Seeing is believing

So this is the novella, all printed out and ready for proofing…

…And these are the are art pages ready to be submitted.

I'm a little bit excited. Or, in the words of a teenage chav: "I is a 'ittle hexcited, innit?"

The postman only gets crushed once

When I got home from work on Tuesday I found a Royal Mail card on the floor informing me that they'd tried to deliver a package but I wasn't in. Odd, I thought; I'd not ordered anything - and even when I do I have it sent to work. Was this another case of stupid previous owner of Sparky Towers having something sent to my house again? I was momentarily outraged until I noticed the name on the card was definitely mine. 

Intriguing…

So I hopped online and arranged for the package to be delivered on Saturday. And on Friday night I set multiple alarm clocks because I have a habit of sleeping in until about 11am at the weekend.

Saturday morning arrived and I woke at just gone 8am, rubbing my eyes and yawning like a newborn kitten. Then I glanced out the window and saw postie just over the road. Eeek, I thought, jumping out of bed and pulling some trousers on while somehow managing not to fall over in a comedy-stylee. Then I ran downstairs, and put the kettle on just in time to hear:

RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNGGG!

OK, postie-dude, I know from past experience that you know I'm highly unlikely to be up at that time in the morning, but really, that was just a little excessive. I did, however, manage to get my own back because the postie was evidently unaware that Sparky Tower's front door opens outward, and as he was leaning down to perhaps try and hide the mystery package behind a malnourished tree I recently bought, I opened the door and crushed him between the door and the front of the house.

"Huk!" he muttered, before extricating himself and handing me two packages in a somewhat disgruntled fashion.

The sender of the first package was evident from the name on the box - my electrickery company. 

But what the hell had they sent? A hamster and a wheel so I could generate my own power? I did what any intrigued individual would do and opened it.

Ooo, two free* energy-saving light bulbs. Wicked - I needed some of them.

The second package was the more mysterious of the two. An unmarked jiffy-bag… I carefully eased this one open just incase it was some sort of incendiary device from a disgruntled blog reader - but no, it was in fact a response to a request I made a few weeks back.

Someone had sent me the Batmobile I so desperately yearned  for.

OK, so it's not quite:

But beggers can't be choosers, so thank you very much, not-so mysterious stalker stranger. The chances of me following through on my promise to dress as Batman though, are, it must be said, slim to none. And by 'slim to none' I actually mean 'none.'

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Always one to pay an unwanted, unnecessary, backhanded compliment/insult, Big Bro turned round to me on Saturday evening just as I was leaving the parents' house and told me I looked like fast-talking, semi-retarded Radio 1 DJ Zane Lowe. I'm not sure I see it myself.

Oh, and for anyone unfamiliar with Zane Lowe, imagine reading this post, and in fact this blog in its entirety, without any full-stops, spaces between words, or pausing for breath and you'll get the gist of his style.

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After waiting what seems like an age since it was released in the States (a month ago), the new album from one of my very favourite bands, Phantom Planet, finally got a UK release today - so I rushed out first thing this morning to pick up a copy. And my verdict on Raise the Dead? Awesome. I really think this is their best album to date - 12 cracking, catchy, pop-rock tracks of a consistently high standard. Their last album, the self-titled Phantom Planet, has been a constant presence in slot 1 of my in-car CD player for the last four years, but it's just been displaced by the new one. I'm going to encourage you all to go to their MySpace page to check out their stuff, and if you're too lazy to do that, check this out:

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My brief shopping expedition was also well worth it for another reason - I finally got the gorgeous new Incase Slider case for my iPhone! Problems arose, however, when I got home and tried to remove my iPhone from the chunky case I'd bought when I got the phone: it was stuck.

I tried for ages to get it out (not surprising bearing in mind how difficult it had been to get it in in the first place - which is why I'd left it in there since buying it back in February), and in the end I had to resort to twisting the thing until it broke off. It's now so twisted that it won't shut properly; it looks a bit like Burt Reynold's face. Which is a bit of a shame as I was going to offer it to a fellow iPhone user - the case, I mean, not Burt Reynold's face.

Still, mine now looks even more awesome than before. Good times.

*Note to self - make sure they haven't invoiced you for them on the next bill.

16 months and 22,948 words later…

…And I've *finally* finished my book. 

I'd set myself a to-do list for this weekend, and 'finish the book' was my main priority. As many of you know, I'd actually planned on finishing it last year during my epic February writing month. That kind of … faltered, and then - and I'll openly admit to this - I got a bit complacent. But now it's done, and I'm happy with it. Really happy, in fact, as Willowc cajoled me into letting her read it and described it as "fab." And at 22,948 words it's slap-bang in the middle of novella territory where I was aiming for it to be all along. 

To be honest, it actually sprang out of several different ideas I've had over the last few years, all of which never quite felt like they worked properly, so I decided to ram them all into the same narrative in the hope that they would all end up making some kind of sense. There was the one about a day in the life of the people of a small town where every chapter would focus on a different person in an overarcing storyline, a story about two friends from different and seemingly incompatible backgrounds, one about a kid desperate to get out of his home town but somehow unable to leave, and then there was the one about a guy who drives around in a battered old car trying to make the world a better place. None of them seemed to have any focus until that day I was driving to work and I saw an old bike leaning up against the railings on Twickenham Bridge. It was such a strong image - there was no one near it, making it look like it had just been abandoned. And I wondered who would leave a bike there for no apparent reason?

OK, so just because it's written doesn't mean my job's done; it needs a bit of a proofread, and some tightening here and there (I've got a half complete proof copy beside me now, and there's a fair amount of red ink scattered throughout the first part, so lord knows what the second half will look like), and I need to condense the storyline down into an interesting single-page synopsis that is going to intrigue a publisher enough to want to see more. 

But regardless of what happens to it from here on in - I can say I've written a book! And here's it's title.

Now I'm going to go rest my fingers. They're a little sore from typing.

I love Crystal Meth

Whoa! Not the narcotic crystal meth, I hasten to add - rather the new movie Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Meth Skull.

Meth, skull - it's all essentially the same thing.

First up, a fun Sparky fact: The last time an Indiana Jones movie came out it was 1989, and I was 11 years old and massively obsessed with Tim Burton's first Batman film.

Anyway, back around Easter time I did my revision in preparation for the new Indy movie by going back and watching the previous three, which BBC Three conveniently showed on consecutive Sundays. And after much "ooh-ing" and "aaah-ing," I decided that I looked just great in that waistcoat I bought a few weeks back because it makes me look dashing and suave. Oh, and I decided that the Indy films ranked in this order:

1. Raiders of the Lost Ark

2. Last Crusade

3. Temple of Poon

Which surprised me because I always remembered preferring Temple of Poon more as a child. Anyway, the idea of a fourth installment scared the tits off me a tad, because we all know how George Lucas raped our childhoods just a little bit with The Phantom Menace and the last thing we needed was an ageing Indy with added Jar-Jar-hijinks.

I needn't have worried. This is a proper-good Spielberg popcorn movie.

Yes, Indy is older, but like Harrison Ford has been saying in interviews everyone ages - and to be honest I've always thought older action heroes are a more interesting prospect; Captain Kirk in Star Trek VI, for example, was far more interesting to me than young whipper-snapper Kirk in the original series.

The return of Karen Allen as Marion Ravenwood did nothing to dispell my notion that she's a considerably less insane Margot Kidder facsmile, but she didn't really get to do much aside from … well, it was nice to see her again, because lord knows I can't recall her being in anything since Raiders, which was 27 years ago. As for Shia LeBoeuf, I always think I'm going to find him incredibly annoying, but have quite honestly enjoyed all the films that he's been in. Go figure. But let's not hand the franchise over to him just yet, huh?

OK, if I'm really nit-picking there wasn't nearly enough whip-action in this Indy film, but as summer blockbusters go, Crystal Meth busted my blocks rather satisfactory. I think it's right up there in the list just after Raiders, and before Last Crusade - hell, the first 15 minutes alone guaranteed it that position.

This is totally my favourite movie of the year so far. Let's hope we don't have to wait 19 years for the next one, mainly because Harrison Ford will be 84 by then and that might just be stretching it a bit.

Whore (or how I found out how to market myself)

I've just had the most fascinating evening. Usually when I say that sort of thing I'm being sarcastic - y'know, the kinda thing where I'd write it as 'I've just had the most *fascinating* evening,' or use italics or something equally patronising like asking you to read it in the style of Stewie Griffin, but this time I'm being genuine.

Really, I am.

Why? Because I've just been to one of the events at the Kingston Readers' Festival, an annual, month-long series of events geared towards people like you and me who actually still read rather than sit around getting bladdered every night and happy-slapping people. In recent years I've been to a number of events at the festival, the most memorable being an evening with Danny Wallace, which was hilarious and ended up with him naming me Timbolina for reasons I shan't discuss. 

To be honest, I'd actually planned to attend another of the festival's events at the end of last month called How to Manage Your Time as a Writer, but I'm pretty poor at managing my time (as shown by the fact that I still - I mean *still* - haven't finished my book), and forgot about it.

Anyway, the event I attended tonight was entitled How to Market Yourself as a Writer, and was conducted by a real writer named Alison Baverstock. I'd probably have felt a little ripped off if they'd just used some random off the street, but she was definitely a real writer so that was OK. I was all on my lonesome because both Willowc and Yaz who'd planned on joining me dropped out - Yaz because she's feeling a little under the weather (described as feeling like she's "constantly pushing an invisible person along in front of her"), while Willowc was off doing something exciting and dramatic like engineering a perpetual motion device using only a mid-1980s portable television and a hyperactive kitten. Not to worry though; I rocked up reasonably early, was promptly ignored by an elderly fellow on the door who actually turned his back to me and had to be told to give me a flyer for future events by an elderly lady to his side (possibly because I wasn't wearing my Sunday best), then secured a good seat.

I'll cut to the chase: for what could've been an incredibly dry, boring subject, this was a thoroughly interesting evening, so much so that I actually hung around at the end to thank Alison for the quality info she divulged. The gist of it is that in this cutthroat world we live in, authors really need to put themselves out there; you need to be interesting, articulate, and eager to promote your work. You can't really just write something then be all reclusive like J.D. Salinger - unless of course you're J.D. Salinger.

What I really found useful, though, was the fact that I've actually already got a few things going for me aside from studly good looks, toned pectorals, a quick dry wit, and modesty. Why? Because I've already been published! OK, magazines aren't quite fiction, but the point that Alison was trying to make is that someone has actually put faith in your work - you are, in essence, already a 'successful writer' if you've actually managed to carve a niche, however small, for yourself.

So that's cool - as  is the fact that she mentioned a few other things I've already been thinking about and which I'm definitely going to act on. Another interesting point she made is that in this celebrity-worshipping culture we exist in, authors are themselves a marketable commodity above and beyond their book; imagine, for example, that some crack-whore hauls herself off the street to write an acclaimed account of her hardship - her real life is a key component of what makes the book. Your own families, relationships, hardships - they're all fair game in promoting your work. So now I just need to get it on with a celebrity. Um, Autumn…?

Anyway, to sum it all up - I feel positively energised!

Tagged to the max

Right, because you all seem to have been doing meme thingys and have insisted on tagging me, I've decided to do them both in one foul swoop.

This is me swooping. First up, the 'five' thing.

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Five things in my bag:

Geez, the only bag I ever carry around with me is my work bag, which is, um, exciting. Let's have a rummage…

• Two notepads - one for work, one for my own writing. I like to keep these things separate, y'see.

• Two biros - one blue, one black, both were freebies.

• A flyer for Nada Surf's latest album that I was given at the Nada Surf gig back in February and haven't gotten around to throwing away yet.

• Some old headphones.

• The latest draft of my book, two-thirds of which has been proofread.

Five favourite things in my room:


Well, I do have more than one room, but for the purposes of this I'm going to select my bedroom - mainly just to taunt certain people who shall never see the inside of it.

• My bed. This was a bitch to make, but it's unbelievably comfortable, so I'll forgive it.

• A big foam Rolling Stones lips logo that you're supposed to wear on your hand. Although I suppose it would fit on other kinds of protuberances.

• A signed picture of William Shatner and Patrick Stewart from Star Trek Generations. Unlike T-Bird's signed picture of Han and Leia, the two captains are not kissing.

• A groovy colour-change lamp that Marcosy bought me for my birthday just before I moved into Sparky Towers.

• A long-box containing the few comic books I've kept over the years, rather than take back to the shop for credit.


Five things I have always wanted to do:

Hmmm…

• Write an awesome novel/story/script/graphic novel. I know, I know - I'm working on it!

• Climb a mountain. Blame Star Trek V: The Final Frontier.

• Be in a big movie or TV Series. I had a brief chat with Tom Hardy (yes, Shinzon from Star Trek Nemesis) a few years back, and he asked me if I was an actor. I said "no," when my response should've been "no, but do you think I should be?"

• Autumn Reeser.

• Have kids. Seriously, I really hope that one day I can have a family of my own. I would totally want to give up work and be a house husband (well, I'd still write, but it would be cool if my wife was the real bread-winner - not because I'm lazy, it's just that I'd love to be the one to pick the kids up from school, etc. Or maybe I could be so filthy rich that neither of us had to work?).

Five things I'm currently into:

Oh, this should be easy…

• Gossip Girl. Good lord this series is addictive. XOXO, LOL!

• Cycling. I've got my bike groove back and I just want to go out cycling all the time. I'm thinking about getting some lights so I can stay out when it's dark.

• Scrabulous on Facebook. This is totally addictive, and I think I'm getting rather good at it. I might even have to have a Scrabble evening round Sparky Towers!

• Gardening. An odd one, this. I've suddenly developed a bit of a thing for plants. I don't actually have a garden, so I'm having to make do with rubbing myself in compost house plants and tubs.

• Your mum, but she's playing hard to get. Cheeky!

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Right, let's move on to the iPod one. Or in my case, iPhone one. Ooo, touch me!

1) How would you describe yourself?


Prophecy by Remy Zero. Oo-er!

2) What do you like in a girl?


Argue by Matchbox Twenty. Well, that's kinda fitting bearing in mind my track record…

3) What is your motto?


Drunk with the Thought of You by Sheryl Crow. WTF?!

4) What do your friends think of you?


Inside Out by Vonray. As long as I don't loose my spleen that's OK.

5) What do you think about often?


Fortune Teller by The Rolling Stones. 

6) What do your parents think of you?


Unwell by Matchbox Twenty. Wahay - spot on!

7) What do you think of your best friend?


Flip the Switch by The Rolling Stones.

8) What do you think of the person you like?


Overdrive by the Foo Fighters.

9) What do you want to be when you grow up?


Satisfaction by The Rolling Stones. Yeah, I'd like to be satisfied.

10) What do you think when you see the person you like?


Golden Skans by Klaxons. Yes, I immediately set my tricorder to Golden Skans.

11) What song will they play at your wedding?


Bad Best Friend by Nada Surf. Uh-oh…

12) What will they play at your funeral?


We Used to Vacation by Cold War Kids.

13) What is your hobby/interest?

All I Need by Matchbox Twenty. 


14) What is your biggest fear?


Honky Tonk Women by The Rolling Stones. Yes, when they've necked one too many camparis they can be a bit in yer face.

15) What is your biggest secret?


Busted by Matchbox Twenty. 

16) What do you think of your friends?


Heavy Boots by Cold War Kids.

17) What is your theme song?


Thursday's Child by David Bowie.

18) What do you think of your family?


Up in Arms by Foo Fighters.

19) What is your best friend's theme song?


Wishing Well by Phantom Planet. None of these songs are even remotely fitting, are they? 

20) What is your mood right now?


DOA by Foo Fighters. *Gulp!*

21) If your heart could talk what would it say?


Happy by The Rolling Stones. Yay!

22) What do your co-workers think of you?


When Doves Cry by Prince. Thank god it wasn't Bitch by The Stones.

23) What does your future look like?

Fortress by Pinback.

Well, that was all rather … cryptic and bizarre. Would anyone like to get all Freudian and delve into the secret meanings of all this tripe?

I won't appoint any further taggees, as I think everyone's already been covered… Oh, aside from Tara, Willowc, and Watch*Paint*Dry if they're up for the challenge!

Right, where were we…

OK, so as anyone who cares can tell, I've been a bit hit and miss over the last week or so when it comes to blogging. And I know that at least two of you care because you left irate comments berating me for doing a bit of a vanishing act. So where have I been? Well, we'll come to that as part of - and you asked for it, so you're getting it - what could be THE LONGEST BLOG ENTRY I'VE EVER WRITTEN!!!

Seriously, I think I'm going to divide this thing into chapters.

Strap yourselves in, bitches: here we go!

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Chapter I: What Sparky did next!

The last you heard from me (prior to the emergency 'technical difficulties' post) I was on a week off from work and had just had an awesome haircut, bought some gardening materials, and was off to a Death Cab for Cutie gig. The gig, it must be said, was great, and Camden wasn't half as scary as I thought it could've been, mainly because the tube station was ideally located close to the venue ready for a quick getaway. To be honest, I wasn't really too fussed about this gig when Yaz first mentioned it to me, but I kind of felt compelled to go with her because she sounded so disappointed when I initially said no, and I've dragged her to lots of gigs where I've said "we really should see [whoever]" and she's gone "who the f**k? Oh, OK." 

So yes, it was great. On the other hand, I did see, and hadn't previously mentioned the fact that I'd seen, Matchbox Twenty at Wembley Arena on the first of the month, and that (sorry T-Bird) was simply *awesome*. Seriously, I have a big ol' rock man-crush on Matchbox Twenty, and almost did a special wee when I found out they were touring. Best Pal Jo came with me to that one, and she loved it too, despite being a tad disappointed that Rob Thomas appears to have toned down the crazy arm-swinging antics that she hearted so much when we last say them together about six or seven years ago. And to make awesome even more awesomer (new word people - add it to your vocabulary, use it, abuse it, teach it to others), they recorded the gig and you could buy it as a download. I totally did. And I totally took some photos.

Here's one.

Look - you can see a tiny Rob Thomas in the beam of light!

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Chapter II:  Things that occurred on the day of Wednes

On the Wednesday of my week off I didn't have any plans, so I just pottered around a bit in the morning. One thing I did notice, however, was the fact that the receipt for my gardening materials listed my Yukka as a 'spineless Yukka' which I thought was a bit rude as I can't think how you would gauge the heroic qualities of a house plant, and it also said that the cashier had verified my age as being over 18 for the purchasing of the trowel. Now, I wasn't aware that a trowel was actually classed as a dangerous weapon, but significantly more alarming is the fact that the woman on the till didn't actually ask to see any ID that verified my age, which I might suggest is a sackable offense bearing in mind that she claims in writing that she did. Nor did she compliment me on my sexy new haircut. 

OK, so I know I'm not 18, but it would've been nice to be asked. Although no doubt then I would've been writing here at how outraged I was that she dared to ask.

A spineless yukka, apparently.

In the afternoon I decided to make the most of the abnormally good weather and head out on my bike. I'd gone out on it the previous Sunday for the first time since the ride in Central London last September and struggled a bit due to lack of bike fitness and crowds of people, so I figured I'd hit the trail while everyone else was at work. And goddamn it was good. The towpath along the Thames was freakin' empty, and I shot along there at something nudging warp speed, remembering the good time-evening rides I did last year, when loads of bunnies could be seen in the grass and bushes. 

And that's when I saw a little grey lump by the side of the path.

I skidded to a stop and glanced over my shoulder. It was still there, unmoving. And because I'm a boy and we like to look at roadkill, I turned round and went back for a closer look. 

Turns out it wasn't roadkill, though; it was a little baby bunny nom-nom-noming on some grass. I was about half a metre away from it, and although it glanced at me a bit nervously at first, it pretty quickly shrugged off my presence and carried on noming. It was cool. I was very close to poking it with my finger, but didn't want to enrage it unnecessarily just in case it massively hulked out or something, so I sat next to it for a minute or so, complementing it on its coolness before heading off.

Bunnies rock.

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Chapter III: It was the best of times … it was the worst of times

Thursday was the day on which Sparky Ma and I had arranged to do one of our much-loved shopping expeditions to Kingston, and I must admit I woke up damn early because I was looking forward to it so much. And because I was up so early I thought I'd jump online and do my blog rounds while kicking back with a cuppa. So I headed downstairs, hit the power button on my computer, then set about making my tea. Turning back to the computer, though, I noticed that the screen was blank. Doofus, I thought, I'd not actually pressed it.

So I tried again.

And again.

And again.

I tried various different ways, and various different combinations of swears, in an effort to fire it up, but to no avail. And then I almost crapped my pants because it suddenly occurred to me how much stuff I've got on it - contact details, photographs, music, various bits and bobs I've written over the years and OHMYGOD MY FREAKIN' BOOK!

I hadn't backed anything up in … months.

Slightly shaky and just a tad worried, I jumped in the car and headed over to pick up Sparky Ma. After the shitty year we've had I decided that nothing was going to stop us from having a great day shopping in the sunshine. And a great day we had; she bought me the new Futurama DVD movie, Bender's Big Score, and I bought her the new Rolling Stones CD, Shine a Light. We had a delicious lunch in Nandos, and two trips to Starbucks for Grande Mistos and cappuccinos.

And I also popped into the Apple Store to quiz a genius on what I could do, ultimately booking myself and my ailing Mac in for an appointment with Dr. Genius the following day.

On the plus side, that evening my Mac did actually boot up, so I seized the opportunity to back up EVERYTHING before it went kaput again. Then I boxed the bugger up and watched The Inbetweeners, one of my new favourite tellybox shows.

Right in the face!

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Chapter IV: Everything stops

At 9:40 Friday morning I heaved my mighty Mac back to the Apple Store from where I'd bought it seven months ago. Dr. Genius tried a variety of ways to jump start it, but nothing seemed to work, so he eventually gave in, and booked it in for a thorough seeing over; it seemed, he said, to be a faulty power supply unit.

So, at 10:10, I walked out of the Apple Store without a computer, seriously wondering whether I should just buy the cheapest MacBook to tide me over. I eventually vetoed that idea, and went for a consolation coffee in Starbucks, where I surfed the net and checked email on my iPhone. 

Thank God for iPhone.

When I got home I thought I might jump on Facebook and play some Scrabulo- Oh bugger. Maybe I could write some of my boo- Shit.

It was then that I realised just how dependent I am on my computer. I actually glanced over at my empty desk with a wistful look and sighed.

Then I watched Bender's Big Score and the episode of Heroes that I'd taped the previous night while sulking.

On the plus side, everyone loves Hypnotoad.

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Chapter V: Half naked weekend begins

I awoke on Saturday to the realisation that I was going to have to make significant changes as part of my life without a computer. So I surfed the internet in bed using my iPhone, then went downstairs to make a cuppa. 

With nothing else to do and nothing good on telly, I decided to fill the gaping hole in my schedule that would otherwise have been taken up by sitting in front of my computer wiling away a number of hours doing nothing of any significance by washing my car, because it was downright filthy and looking a bit miserable. So I filled up a bucket, grabbed a sponge, and set to work.

Saturday, as it turns out, was an incredibly hot day and by the time I started washing my car it was about midday. Within about 20 minutes I noticed that my shoulders were turning red, so I decided my best course of action was to take my vest off because I really didn't want vest tan lines.

About an hour later, and having resolved that next time I should sell tickets to my sexy car wash, I was done, and I still had unbelievably distressing tan lines. I had a shower, sulked for a bit, then read my book, and surfed the internet on my iPhone.

Thank God for iPhone.

I later made my second trip of the week to Homebase where I was again not asked for age verification documents, but was over-charged for a small cactus in a Mexican-themed earthenware pot.

I seem to have a bit of a thing for small cacti in Mexican-themed earthenware pots.

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Chapter VI: Half naked weekend continues!

Determined to rid myself of the damned tan lines I decided to head out on my bike on Sunday afternoon with my manly torso on full display. Somewhat distressingly, the tan lines remain undiminished. I may have to resort to some sort of bottled tan to even everything out. Or failing that, this.

On the plus side, after so much cycling throughout the week, my thighs are f**king huge.

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Chapter VII: Return to work!

Yeah, so, um, that was fun.

Monday evening, though, did rock immensely because Sweatband and I met up for a run up Richmond Hill which was awesome, despite the fact that the towpath alongside the Thames was swarming with little flies and we both swallowed at least three - and to top it off she's a vegetarian. We did do a respectable time, though, and all that cycling seems to have paid off because I was running like a pro-marathon runner after downing a cocktail of internationally-banned steroids.

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Chapter VIII: The wit and wisdom of Sparky Nan

Popped round for dinner with Sparky Ma and and the ever-sparky Sparky Nan. Conversation turned to Amy Winehouse, and the fact that she was recently photographed walking down the central reservation of a motorway after her car broke down.

"What on Earth did she do that for?" Sparky Ma asked.

"Silly bitch," my sweet and innocent grandmother replied without missing a beat.

(Incidently, I note from the motorway signs in that picture of Amy that she was actually not too far away from my stomping ground. Evidently she'd heard all about my sexy topless car washes - rawr!)

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Chapter IX: Back in the saddle

Wednesday evening I got home after beginning a dispute with a well-known beverage manufacturer at work, only to find my iPhone vibrating in my pocket the moment I stepped in the door. 

"Is that Tim?" Said the voice on the other end.

"Yes."

"Hello, I'm phoning from the Apple Store - your computer's ready."

"Oh brilliant," I replied. "I'll come and get it."

"Oh, you can't - we're just closing."

Seething ever-so-slightly, I told the guy I'd be in Thursday, wolfed down some dinner, then as the light was still good (loving the summer evenings), I headed out on my bike for multiple bunny encounters on the Thames towpath. Trust me when I say: those things are *fearless* this year.

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Chapter X: Return of the Mac

After leaving work bang on time I headed over to see Sparky Nan for a cuppa, only to find that she was in the final moments of what she would later describe as a "soiree." It turns out that all the lovely people down the road used the money left over from the collection they did to buy flowers for my Grandad, to buy my Nan a rose bush in honour of him. The variety is called, rather fittingly, The Generous Gardner, and they held a little ceremony today to plant it and remember him. Their generosity left me feeling a tad emotional.

An hour or so later, I was back in the car, and heading over to the Apple Store to collect my computer. Kitted out free of charge with new gubbins and whirring insidey-bits, and boxed up like new, a smiling me headed into the lift to take me up towards the car park. A lift that was soon invaded by two chavvy teenage girls.

"Whoa!" one screeched. "Is dat a noo i… iFone scrrrreeeen? No wait. I means, is dat an i … tee … vee fing?"

"No, it's an iMac."

"Wow. Dat is sick man."

"Well, it was. But it's all better now." That confused the padded tits off her.

 

She soon recovered.

"Is day hexpensive?"

"Depends which one you want. They start at around 800."

"Is dat good, innit?"

"Yes."

And then she followed me out of the lift despite the fact that she wanted the ground floor and I was getting out on the second. 

"Jeen-uh! Dis is da wrong flor, innit!" Her dense mate shouted.

Silly bitch, I heard Sparky Nan say in my head.

-----

So that's it - we're aaaaaaaall back up to speed.

Good times.

Coming soon!

Right, sorry for the lack of updates - I'd planned on writing something the other day, but certain technical issues have conspired against me...

Don't worry though! I hope to be back soon with exciting tales of my most recent exploits, including:

• An exciting bunny-based encounter!

• Some amazing tanlines!

• And some other stuff I haven't quite thought of yet!

In the meantime, I'm still waiting for my Batmobile. Pull yer finger out!

Hair update 06: Fail!

Oops. 

First day of a week off, and what do I do. I get a haircut. On, the plus side, I did say when I started this whole hair-growing thing that I was aiming to go without a haircut until the beginning of May and - whoa! - it's the beginning of May, so Mission: Accomplished there. And it was actually seven months to the day that I last had my haircut. My regular lady's been promoted in the meantime, which means I have to pay more. Still, I think you'll agree you just can't put a price on such raw animal sexiness. Oh, and what about the head massage they give you when they wash your hair? Worth any price. I'm not lying when I tell you I totally get a semi shivers down my spine when they do that.

Sorry to everyone who hoped I was going to end up looking like Fabio or something, but it was beginning to curl in unexpected places and was really getting on my tits (not literally). Anyway, I think I've finally well and truly decided that I prefer short hair better.

Perhaps the only downside is that I think my regular haircutting lady (I can't bring myself to say 'hair-dresser') has something against sideburns; mine come down to the bottom of my ears or thereabouts, but she always politely suggests that she trim them off. And I'm too stupid to say no. These took months days to grow, don't ya know!

Anyway, on the whole, is this deserving of a "rawr" or what?

-----

Having a haircut hasn't been the only thing I've been up to today. Oh no. I've been to Sainsbury's (it's becoming apparent that I have an irrational fear of running out of toilet rolls - I've just bought eight more), and Homebase, where I bought some compost, a trowel, and a big plant for my small living room. For some inexplicable reason I'm actually getting rather interested in plants and garden stuff; I bought two small trees in Tesco a couple of weeks back for a fiver (they've been named Bill and Ben), hence the need for compost and a trowel. And the plant (something from the yukka family, I believe) looks awesome in my living room, even if it was a complete bitch to get home in my car.

Later this week I intend to re-pot my work plant, which I brought home at Christmas and haven't taken back yet. I think it looks awesome in my bedroom, and the sheer fact that it's flowering seems to suggest that it agrees with me.

-----

Right - must dash; I'm off to see Death Cab for Cutie in concert tonight and I don't have a clue what to wear. It's really warm at the moment, but I suspect it'll drop down cold later - what a sartorial dilemma!

In the meantime, you can discuss amongst yourselves who's going to buy me this. I will dress as Batman if you treat me to it. PROMISE. 

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…