my shoes may have just about dried out by now), and I've noticed that in the course of the week I've segued from wearing just t-shirts to t-shirts with a long-sleeved top underneath - a staple autumnal fashion for me.

If we were playing Jeopardy and the answer was "my summer clothes," the question would undoubtedly be "things that won't be seen until next year."

As if that weren't evidence enough, I bought Milo and porridge during a shopping trip to Sainsbury's last week. I only buy Milo and porridge when it starts dropping down cold. A few weeks ago I was sleeping on top of my duvet with the window wide open. Last night I had the window open a smidgeon and I woke up this morning with the duvet up to my shoulders. I didn't want to get up because it was chilly. 

I'm looking at boxsets of DVDs because I'm mentally preparing to spend nights in curled up on the sofa. If I want to go running in Richmond Park now I have to think about going mid-afternoon because it's closing at about 19:00. And instead of having a shower when I get home I'm thinking 'bath.' Did I mention I bought some new bubble bath?

 I saw some nice winter boots in a shop the other day. I'm thinking about getting a thermal top to layer under my lumberjack shirt. I need to dig my oversized beanie out of retirement. I mentally said "brrrrrr" to myself when I left the house on Friday morning.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not moaning about the fact that winter's looming - I love winter; it makes my lunchtime coffee seem absolutely vital (or more vital than it already is). It just seems like summer passed us by again for the most part this year. OK, yeah, we had a couple of nice warm days, but c'mon - a couple?! Is that it? Shouldn't global warming guarantee me at least a full month of warm sunshine each year? I have embarrassing tan-lines that need correcting and a nearly-full bottle of suntan lotion that'll expire before I get to use it all up. That's just a waste.

Oh god. They'll be playing Christmas songs in Starbucks next.

Costume party

So I'm watching Season Three of Boston Legal at the moment, and there's an interesting bit in the episode 'Dumping Bella' where Paul Lewiston, one of the partners at Crane, Poole and Schmidt, organises a costume party in an attempt to improve staff morale. The idea has a bit of a twist, though, in that the staff have to attend the party in the guise of someone they admire.

Paul goes to the party as Albert Einstein. Two of the other lawyers, Brad Chase and Jeffrey Coho, both go as Buzz Lightyear (which leads to them having a punch-up), while Denny Crane goes as Dick Cheney, and Alan Shore goes as Shirley Schmidt.

James Spader as you've never seen him before - as Candice Bergen.

This got me thinking: if I was going to go to a costume party as someone I admired, who would it be? The answer came to me pretty quickly, to be honest, and I'm sure you won't be surprised when I say that I'd go as Captain Kirk.

Failing that, I think my second choice would be Denny Crane himself.

After all, he basically is Captain Kirk, but with the added benefit of being able to say the most ludicrous and offensive things and getting away with it by blaming it on the … mad cow.

Anyway, my question to you is this: you've been invited to my costume party - but which person who you admire would you dress as? 

(And this is one for any lurkers out there too - jump in, even if you post anonymously, say "hi," and join the party!)

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Oh, and anyone interested in a day in the life of William Shatner?