My iPad is awesome

Usually when writing a blog post I try to come up with a witty pun on words to use as the title; sometimes they're funny, sometimes they're smutty, sometimes they're rubbish. But for this post I've decided to go with something that is simple and effective - because my iPad IS awesome.

I've been foaming at the mouth with desire for an iPad since they were first announced back in January, and just when I thought I was days away from getting my hands on one in April I then had to endure another month of buttock-clenching anticipation because of unexpectedly high demand for them in the U.S. (damn you yankees!).

But then, finally, on May 10th I was at last able to pre-order my iPad. I was a happy bunny, although the days between pre-ordering and actually getting it were quite frankly among the longest of my life … although maybe not quite as long as I'd initially thought they would be…

Y'see, last Wednesday I just happened to click the 'Track your order' button on the Apple website and it said that my order would be delivered on the 27th. Yes, the 27th, just as I'd been tol- Wait a sec! The 27th?! That's the day before the UK iPad launch! I almost EXPLODED with excitement, and subsequently went to bed very early in anticipation (it felt like Christmas Eve).

So on the 27th I got up early, raced into work, and sat at my desk pretending to be busy all the while keeping a beady eye fixed firmly down the stairs at the front door. And that's how I remained for about four hours. At one I headed out to lunch, walking through the backstreets of Hammersmith with said beady eye now on the lookout for the UPS delivery van.

I returned to the office an hour later: NOTHING.

I harumphed, and got back to work (ish). And then I heard the front door open: it was a man in brown. I raced downstairs, looked at the UPS guy and shouted "YOU'RE MY HERO!" (I'm not writing that for comic effect, I seriously did). He was obviously used to such insanity on this day and replied "yeah, I've heard that a lot today!" I almost hugged him. I almost gave him a KitKat, and lord knows I do not part with my KitKats easily.

The iPad arrives! (the envelope on top is a separate package containing the iPad case I also ordered)

I'd already made the decision that, as you need to connect your iPad to your iTunes to zip all your goodies across (music, video, apps, etc), I wasn't actually going to get it out in the office. Also, it would've been a massive distraction and I was WELL busy. And I didn't want all my colleagues getting their grubby finger marks all over it.

I did, however, tease myself because I'm naughty.

COME TO DADDY!

The excitement at having received my iPad the day before its actual launch was bittersweet, however, as while I would've loved to have shot home at warp speed to start playing with it, I actually had a prior engagement that evening - a family outing to see John Mayer in concert at Wembley Arena.

And so I boxed iPad up and headed off to meet the fam.

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An aside:

John Mayer was very good.

The things that man can do with a guitar. Let's just say that Jessica Simpson and Jennifer Anniston are VERY lucky ladies.

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Anyway, after dropping Sparky Ma and Pa home at quarter past midnight, I headed home. And while any sane man would've popped straight off to bed, I decided that I would CRACK OPEN MY iPAD!

Quite frankly because it would've been rude not to. And, of course, I even took the time to document it!

Notice how I framed this image to look a bit like the obelisk from 2001: A Space Odyssey (unintentionally).

I *heart* Apple packaging - it's so minimalistic and devoid of bulky stuff you've then got to throw out.

FINALLY - IT'S WITHIN MY GRASP! The iPad actually appears a bit smaller than you'd imagine it to be, but that's not a complaint - it feels so very right in your hand.

How perfect, minimalist, and so utterly right does the design of this thing look? It truly is like something off of Star Trek.

Zipping my stuff over. Within 15 minutes of getting it out of the box I'd popped some movies, music, photos, and apps (all the ones I'd listed in my earlier post) on my iPad. All my contacts, calendars, notes and settings synced seamlessly too.

Just for completists sake, here's the box for the case.

While I don't use a case for my iPhone now, I did think it was wise to use some form of protection for my iPad. I went with Apple's own case because I liked the design of it, and I figured they'd know better than anyone what's best for the gadget they created.

Some people have dismissed the iPad as being nothing more than an oversized iPod Touch, but I can say this: they clearly haven't used one. Yes, it uses Apple's iPhone OS, but it's so much more than just a bigger version of the iPhone/iPod Touch. I literally lost four hours to surfing the internet on it on Friday evening; websites I've been reading for years suddenly seemed new and exciting again as my fingers - not just one finger like I'd use on my iPhone - but all my fingers danced across that beautiful vibrant screen, hitting links, starting videos, zooming in on pictures - and the iPad kept up with the incredible pace of my discoveries, loading pages every bit as quickly as my iMac does.

The onscreen keyboard that pops up when you want to enter text is just brilliant, my initial hesitancy in tapping out words quickly giving way to touch-typing just as quickly and efficiently (for me, anyway) as I would if I were using a regular keyboard. Seriously, how long before Apple introduce a multitouch keyboard, or at the very least an app that lets me use my iPad as one?

Oh, and apps … lovely apps. I'm currently obsessed by this:

And, of course, all my existing iPhone apps work on the iPad too, either in an iPhone-sized window in the middle of the screen, or by using the double-pixel option that boosts them up to fill all the available space; admittedly when using this option they're not quite as gorgeous to look at as an iPad-specific app, but they're still perfectly usable.

I'll also be using my iPad to read my very first eBook (or as Apple call it, iBook) at some point, having downloaded my complimentary copy of Winnie-the-Pooh.

To sum up, then, I'm amazed by this device. Since I got it I've barely turned on my iMac (seriously, any comments I've left on blogs, Facebook, or Twitter over the last few days have all been done on my iPad), and I love that I can sit curled up on the sofa or in bed and reply to emails, surf the net, or play games.

But there is one slight downside…

…my iPhone feels *really* tiny and just a little bit clunky now.

A spooky coinky-dink

I've had Clubbie for the best part of 14 months now, give or take a few days and two weeks when it was in Mini hospital. If you ask me which of the three Minis I've owned is my favourite, 99 percent of the time I'll say Clubbie; it's a distinctive-looking little motor, every bit as enjoyable to own and drive as my previous ones, economical, and *gasp!* reasonably practical for a young chap around town such as myself.

The other one percent is reserved for my two previous Minis because they were awesome cars and I loved them to bits.

Giving up my Cooper S (known affectionately as 'Min' in real life, and often referred to as the Sparky Mobile here) last year was little bit tough, truth be told, although the feeling passed as soon as I sat in Clubbie for the first time as its owner. I'd promised myself that I wouldn't watch the guy who brought Clubbie down from Cheshire drive off up the road on his way back to the Midlands with my Cooper S, but I totally did. I'd had the car over five years - longer than any other car I've owned - and I was sad to see it go after so many years of faithful service.

I consoled myself by saying that because it was heading up north I'd likely never see it again.

And then yesterday morning I got the following text from Sparky Ma:

Number plate photoshopped out to protect the innocent, obviously.

I read it about three times before replying simply "yes!"

"It's parked in Tesco's car park," Sparky Ma fired back.

I was stunned. Surely this couldn't be true? A car I sold over a year ago to a dealership in Cheshire ending up not five minutes away from the very house where it used to live? Sparky Ma must've misread the number plate or something.

And then she sent me this.

And there was no denying it. It was my last car. Apparently it's the automotive equivalent of a homing pigeon.

The artist formerly known as the Sparky Mobile on November 14th, 2003 - the day I took delivery of it.

Seeing it again came as something of a shock. I was always surprised that I'd never seen my first Mini again after trading it in as I had, after all, just taken it back to the local dealer where I'd bought it in the first place. But no, not a hide nor hair in the seven years since I bid it adieu. Here, though, was a car I'd sold to a dealership almost 200 miles away. I couldn't stop staring at the photo, and I'm not ashamed to say that I felt a little bit wistful at the sight of it; not because I regret buying Clubbie - not at all! - but because this was my car; it was built to my spec, I paid for it, I looked forward to owning it from the day I put the deposit down in September 2003 and I loved it right up until the moment I traded it in for Clubbie in 2009. I still have a special place for it in my heart … and here it is again, but now it belongs to somebody else.

Do they treat it well, I wondered? Do they love owning it as much as I did? It looks clean and shiny - that's an indication that they look after it, right? Sparky Ma said that if she hadn't been in a rush she would've hung around for a while to see if she could meet the new owner. I would've loved that. I was content with the idea of never seeing it again, but now I know it's around I want to find out what it's been up to over the last year.

I might start hanging around Tesco's car park in the hope that I can recreate this photo from the day I headed to Cheshire to test drive Clubbie last year.

Oh, joy

Don't roll your eyes in disgust when I say this, but I'm going to talk about cars, OK? I said don't roll your eyes; especially not across the floor towards me - you know how that freaks me out. Put them back in and pay attention.

So yes, I'm going to talk about cars (I will, of course, do it in my usual wry style; failing that I'll pop a cock joke in at the end).

It all started when I was driving to work in Clubbie when a little red light flashed on to indicate that it needed a service. It proceeded to come on every day for the next five days I Immediately leapt into action and called the dealer to book it in, and was told they could do it two days later. Because I need to get to work, though, I said I would need a courtesy car. I was then told they could do it about four weeks later.

Fine.

I was then told that my courtesy car would be a BMW 1-Series, a car I've always wanted to drive because quite frankly it's the next logical step if I ever feel I outgrow Minis.

And then, thinking about how I'd like to drive a 1-Series round for the entire day rather than just to and from work, I decided to take the day off, thus negating the actual need for a courtesy car to enable me to get to work.

Welcome to my brain.

Anyway, today comes (obviously) and I'm so excited that I get up really early, have a cup of tea, and shoot over to the dealers ASAP to get Clubbie in quickly and head off for some fun in the 1. The handover goes very quickly, and the guy says to me "your courtesy car is parked round the side of the building."

"Great!" I say, snatching the key off him and legging it out the door. Of course, being a BMW it doesn't actually have a key - rather a little plastic thing that looks like a spaceship that you need to dock with a slot in the dash. Basically just another excuse for me make spaceship noises as I fly it into an imaginary spacedock, then. And, of course, being well-versed with this keyless business now, there would obviously be no repeat of the embarrassing "how do you start the car?" incident from when I had a 5-Series a few years back.

So I head outside, round the corner and there - oh, (in finest Cockney-rhyming slang terms) you are having a giraffe.

Now, I've never driven a billboard before, especially one emblazoned with the word JOY in a rather uninspiring looking typeface, but while I momentarily thought about stepping back into the dealership and hoofing the key-thingy back at the chap who gave it to me while shouting "I WILL NOT DRIVE ANY FORM OF PROPAGANDA REGARDLESS OF HOW GOOD THE CAR IS OR HOW VERY MUCH I WANT TO DRIVE IT AND ENJOY IT!" the thought of then having to phone Sparky Ma and saying "I'm stranded in West Drayton, could you come and get me please?" meant that I just sucked it up, looked past the stickers, and got in the car.

The first thing that struck me was that the previous driver must've been a T-Rex or something, because the chair was all the way back and the steering wheel was right in my face. After sorting that out, I very gingerly set out.

Within a few minutes I felt very much at home in the 1-Series. One of the displays was identical to that found in Minis, which meant I understood exactly how little petrol they'd given me (14 miles worth - I could spit more), and while it was the least powerful engine in the range (a 1.6) it was pokey enough and actually quite rapid. Compared to the VW Golf I had last year when Clubbie was off the road, I'd actually say (in contrast to many of the car magazines that I've read) that I preferred the 1. Now admittedly it wasn't as big as the Golf - I'd actually say it was really no more spacious than Clubbie inside - and it had a curiously small glovebox and oddly-shaped rear doors, but the way it pootled around town was more involving and, well, fun. It also had very comfortable seats, with had the added bonus of a strange extendible thigh-supporting thingy - a bit like an automotive lazy-boy, I guess, but without the potential for flinging your legs in the air while you're doing 70mph on the M4.

Note strange extendible thigh-supporting thingy at the forward edge of the driver's seat; the passenger side one is RETRACTED. While I was playing around with it (while the car was parked, I hasten to add) I set it to its maximum reach, which pretty much lifted my feet clear of the pedals.

But while I thoroughly enjoyed the 1-Series, it only reinforced once more why I like Minis so much. For a car that's roughly the same size, around the same price, and with a similarly powerful engine as Clubbie, the 1 was remarkably different in character. Driving a Mini is a bit like having an enthusiastic terrier on the end of a lead - it's characterful, always darting about, and making you smile; you change gear quickly and often - like it's shouting "THIRD, NO WAIT, FOURTH, C'MON CHANGE!" The 1 felt more chilled out; I'd hit about 45mph on the motorway and it felt like some business dude in a suit kicking back and loosening his tie - "yeah, what, like, sixth gear? Yeah sixth, why not?"

So at the end of the day I was more than happy to have Clubbie back, clean, shiny, and fully serviced. They even added a bit of that stuff that makes your tyres look showroom fresh (or greasy, depending on your point of view).

And to top it all off, I finally got round to buying the new BMW iPhone cable that charges my iPhone 3GS while I drive. HAPPY. DAYS. INDEED.

Post over, and no cock jokes. I shall let you insert your own.

Mini me, you complete me

So it's that day. Well, actually it's rather late on that day because I got caught up doing other things earlier such as going to yoga, hoovering, taking a long relaxing soak in the tu-

Sorry, I digress.

Where was I? Ah, yes: it's that day - the day I crown the victor of THE OFFICIAL SPARKY TIM CUT OUT 'N KEEP ACTIONLESS FIGURE competition.

Let's not fanny about then, and crack on with the entries, eh?

1. Princess

Princess was first out of the starting gates with an adventure set in a jungle, and concluding with me chillaxing between satin sheets in a giant bed pondering what my next epic jaunt would be. Princess dressed this particular OFFICIAL SPARKY TIM CUT OUT 'N KEEP ACTIONLESS FIGURE in a mix of pink and yellow which, while retina-searingly vibrant and perfect for a walk-on spot in Sex and the City 2 (I'll give those leathery old hags a run for their money, just you watch me!), probably isn't the the most practical attire for a jungle hike.

BONUS POINTS: Nice use of additional points of articulation in the OFFICIAL SPARKY TIM CUT OUT 'N KEEP ACTIONLESS FIGURE.

2. Cyberpete

Cyberpete decked his OFFICIAL SPARKY TIM CUT OUT 'N KEEP ACTIONLESS FIGURE in some sort of shimmering frock (much like Vina from Star Trek's original pilot episode, 'The Cage,' but without the awkward hump-back), and then set it to work helping him assemble a vast TV. Again, like Princess' entry, I'm not sure Pete fully thought out the practicalities of this choice of clothing; real Tim has some paint-splattered trackies ready for any DIY-type duties. Still, the TV is up and running and looks great, so I'll just shut the hell up.

BONUS POINTS: Quality enhancing of the original OFFICIAL SPARKY TIM CUT OUT 'N KEEP ACTIONLESS FIGURE with a unique facial image - a rather horrific photo that I'm not quite sure how Pete got his hands on. The end result looks a bit like something out of South Park, which pleases me.

MINUS POINTS: For lulling me into thinking he'd posed me next to a picture of Lauren Graham as Lorelai Gilmore, then shocking me with the revelation that it was actually Sandra Bullock in some god-awful rom-com. I would've been OK with Sandra Bullock circa Speed, or at a push, Speed 2: Cruise Control.

3. Inexplicable Device

Those poor, poor OFFICIAL SPARKY TIM CUT OUT 'N KEEP ACTIONLESS FIGURES. I dread to think how they've been mistreated by everyone's favourite Norwich-based witch. Still, in his attempt, IDV pandered to a) my ego, by adapting his first OFFICIAL SPARKY TIM CUT OUT 'N KEEP ACTIONLESS FIGURE with a physique I'm trying to work toward much like my own, and b) my love of Star Trek. Not only that, but the action is continuing in a third entry (note to self: this sentence needs rephrasing), where my scantily-clad duplicates and I are fending off hordes of advancing jelly babies, which is uncanny because I actually do *hate* jelly babies. Seriously, if you ever offer me a jelly baby, chances are I'll thump you and stamp on them. What weirdo had the idea to encourage people to eat small gelatin children!?

BONUS POINTS: You had me at the Star Trek uniform.

MINUS POINTS: I'm slightly freaked out by my duplicate with the tiny head. Strike that: I'm massively freaked out by it. It reminds me of the end scene of Beetlejuice.

4. Tara

For her entry in the OFFICIAL SPARKY TIM CUT OUT 'N KEEP ACTIONLESS FIGURE competition Tara decked me out in an orange and purple ensemble, and sent me off bungee jumping. Now, I'd love to actually be able to tell people that I've done a bungee jump, but the thought of tying an elastic band to my ankles and throwing myself off a platform just horrifies me, so Tara's actually done me a huge favour and saved me the hassle: good times! I'm loving the setting of this entry, the action shots, and quite frankly I just look awesomely chilled out and hardcore in the last photo where I've gathered up my shoelace bungee cord and am heading off home (undoubtedly to do more awesome things).

BONUS POINTS: Some nice, subtle folding of the OFFICIAL SPARKY TIM CUT OUT 'N KEEP ACTIONLESS FIGURE (seen here) adds some much-needed dimension to my cardboard self.

So I should adopt my best pouty thoughtful/pensive expression and choose a winner, eh? Well … no. I don't want to. They're all awesome, and it would be like picking which of your children you prefer - or asking Emperor Palpatine to pick his favourite Stormtrooper. Anyway, bless you all for entering and making this a fair-to-middling rousing success!

T-minus 18 days

The time I've been waiting for is almost upon us. Mark this date in your diaries, people: May 28th.

That's the day I'll be getting my iPad.

On Friday Apple announced the UK release date and pricing for their latest lust-worthy piece of tech, and today *finally* I was able to submit my pre-order. Seriously, Apple's really been playing like the beautiful girl who keeps teasing but won't put out with me on this one. Until now (insert Sid James-style "heh heh").

"So, Tim," I hear you all saying. "Which iPad are you going to get?"

Well, dear reader, I've decided to go for the 64gb wi-fi version. Wi-fi version - not the wi-fi + 3G? No. And, not because I have to explain myself to you anyway, but here's why: basically, I can't really envisage a time when I'd desperately need to jump on the tinternet on my iPad when I'm not in or near to a wi-fi zone. Even if I do I'll always have my iPhone with me, so it's kind of a moot point; I might as well save the extra £100 and spend it all on addictive apps instead (like Angry Birds on the iPhone, which I'm ridiculously obsessed with at the moment).

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An aside:

I've actually already started compiling a list of iPad-specific apps I want:

Real Racing HD £5.99

Geometry Wars: Touch £5.99

Sketchbook Pro £4.99

Worms HD £2.99

Minigore HD £2.99

Look, it's the font from the iPhone notes app; no, I wasn't kidding - I've got a list on my iPhone and I just copied and pasted it here. To make it even sadder I've actually got some iTunes credit and the iPad apps are already available in the UK store. I think I might buy them IN ADVANCE.

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As for the memory size, I've decided to splash out on the biggest one possible because why should you have a small one if you can have a big one?

To top it off the release date coincides with my last day at work before a planned week off, so I'll have plenty of time to get acquainted with my new toy. What's the betting I'll have worn the glass down to nothing in just a few days with all my multi-touch action?

I'm *so* excited.

You, me, 28th May. Kissy kissy sexy face.

Awesome things #1

Starbucks Doubleshot chilled espresso and milk IN A CAN. It's creamy, it's dreamy, it's a smidgeon more expensive than I think it should be, but I sense a new addiction forming regardless.

If you find me rolling around in a gutter with a rubber hose tied round my arm pouring one of these over my head, please get me help ASAP.

The post in which my childhood comes back to haunt me

At some point in the last few months or so (I'm literally *that* lazy that I can't be bothered to go back and find out exactly when) I happened to mention that I'd tried writing my own comic strip when I was a kid.

So exciting was the prospect of seeing these remarkable historical documents (think something along the lines of a finding a lost Mark Twain story) that one or two hundreds of you demanded I dig them out, scan them in, and post them for your reading pleasure. Unfortunately, I then revealed that I'd probably thrown them away at some point between popping zits and wondering what the hell was going on *down there* in the midst of my tumultuous teenage years.

I giveth, and I taketh away.

But then, just the other week, I popped over to see Sparky Ma and Pa, and Sparky Pa did that thing he occasionally does when he's been rummaging around in the loft for no apparent reason. He said "I found some things you might want to have a look through."

The last time he said this he handed me a load of old school books as if my Year 9 French class would still be of relevance to the me of 2010. Bless him, but it was not. Tres bon!

Anyway, this time around he dumped this folder in my hands literally just as I was about to flee walk out the door and said it actually had some stuff I should probably keep. Sighing loudly and tossing my head like an emo I said I'd take a quick look, despite the fact that the word 'IRELAND' was confusingly emblazoned across the front of the folder.

Turns out that it included my GCSE results, stuff from my work experience, and a handful of drawings done by teenage me. I won't tell you what they all were because some of them will serve me well when I'm going through a blogging creative dry spell and need some tat to post might make rather exciting blog posts in the future. And then I found them and my heart sunk because I knew I'd have to post them here: the complete set of Mits strips. Sparky Pa chuckled as he saw me wondering why the hell I hadn't destroyed them all those years ago looking at them. "Ha! You could put those on your blog," he said.

"Um, yeah," I replied, as if this was right up there with Bill Watterson finding a handful of lost Calvin and Hobbes strips.

So, without further, or indeed any, ado, I present to vous (damn, that Year 9 French DID come in handy!) the complete Mits!

So there you have it. An epic five-strip long blast of genius. As you can see, I never resolved Mits' story arc. Teenage me would probably have kept it light and fluffy with more carnivorous penguin and vegetarian polar bear gags, whereas if you asked me to devise a dénouement (geez, there I go again) for it now I'd probably go all dark and dystopian and just have a single panel showing a blood-covered icy vista and leave the reader to come to their own conclusions as to whether Mits escaped the cull.

Things to make and do

I kind of feel like I've not been posting much recently, which actually isn't true, but it's nagging at me anyway. Not only that, but time seems to have been very strictly regimented over the last few weeks; I can pretty much break my life down to:

1. Work

2. Yoga

3. Running

4. Crashing out in front of the tellybox

5. Twitter

And so this is where you come in, lovely reader. I'm looking for some excitement and adventure in my life and you're going to help me find it (or at least I hope you are; this could prove to be an epically spectacular FAIL if you all shun me like a diseased street urchin). To accomplish this I'm introducing a new competition, and the very first (and probably last) item of official Sparky Malarkey merchandise (and, for some people, the answer to long-held, slightly rapey desires).

Ladies and germs, I present to you: THE OFFICIAL SPARKY TIM CUT OUT 'N KEEP ACTIONLESS FIGURE!

INSTRUCTIONS!

1. Click on the picture above and print out your very own OFFICIAL SPARKY TIM CUT OUT 'N KEEP ACTIONLESS FIGURE.

2. Now glue your OFFICIAL SPARKY TIM CUT OUT 'N KEEP ACTIONLESS FIGURE to a piece of card - something like an old cereal box will do, although classier alternatives will be noted at the end of the competition. Cut carefully around me (do try to keep within the lines - I don't want to lose an ear or something). Maybe consider adding a rudimentary stand if you're sufficiently adept at cardboard engineering.

3. Relive your awkward childhood dress-up fantasies by accessorising your OFFICIAL SPARKY TIM CUT OUT 'N KEEP ACTIONLESS FIGURE with a stunning outfit.

4. Pop your OFFICIAL SPARKY TIM CUT OUT 'N KEEP ACTIONLESS FIGURE into a stunning background - either a real location (if you live somewhere awesome) or a picture you've stolen off the interwebs (if your present location is crushingly dull).

5. Now tell me about the awesome shenanigans your OFFICIAL SPARKY TIM CUT OUT 'N KEEP ACTIONLESS FIGURE is getting up to, either by posting on your own blog, or emailing it to me. At some vaguely undecided point in the future (let's say May 15th) I'll do a round-up of your childlike scrawlings awesome work (yes, I'll be cutting and pasting your posts into my blog to make it look like I've written a load of exciting content) and pick a winner. There's no prize, although I may be tempted to send some beard shavings random tat out if I'm overcome by your sycophantic efforts.

There we have it then. I dread to see can't wait to see what you've got in store for my little cardboard clones!

Tweet repeat

Today was pay day, and with no iPad in sight until the end of next month, I thought I'd treat myself to a little bit of a post-work shopping spree in Westfield. And being a social networking, iPhone-toting whore, I found myself live-tweeting the experience to my 35 heaving throng of Twitter followers, who were no doubt on the edge of their seats wondering what shenanigans I'd get up to.

But because most of you who read this are a) not on Twitter (why not?) or b) not following me (WHY NOT?!), I thought I'd repost my adventure here for you to enjoy, with added notes that would've taken me past Twitter's 140 character limit. Think of it like a director's edition - y'know, where I add in all the pretentious bits that were sensibly cut out first time around and throw in some ridiculous new CG effects.

*waves at George Lucas*

Here we go then:

• Converse shoes are making farting sounds. Westfield shop assistants are clearly unamused.

Seriously, my Converse make a ridiculous noise. Quite frankly it's embarrassing. I try scrunching my toes up, but it doesn't work. The looks I was getting from the snooty assistants in House of Frazer were sufficiently potent as to be on the verge of vapourising me. A word of warning: next time we go out for drinks and dancing, you probably want to glance down at my feet to see if I'm wearing my Converse, because if I am chances are in a few more hours I'll be waving my hand under my nose and trying to deflect attention from the farting sound I'm generating by pinning it on you.

• Westfield smelling a bit like my #bikramyoga class - i.e. Sweaty.

It was weird, Westfield really did smell a bit like your mum's armpits today. Not a massively overpowering OHMYGOD - UGH smell, just that kind of salty sweat smell that hangs in the air. The funny thing is, after doing Bikram Yoga for almost a year, I actually quite like it now.

(notice first use of a '#' tag - or #ashtag as we Twitterers call them. I don't really know what they do, but everyone else uses them and I don't want to be left out)

• New ice cream stand looks like it's selling fruit sorbet and poo.

It did! There was, like, this really quite nice looking dark berry sorbet thing, but right next to it was this gross looking swirled brown mess that kind of curved up to a point like a massive dog had just squatted over the counter and pushed one out.

It made me feel a bit sick to be honest.

• Dear Next shop functionary: please do not look at me like I'm scum when I stray into the suit department. Kthxbai!

There must be something about me that shouts 'SHOPLIFTER!' because at least three shop assistants in various stores were clearly following me around, all of whom were ignorant to the fact that I was wearing slim-fitting jeans that I could barely get my keys in, let alone a handful of stolen merchandise. The guy in Next was the worst though. I rarely go into Next these days, but I was running out of places I could try to spend money so I thought I'd give it a bash. Next in Westfield is really quite big, and I wandered around the ironic t-shirt and checked shirt departments for quite some time (after skipping out of the sportswear section when some tubby old guy sidled up to me and started feeling - I mean REALLY feeling - a pair of Adidas running shorts I'd been looking at). After a while, and admittedly somewhat accidentally, I found myself in the suit department. There was no reason for me being there because I very rarely wear a suit, but I thought I might as well just walk through it to get to the exit.

About halfway through this dude just kind of leapt into my path, forcing me to come to a sudden halt. He literally looked me up and down like I was trash, then said something. I was listening to music on my iPhone at the time, and this sort of thing really annoys me; I mean, these people can clearly see I've got headphones in, and there's a reason for that: stop talking to me! I popped one headphone out and went "WHAT?"

"Can I *help* you?" he said again, as if to suggest I might tarnish the fine garments on display in his department with my mere presence.

"No - no you can't," I replied, sneering just enough to put the fear of god in his mind that I might thump him on my way out.

(thanks to Glittering Lee for making the term 'functionary' one of my favourite words)

• Westfield shopping FAIL. Clearly subconsciously saving money for #ipad. *so* jealous of @indiaknight.

Yes, yes, another iPad mention. I do really want one; if you think it's bad now, just wait until I finally get one. India Knight, if you don't know, is a writer and Sunday Times columnist, and one of my favourite Twitterers. She tweeted earlier that one of her friends is bringing an iPad back from the States for her. I say again: JEALOUS.

• There are too many people in Hollister, I can't see anything, and it smells like a tart's boudoir.

I went into Hollister (Abercrombie and Fitch's younger, hipper, cheaper off-shoot) to look for t-shirts with tits on, and ended up seeing a shirt I quite liked. Annoyingly, though, Hollister stores are really dark and always packed out, so you can't really see what you're looking at and some random is always bumping into you. The queues for the changing rooms and tills were really long, and while the staff here don't glare at you like you're about to pocket something, they do act like they want to be your friend; some dude that looked like James Franco just started talking at me, but because I had my headphones in I really couldn't understand a word he was saying. I eventually just said "cheers!" in a jaunty fashion; for all I know he might've been saying "I'm going to hunt you down and pound your face in with my shoe."

As for the smell, it was slightly overpowering but I actually quite liked it. I think that says rather a lot about me and my preferences.

I left after a few minutes because I was feeling somewhat disorientated.

• The escalators in M&S are like a bloody Escher painting. I just want to go to the food hall!

I swear I went from the first floor to the ground floor about three times.

• Just saw some kid massively stack it in the middle of Westfield. He's not crying, it's OK to laugh.

Yeah, that was pretty sweet. To be honest, I would've laughed even if he had cried. That probably would've just made it even funnier.

• Was just eyed up by some mega wasted cougar by the champagne bar. Feel so objectified.

Oh god, she was pretty gross; she was sprawled across the champagne bar in The Village part of Westfield (i.e. the posh bit) and trying to have a conversation with her equally wasted gal pals. It was like the West London equivalent of Sex and the City without the botox and more pendulous boobs. She was so drunk that when she leered at me one of her eyes was moving independently of the other one like a chameleon.

I felt DIRTY.

• Chap on till in Waitrose has hair like Prince circa 1984.

This was awesome - he was totally all like this, even down to the little moustache:

It could only have been more perfect if he'd been wearing a raspberry beret.

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And to end … Morris Dancers in Hammersmith at lunchtime in celebration of St. George's Day!

Listen carefully and you'll hear a little bit of commentary from me and Yazzle Dazzle here. At one point I say we should get closer, but "not too close"; Morris Dancers really used to freak me out as a kid.

What you don't see here, though, is the guy dressed as St. George (full armour!) riding a BMX made up to look like a horse with a massive pantomime horse head and body, pedalling furiously around Lyric Square. No. Expense. Spared.

I almost shat myself laughing.

Pizza and coke

Totally did a double take (with cartoon-esque eyes popping out on stalks) upon seeing what looked like a pile of suspicious white powder on the back of a discarded pizza box.

"Each pizza is ever so slightly different." Yes, this one will get you off your tits and heading out to an illegal rave.

Before anyone calls the rozzers, though, turns out it's a picture of FLOUR. Yes. Of course.

That is all.

That's how I Bieber

There's been a vicious rumour doing the rounds recently that I … *shudder* … am a closet fan of Canadialand's latest singing 'sensation,' Justin Bieber.

It all started last week when I was shopping in Westfield - ironically the very same place where I first became aware of the Bieber due to an influx of screaming teenage girls bunging up Starbucks in January while I tried to get a coffee and they waited for him to do an in-store appearance in HMV (some would say Mothercare would've been more appropriate).

So anyway, I was milling around Westfield trying to find something for Best Mate Jo's a mysterious friend's forthcoming birthday. Failing somewhat, I decided to do the easy thing and send a text asking for ideas. Our conversation went something like… well, exactly like this:

So we laughed, and I carried on shopping (she has got a lovely big toe, though).

When I got home I might've then posted something on Facebook about my mystery friend saying she thought Bieber was "fit," which led to some *HI-larious* comments and a significant amount of embarrassment for the friend in question, culminating in…

At this point I was still laughing my tits off at the whole thing, but events were about to take a disastrous turn.

On April 1st, y'see, the website Funny or Die had played a prank where they made it look like Bieber had taken over the website and renamed it Bieber or Die; as a result, every piece of content on the site that day featured Bieber in some capacity.

Bieber Takes Over from Justin Bieber

Autographing lady lumps? Paying people to slap them? Lollipops? I like the cut of his gib!

Now, I don't particularly like the Bieber, but the whole thing was pretty inspired, and very, very funny. Especially Dramatic Bieber, which had me giggling like a speshul for a profoundly disturbing period of time.

In the process of the 'mystery friend thinks Bieber is fit' thing rolling out across my Facebook page, I thought I'd post links to a couple of the Bieber or Die videos because they're, well, funny. Unfortunately, this backfired on me massively because people started echoing mystery friend's comment and adding things like "OMG - I think it's YOU that likes Bieber!!!!1!"

And as a result of watching too many of the Bieber or Die videos, all of which start with a snippet of his annoyingly catchy song 'Baby Baby,' I actually began to doubt my convictions. What was it about Bieber I disliked? Do I dislike him? WHY?! I constantly have to remind myself that he sings like a pre-pubescent girl and dances like he's hopped-up on blue Smarties. You can't really dance to the music I like - you nod your head to it; at most you pump your fist in the air while mouthing along to the words! I don't do pre-programmed dance routines like a human Big Trak!

To make it worse, I've been telling people how funny I thought Bieber or Die was, waffling on like I'm a long-time fan eager to spread the Bieber word. Not only that, but I've started to use 'Bieber' as a verb! It's like the how the Smurfs replace random words with Bieber Smurf! Goddammit, it's just a fun word to say: Bieber!! Say it with me: BIEBER!!! SAY IT!!!!

To top it all off, I've got a new favourite website: Lesbians Who Look Like Justin Bieber. It's a collection of Justin Bieber pictures mixed in with lovely young lesbians who look like him - and what's particularly worrying is that half the time I can't tell which is which!

Essentially, then, I think I'm losing my Bieber mind. I'm giving serious consideration to Biebering one of these to keep me sane. So while I'm off crying in the shower until 'Baby Baby' stops playing on rotation in my head, the question I want to Bieber you is: HOW DO YOU BIEBER?!

Make your own iPad

OK, that's it. I want an iPad, but I'm bored of waiting. There's been no news on UK prices, and no news on when we're actually going to get it save for the somewhat vague 'late April' that's plastered across Apple's website.

So I've made my own. BEHOLD:

OK, so it *might* look a bit like an iMac with a hastily-drawn iPad-style home button stuck on it, but it does everything I want it to, and I'm sure *no one* would notice the 2000 metres of extension cord trailing behind me as I make my way down to Secret Starbucks at lunchtime, nor the keyboard and mouse tucked precariously under my arm.

I think you'll agree it's the future of computermabobs.

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In unrelated matters, and as if you needed any more evidence of my childish sense of humour, I present to you a pub called cock.

I laughed so hard I almost needed oxygen.

One of those faces

I've now been told by at least three people that I bear a close resemblance to the new Captain Kirk who features on the massive poster that now hangs on my living room wall (yes, I finally got around to putting it up).

So, question: is it exceedingly egotistical to have a huge poster that sorta/maybe looks like you hanging in your own living room? Discuss!

Apologies for piss-poor photography.

To confound matters, I was reading a Love and Rockets book the other day that featured Joey, a character that … well, see for yourself.

What we've learnt here, then, is that if Chris Pine pulls out of the next Star Trek film, or they ever decide to make a Love and Rockets movie, I'm quids in for either role.

Lame Friday (and other misadventures)

Oh gosh, hello! You still there? I hope so. I have missed your cheeky grin. And that outfit looks gorgeous - is it new?

*awaits return compliment*

Oh OK, it's going to be like that, is it? Fine. Well *I* think I look good in these jeans.

Anyway, sorry I've not been around this last week. I don't know why I'm apologising for having missed one week of blogging. I think it has something to do with it feeling like an eternity; I seemed to have crammed so much in that I've lost track of time. Easter completely passed me by. Did baby Jeebus come back?

I think the highlight of the last week was actually Good Friday, which actually felt like a Saturday, and consisted of me heading over to the East End to meet two of my favourite pals and hit up an American Apparel rummage sale that was taking place in Brick Lane.

Now, if you're in the London area, chances are that you might've read in the papers or on the interwebs that, well, things didn't exactly go too well for American Apparel and their rummage sale. We kind of figured poor naive AA might've been thrown something of a curve ball when we found the queue to get in stretching about a mile down the road. And while we wandered off in disgust to get a coffee (at a surf shop of all places, run by two Bill and Ted-type dudes; the service was appalling, the coffee excellent - swings and roundabouts I think you'll agree) things deteriorated further.

Basically, there was an emo riot and the Police shut the whole thing down.

With our plans shot to pieces, Good Friday was swiftly renamed Lame Friday, and we instead began an aimless wander into the centre of town.

Lame Friday ended up, however, being a rather good day:

• We hit up a second hand book store where I almost bought an original copy of a H.G. Wells novel from 1896 for a fiver (decided against it in case the damn thing disintegrated - it was, after all, 114 years old), and sniggered at a book called 'The Temple of Hymen' (which was not 114 years old).

• Wandered through the British Museum where I saw a Crystal Skull (decided against staring into its eyes in case it melted my tiny brain).

• Spent £40 on two books I didn't need but so desperately wanted.

• Had my first Gourmet Burger Kitchen experience (was nice, but a tad on the expensive side).

And late in the afternoon after bidding "adieu!" to my pals, I wandered from Oxford Street to Waterloo in the sunshine and hopped on a train home.

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So, Spring tides at Richmond, eh? Probably not a good idea to park your car down by the Thames … though the ducks appear to be enjoying it.

I occasionally run down this road. Speedos and flippers might be more appropriate at the moment, though.

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Saw this movie, and HIGHLY recommend it:

If only because the Daily Mail has its knickers in an almighty knot about it.

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If you ever visit Westfield, I can heartily recommend the pretzels from, erm, Mr. Pretzel.

Cinnamon and brown sugar? It's like an orgasm for your mouth.

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Clubbie's come in for a bit of unwanted attention this last week. First of all I noticed football prints embossed in the dirt along the passenger side door where one of the neighbourhood oiks had decided to kick his ball against it. This was sorted by 'having a chat' with one of their dads, who was understandably slightly mortified (I can only imagine he too knows how expensive BMW body shop work can be). Then, on a Saturday night trip to IKEA with Big Bro (we're such regulars these days I'm sure the staff think we're a couple - particularly after we sampled mattresses together) he turned to me and asked why I had a lip imprints on my passenger side window. I replied with a "huh?" but he was right; someone had kissed Clubbie on the window (saucy).

Now, given the choice between football prints or big sloppy kisses being left on my car, I'd take the latter, but in all honesty I'd just rather people left my little motor alone.

Or is Clubbie cheating on me? Hmmm…

Anyway, things reached a head this morning when a cat jumped of a wall onto my bonnet and left delicate little paw prints in the dirt. Not only is my car a filthy little thing, but, in finest 'Are You Being Served?' style, it's obviously just out for a bit of random pussy.

In the end, then, I gave it a quick wash this afternoon; Clubbie is now ball print, paw print, and kiss-print free. AND LONG MAY THAT REMAIN THE CASE!

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Talking of IKEA, Big Bro bought some Soong-type cutlery.

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I'm being taunted by things I want but can't have; the iPad came out in the States on Saturday, and I'm going to have to wait until at least the end of the month before they're out here and I can get my grubby little mits on one, and Best Mate Jo keeps showing me pictures of an adorable little kitten I want but really shouldn't have (simply because I'm not around that much to give it love 'n attention).

DAMN YOU BEST MATE JO!

Wouldn't it be awesome if I could just combine the two together though? Y'know, sort of like…

Ta-da! I'm a freakin' genius. Someone get Steve Jobs on the line.

Someone's got the decorators in

I don't know whether I mentioned this before, but Big Bro bought himself a flat a while back. This is exciting because if my experience of getting my own place is anything to go by he'll have a great time, and secondly, I'm utterly fascinated by what Sparky Ma and Pa are going to transform his bedroom into. When I moved out Sparky Pa turned my room into an office (quite startlingly quickly, it must be said), which leaves all sorts of exciting possibilities for Big Bro's former abode.

I'm hoping for a holodeck or a disco room. Or a panic room. Maybe a Panic at the Disco room?

What I remember most about getting Sparky Towers was that I absolutely loved the whole decorating process. As I've said countless times before, the stupid girl who owned Sparky Towers before me must've been either colour blind or, well, blind, because she had appalling taste in colour and decor (and men, according to the neighbours!). Thank God, then, for the fact that I was still living with Ma and Pa at the time because it gave me two months to sweep through the place like some sort of Dulux angel and eradicate all evidence of her mismatched touch.

Sparky Towers midway through its transformation. The red and white were my colour choices, covering forever a horrific wishy-washy shade of light blue. Note also the lilac in the porch. Outrageous. That was obliterated in an evening. Promotional consideration supplied by Evian Natural Mineral Water: Live young, live Evian.

Big Bro's place, however, is a new build, which means that it's fully decorated in neutral, inoffensive tones. When he put his offer in I actually got a little bit giddy at the prospect of breaking out my rollers and brushes and working my painty magic through another property, but he shot my dreams down pretty quickly by saying that he was happy with the existing colour scheme and wasn't planning on changing it.

But then last week he texted me to say he'd decided a splash of colour wouldn't go amiss in his bedroom. This made me clap like a speshul and bounce up and down in my chair a bit, even if the way he phrased his text did make it sound a bit like I should be honoured to have been asked. A day later, though, he changed his mind. Again. I came to the conclusion that Big Bro was just a tease, and was trying to generate as many peaks and troughs in my emotional state graph as he could.

I was not happy.

Until he changed his mind again.

So Sunday afternoon I found myself standing in his bedroom wearing the same old paint spattered clothes I'd worn when I decorated Sparky Towers four and a half years ago; fortunately, they're quite dark, so don't show up the red paint too much. This is good because otherwise they do kind of make it look like I'm Dexter or something.

Everyone's favourite happy murderer (he'll want to pop some Vanish on those blood stains - they'll come right out).

My initial thought when Big Bro put me in charge of the big roller was that he must've been well impressed with my decorating skills at Sparky Towers, but in hindsight what it actually meant was that I did most of the monkey work while he did the delicate little corner bits like a proper 'artiste.' And at one point he buggered off to buy some more paint, leaving me to effectively do three entire walls and the complex bits around plugs on my own. He'll find this amusing until I put an invoice in; I'm not as cheap as I look.

The colour he picked was some sort of light green, which sounds a bit disgusting but actually looks rather nice when it's on the wall and dry, and will no doubt conceal any bogeys he might decide to stick there. My overly vigorous roller-action meant that a rather unhealthy amount of paint sprayed back on to me (hence the need for a second tin), effectively pebble-dashing my arms and face. I ended the afternoon looking a bit like a Suliban from Star Trek: Enterprise, albeit without the ability to slip under doors or turn my head around completely.

No doubt I'll be picking paint out of my nose for days to come.

Naturally I did a sterling job, and was rewarded for my efforts with … a can of coke. There's nothing like settling down after a job well done, but seeing as Big Bro hasn't got any chairs yet, I made do with the floor instead.

Seriously, I will hunt down and thump the first person who makes a sarcastic comment about why I have a white stain on my leg.

Hello Dave

So my last post was about meeting William Shatner (albeit briefly), and this one is also about meeting someone well know. The concern here, obviously is that I might start sounding at best like I'm hob-nobbing with famous people all the time, or at worst like I'm turning into some sort of hanger-on or star-f**ker (not literally, mind). Neither of these two scenarios are true, which, for all involved, is probably for the best.

So who was I hob-nobbing/NOT star-f**king this week? Only Dave Eggers, one of my favourite authors!

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Swiftly cobbled-together biography

Dave Eggers has written a number of books, both factual and fictional, but is perhaps best known for A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius which does actually live up to the promise of its title by being both heartbreaking and a work of genius. He also founded the independent publishers McSweeney's, as well as 826, a non-profit organisation that tutors and inspires kids aged 6-18 to write, and co-wrote the screenplays for Where The Wild Things Are and Away We Go, both of which I loved and suggest you watch at somepoint (preferably when you've finished reading this and left a witty or inappropriate comment, but I'll wait if you're that eager that you have to go watch them, like, now).

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I'd heard that Dave (I'm going to say we're on first name terms because he seems like the sort of chilled-out chap who would be comfortable with me calling him Dave) was going to be doing a reading from his new book Zeitoun at Book Slam, a literary event that takes place once a month and is hosted by another author, Patrick Neate, who I'd seen give a reading from one of his books in Shepherds Bush a few years back (OK, this post really is beginning to make it sound like I hang out with famous people and attend posh events all the time).

I'd actually first heard about Book Slam a couple of years ago and had been meaning to go to one long before now; the fact that Dave was going to be there was the excuse I needed to actually follow through (not literally) on that and pop along. Anyway, long story short, I bought a couple of tickets and toddled off with Yazzle Dazzle on Wednesday evening. Book Slam is held in an *awesome* venue called the Tabernacle Notting Hill way; it's got a really rather nice looking bar/restaurant downstairs and what looks like a dance hall upstairs. Book Slam was held in the latter, with tables and chairs arranged around the dance floor, and people wandering around taking drinks orders. I genuinely felt like I should've been wearing a top hat, or at the very least a bow tie. Preferably one that span around at inopportune moments.

There was a very cool animated backdrop on the stage - kind of like some sort of literary Matrix-style thing. At one point three of the animated letters started to move towards each other and I thought they were actually going to spell 'BUM' in giant green letters. Sadly someone turned the projector off before they could properly arrange themselves. This was the sole disappointment of the entire evening.

The evening kicked off with a poet named Malika Booker. Now, I'm not usually one for poetry; it generally doesn't tickle my fancy, but there was something honest and lyrical about Malika's reading that won me over (see, I'm on first name terms with her as well now). Later on in the evening I walked past her and told her how much I'd enjoyed her stuff. I rarely do that sort of thing, which just goes to show that I really did like it.

Anyway, Dave came on after Malika and, as I said, read from his new book Zeitoun. Despite the fact that I've still got a stack of books so large the little LACK table beside my bed is bowing slightly, I bought a copy of Zeitoun because it was signed; I'm a sucker for signed things. The books were all pre-signed by Dave, which I was initially a bit disappointed by because while I like signed things, I like personalised signed things more (at some point I'd still like to go all rock star groupie on someone and ask them to sign my chest; it all depends on which celebrity is least likely to thump me or have a restraining order taken out, quite frankly). Fortunately, I didn't need to get my knickers in a knot, because after he came on stage the second time, Dave announced that he'd be chilling out at a table by the stage where he'd be personalising stuff.

Hooray!

Here's the man himself reading from Zeitoun. I did think about taking a video clip of him doing this, but I wasn't sure if this was the done thing at a literary event. I mean, it's a bit more dignified than the Foo Fighters at Hyde Park, isn't it? Look, that person in silhouette on the left is wearing hipster glasses.

Yazzle Dazzle and I got in the queue pretty damn quickly so we didn't have to wait too long to shove our books in front of Dave and give him a jaunty thumbs up. While we were waiting, though, I was thinking about what I'd say to him: I really wanted to ask how he went about setting up McSweeney's - how a small independent publisher can thrive in a market dominated by large corporate publishing empires? But I wasn't sure he'd be able to answer that in a couple of seconds, and I didn't want the hundred or so people behind me to start glaring at me with murderous looks in their eyes if I tried to hog his time. It would probably be a bit rude to ask Dave about small business advice at something like Book Slam anyway. So, I fell back on the tried and trusted statement we all utter to people whose work we like: "I love your stuff, man!"

Yes, I called Dave Eggers "man" like I'm some sort of time displaced 1960s hippy throw-back.

Actually, I did preface it with the fact that I am currently reading his adaptation of the Where the Wild Things Are movie, called simply The Wild Things. Amusingly, when I told him like a gushing literary fanboy that I'd read all his books he apologised as if I should find something better to do with my time; anyone who uses self-deprecating humour is OK in my book. That and fart gags - fart gags are always good.

All in all, then, the evening was a complete success - a poet whose stuff I liked, a reading by Dave Eggers, a personalised edition of his new book, and a bit of witty banter with the man himself.

On the downside it totally pissed it down on the walk back to my car and I got thoroughly drenched; can't have it all, though, eh?