Josh Pyke at the Borderline: AKA "three quid for a f*ckin' diet coke!?"

"I may be smiling, but I'm actually a teeny bit angry," said Yaz to the waitress. "You're kind of spoiling my peri-peri experience.

And thus began events leading up to out first gig of 2007 - Josh Pyke at the Borderline!

Reuniting the good times gig duo of, well, me and Yaz, we headed to Nandos for some pre-gig spicy chicken. Obviously things went slightly awry, and Yaz basically got into a … let's say 'a discussion' with the waitress (who looked a little like Ugly Betty) about a little bit of over-pricing. Eventually she got some money back, downed her by this time cold chicken, and we were off!

A short tube journey later and we were wandering down Charing Cross Road in search of the Borderline. Bearing in mind that neither of us had been there before we looked like two simple tourists walking along in search of Manette Street, me holding a small piece of paper with some directions on that just said "two minutes from the tube station." Yes, but where?! Eventually we found it - right next to Foyles bookshop. Why didn't they just write "next to Foyles bookshop," I asked, throwing my arms up in the air (not literally).

But what a cool little venue it is!

It's subterrainean people!

So we walked in past a decidedly dodgy looking bouncer, and headed downstairs. Awesomely, we found a little breakfast bar-like arrangement about three metres from the stage, so we grabbed a couple of stools and sat there with no intention of budging until Josh left the stage. And while we waited we tried to do TheLondonPaper's crossword, but it made our heads hurt, so we resorted to drawing on the celebrities in the Oscar photos.

After a short while, Yaz decided that she was thirsty and toddled off to get a drink. She returned a short while later visibly perturbed, exclaiming rather loudly that her diet coke cost "three f*ckin' quid." And she continued to shout it throughout the evening. On the plus side, she should thank her lucky stars that I didn't accept her offer of a drink; she'd have to of broken into a tenner!

While we waited for the support act to come on we indulged in our old pastime of people-watching. Obviously the entire place was full of Antipodean-types out to support Josh, and we were highly amused by the chap in front of us, and his utterly pathetic attempts at pulling. Basically everytime a girl stood anywhere near him he'd smile at her, turn and smile at his mates, and at their direction he'd turn back to said girl and say "So… where are you from?" "London" was quite a popular answer, and it didn't seem like he had any response to their reply, as if he wasn't quite expecting them to say anything other than "who cares – take me now!" We laughed heartly. Good times.

Anyway, the support act came on. She was a - and I'll be brutally honest here - unusual looking lady by the name of Karima Francis. Unusual looking maybe, but a fascinating voice, and some decent tunes. We kinda liked her. The only downside was that there was some hunch-backed Kirsten Dunst look-alike baggy dancing in front of the stage and shouting over Karima's songs. I swiftly renamed this wench Snaggletooth after the marvelous What Would Tyler Durden Do? website's name for Kirsten Dunst.


On the plus side, Karima picked up on Snaggletooth's actions, and, awesomely, HAD WORDS WITH HER AFTER HER SET! YES!

And then it was time for Josh Pyke. Permit me a moment here to reveal a little part of my sensitive, emotional side here; I got a little shiver as he took to the stage and began playing because I felt a real connection to Dora and T-Bird, who first brought Josh's music to my attention. It was bizarre to think that you two had also seen him play up close, and that I was there on your recommendation. It was a powerful reminder of the bond of our blogger's circle, despite the millions and millions of miles that separate us all. But then I brought my hardcore man-side back to the fore, whooped, clapped, and punched the air.


Josh was great, a throughly good set, beautifully played and brilliant to be up close. Shame Snaggletooth kicked off again, hollering at him between tracks and pointing out how Aussie he was just because he was drinking a can of Fosters. Fortunately, like Karima before him, Josh verbally bitch-slapped her by saying that he hated Fosters and was only drinking it because it was free. He then proceeded to ignore her even when she stood right in front of him and screamed that she'd seen him several times before.

Anyway, he rounded off the set with a fantastic version of Middle of the Hill, and then noted that he couldn't be bothered to leave the stage and then come back for an encore because it was a waste of time, so he just played on through. Quality.


So that was it. A cracking start to the gigging for 2007.

(The evening was slightly ruined when I got home by an unexpected occurance of the Barrys - and super-kudos to anyone not from the UK who can work out what that particular piece of rhyming slang refers to).

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How's about this for a musical handbrake turn? I'm writing this listening to a free frikkin' Dolly Parton CD that came in the paper on Sunday. I've got a bit of a soft spot for Dolly, I must admit; 9 to 5 and Jolene are great songs. And she's got awesome boobies too.

It always comes back to monkeys

There's something a bit fascinating about monkeys, isn't there? They're so much like us, yet they're not limited by social niceties and will quite happily fling poo around like there's no tomorrow. To be honest, though, once a monkey gets above a certain size I think they're a bit threatening. The little ones - like the one in Friends and the disease-spreading one in Outbreak - are awesome. The big ones are scary because they could break you, and then throw poo at you.

Lovely Janice at work was telling me the other day that when she was a kid there was a guy in Shepherds Bush market who had a monkey and you could pay to have your photo taken with him (the monkey, not the dude). But he's no longer there now. She theorised that the monkey, or the dude, possibly died, but I think it's more likely the monkey was found to not be paying his tax and national insurance and was sent to prison. Or deported for being a filthy asylum seeker.

Recently (and I say 'recently', but I actually mean 'about a year or so ago') London Zoo opened a monkey enclosure where you can walk through and, erm, touch the monkeys, so to speak. Part of me likes the idea of this, because monkeys are cool. Part of me fears the monkeys, however, because I've seen camcorder footage of what happens when cars drive through safari parks and all the wild animals rip bits off them. What's a giraffe going to do with a wing mirror, I ask you?

Anyway, part of me is scared that the monkeys in this special enclosure might be a bit chavvy and while one distracts you with a display of utter cuteness there's another one stealing your wallet and car keys. And when you confront them about it they'd do that thing where they bare their teeth at you and screech. I don't like the idea of that.

Last night I was discussing this with someone who shall remain nameless, and I happened to mention that "monkeys are very unpredictable." My unnamed companion (a phrase that makes me sound like I'm Doctor Who) pondered this for a moment, then looked me straight in the eye and said "Monkeys may be unpredictable, but then so are people." Which is an incredibly profound statement.

On the other hand, the chances of a person whipping down their nappy and hoofing poo at you are, I think, pretty slim, but I will admit that I am currently rethinking my monkey unpredictability scale.

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Crumbs I was feeling energetic this morning. I got up, and literally went straight out for a run. Which in hindsight was a little bit stupid because I always find it a little bit difficult running in the morning, and today turned out to be no different. So it turned into more of a walk-run-walk. On the plus side, I finally got round to posting the letter that informs my gym that I'm leaving it. Which I'm hoping is the right thing to do; hell, I haven't been there in two months and I've not descended into obesity just yet…

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Book update. I'll be brutally honest, things have levelled off a bit in the writing department. Why? I can't really say, to be honest. As I said in a previous post, the initial idea to write 1000 words a day has pretty much flown out the window, and the grand total now stands at around the 16,500 mark. Part of me thinks I should take a little break, and actually rewrite the first half before throwing myself into the second half. I'm beginning to think that there are some bits that I want to move around anyway, so that might help me in the long run.

On the plus side, I did write the very last scene yesterday which I'm quite pleased with. I've just got to write the however-many thousand words that come between what I've just written and that last scene now… I really must engage my brain.

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Finally: why, why WHY do people keep finding my blog by googling phrases such as 'Katee Sachoff boobs', and 'Katee Sachoff nipples'? I wrote one post about Katee Sachoff about six months ago that I'm sure didn't mention the words boobs or nipples. Leave the poor girl alone you perverts!

Dear diary

Have you found that diaries are full of rubbish these days. And I don't mean the entries in mine that say things like "Friday evening - no plans…" and "Saturday evening - no plans…"

No, I mean the things like the pages and pages of crap that tell you how to convert from miles into kilometres, cubic yards into cubic metres, and inches per second into millimetres per second. And don't get me started on the public holidays listings - it seems that EVERYONE gets more public holidays than us Britlanders (something to look into when I'm mayor, perhaps).

Today though, while I was noting something down in my work diary, I found something tres bizarre: a New Year Resolutions page.

Now, this is odd, I thought. Who would write that sort of information down in a diary unless it was the sort that had a little lock on the side. No, resolutions are the sort of thing, I think you'll agree, that you should write down on scraps of paper then eat, because we all know that's how to make them come true. It got a tad weirder when I actually read the headings on the page, each of which had five lines underneath, and accompanying tick boxes. Here are said headings, and what I think I might write in:

Physical - Let's get physical, perhaps? Was that Olivia Neutron Bomb? I think so - tick!

Mental - I can be, if you really wind me up. Tick!

Self development - Another arm would be handy, I s'pose. Not tickable just yet, but I'll work on it.

Money/Finance - Are you offering? Um, tick?

Career/work - Only if I really have to. Tick!

Family - Already have one! Tick!

Social - Depends how I'm feeling. Tick-ish.

Spiritual - OooooOOOOOOoooooOOOO! Tick!

Emotional - Only when I watch ET, or Spock's death in Star Trek II.

Property - of Tim.

So I think I'll maybe go scribble all those in using a red crayon, with all the vowels backwards. Other exciting diary-based information - did you know that Japan's international dialling code is 0041 010? That's a lot of numbers.

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Isn't it weird where car designers are getting their inspiration from these days?



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And in a smiliar vein, I've just re-read Frank Miller's Batman: The Dark Knight Returns, and I don't think I'm the only one. Methinks someone's new look was influenced by the mutant leader that Bats goes up against…

It's official - you heard it here first

I'm going to run for London mayor.

Bet you weren't expecting that, hmmm…?

It makes sense, you see, because quite frankly I couldn't be any more of a doofus at it than the existing one, and I've got chiselled good looks and well-defined thighs on my side. OK, so it might be a bit of a snap decision, but ol' Ken has only got himself to blame, what with his stupid congestion charge extension. Admittedly this doesn't effect me - the office is about a mile away from the zone now - but I honestly don't think the greasy little money grabber will stop there, and it strikes me as a bit self defeating seeing as all those Chelsea tractors have paid their residents charge and can drive through the zone whenever they please now.

Favourite quote of the week comes from Ken Livingstone:

"Congestion levels have already dropped in the new zone."

Yes, that's because you launched it in half term, you tit. It's like saying classrooms are a bit empty this week. Or pubs tend to get a little busy on a Friday evening - but the opposite, if you see my meaning.

I'm not a fan of the congestion charge, although admittedly it made sense in the centre of London; I mean, really, who wants to drive round there anyway? The tube makes much more sense. But Kensington and Chelsea? That's pure and simple greed. I'll also admit to not being a fan of people who feel the need to drive around in massive gas-guzzlers, but I suppose they need to compensate for small penises somehow. Really, there's no need for huge cars, unless you've pumped out quintuplets. Smaller ones are much funkier, anyway.

I also find it funny how when the congestion charge was introduced Ken stated that it was a charge on congestion, not for environmental causes. And yet now he keeps playing the environmental card - make yer bloody mind up!

On a related issue, I notice today that Ken has negotiated cheap oil from Venezuala to power London's buses, and will use the savings to cut bus fares for people on income support. First of all - oil from Venezuala?! How naive is he? It'll probably be half cut with instant coffee. Or three-quarters cut. Or it will simply be instant coffee. And secondly, how embarrassing will it be for the those on income support when they run their 'special oyster cards' over the scanner? It'll probably make some snide comment, or they'll have to ride on the roof or something. Or they'll make them ride in 'special' buses that look like they've been drawn by four year-olds, with wheels of differing sizes and painted in weird, childlike colour schemes. Oh, hang on, that's London's buses as they are.

I also love the fact that Friends of the Earth attacked Ken for bargaining for oil anyway. What do they think buses run on - hugs and kisses?

So yes, I think I should run for mayor next time round. I'm already planning campaign slogans: something along the lines of "championing sexy good-times in London" or "a vote for me is a vote for insanity!" because people love a bit of wackiness in their lives. I think it could work. I think we could wash the streets clean of problems and congestion with sexy good-times. I'd also release monkeys into the streets of our capital because everyone loves monkeys and they work wonders for tourism in Gibraltor. We could dress them up as Beefeaters at the tower, in swinging sixties garb in Carnaby Street, and as the Queen at Buck House. Awesome.

Are you with me? Are you?!

Feel free to volunteer your services (for the campaign effort, you perverts!), or ask questions regarding any political issues in the comments. Thank you.

13,126

As you might recall, February is my 'novel-writing month.' I've been a bit quiet on the subject, haven't I?

Yeeeeeessss…

Well here's an update for you: all is good. In fact, I've literally just crossed the point where it's become the longest work of fiction I've ever written. Yes, at 13,126 words, it's just exceeded the Ziggy Stardust graphic novel script I tried writing over the course of a year from September 2003 to October 2004 before giving up on it at 13,125 words. And all this in just 18 days. I'm quite proud of myself.

OK, I had planned on writing 1000 words a day, so I've clearly fallen a little behind schedule in the grand scheme of things, but, y'know, life gets in the way sometimes. So what was the illustrious 13,126th word, you might ask?

It was a 'but.' (And I actually copied and pasted that from the original document so you can revel in it's glory as the recording-breaking word. That's quite an important 'but,' I'll have you know. A big 'but,' you could say)

I'm pretty pleased with how things are going on the story; nothing seems horrifically out of place at the moment, and I'm at the very least reasonably happy with everything I've written so far. Of course, some things might change in the re-write stage, and some things will definitely change at the re-write stage, but that's what the re-write stage is for, so, y'know, rock on!

Anyway, I can't sit here wittering away all day - I've got a book to write! And for anyone who's interested, here's a little tease of my work in progress:

Annie Taylor’s bicycle was found leaning against an old wooden fence beside the old wooden bridge on the road leading out of Paytonville, just one hour after her mother had telephoned the sheriff’s office in a state of some distress.
There was no sign of a struggle; only the flowers scattered across the dusty ground, the vibrant colors of their petals dulled by the grains of dirt that blew across them in the gentle breeze gave any indication that something was amiss. There was no sign of anything particularly out of the ordinary if one were to look upon the scene as a mere observer.
But there was no sign of Annie Taylor.

The emo strikes back

Marcosy and I met up today for one of our increasingly commonplace jaunts to Kingston. But today we had a purpose: because today marked the opening of Kingston's very own Apple Store.

Oh, the excitement!

Of course, such was our enthusiasm we got there … well, quite late, actually. Apparently they were giving away free Apple t-shirts to the first 1000 people through the door from 9am, but the chances of me being awake and coherent at 9am on a Saturday morning are about as slim as one of those size zero models everyone's been bitching about at London Fashion Week.

So I suppose we got there around half two in the afternoon, and quickly decided that we'd save our Appley excitement up just a little bit more by heading for a coffee first, settling on Cafe Nero, Marcosy's preferred coffee shop (barista hotness rating: 2). Immediately Marcosy was pissed off because they've banned smoking, and he does like a ciggie with his cappucino. Yay for me though; I've become increasingly intolerant of the smell of smoke over the last couple of months.

Anyway, there we were chatting and getting all caffeined up, when this gaggle of emos turned up, and started doing their typical emo thing of just being incredibly annoying and shaking their big fat heads to get their stupid hair out of their stupid eyes. My advice? Get a friggin' haircut, nobwits. Then, though, one of them lit up a cigarette, the little emo-bitch. She was totally trying to be all anti-establishment, but there's quite a difference between burning your bra and lighting up a ciggie in a coffee shop. I felt like whacking the 'thank you for not smoking' sign round her stupid emo head, but I figure she'll have enough regrets in life later when she looks back on her stupid emo-past.

We drank up and left.

The new Apple Store ain't that big, to be honest, but it's full of Appley goodness and size isn't everything (though I wouldn't mind if it were just a little bit bigger). Previous experience with the Apple Store in Regents Street has shown me that the actual selling of Apple products is secondary to its use as an internet cafe for pikeys and asylum seekers wishing to check their hotmail or watch pornographic video clips in public, and I was braced for this new store to be similarly afflicted. Kingston, I soon came to learn, has its own unique Apple Store problems.

And it is emo-based.

Good lord. They were everywhere in their mascara, stripey tops, and stupid haircuts. But they weren't checking their email accounts, oh no; they were using the iSight cameras that are built into all new Macs and the photobooth program to take INCREDIBLY STUPID PICTURES OF THEMSELVES doing strange emo-hand gestures, including many, many images of them flipping the bird at the camera. Oh, they're *SO* intelligent!

All in all, I learnt something today: I really, really want a new iMac, and I fear for the future of the human race based on today's teenagers.

Obligatory smutty post title failure (although you know I'd like nothing more than to give you one)

Can you believe I had a beard-based disaster yesterday? As you might recall, I've been rocking the fashionable beard for some time now, but, annoyingly it does tend to grow out of the comfort zone length. So there I was last night trimming it with my mach-5 (using a combination of the five-bladed head and the single-blade trimmer for those hard to reach places), when all of a sudden I trimmed a little too excessively and took a chunk out of it.

I looked at the smooth patch in utter disbelief. How long have I been shaving? Years or days? What an elementary mistake to make. I looked like I had alopecia.

My initial reaction was to swear a bit then shave the whole lot off, but I like the beardy look; my boss told me it made me look "dangerous" the other day. So instead I've gone for the goatee look, which isn't something I've really tried before, to be honest. It's not amazing, but it's OK, and truth be told it fits in pretty well with the next issue of the Star Trek magazine we're working on; one of the featured episodes is 'Mirror, Mirror,' also know as the 'Spock beard show.' I'm my own evil twin.

Muwahahaha.

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Met Yaz up town for a post-work coffee to mull over her five days worth of work on a book about juices. She seemed to enjoy it, but the whole meeting up town thing was a bit of a stupid idea. Every time I go to Oxford Street it seems to be full of more and more complete dunces. On the tube up there I had some dopey tourist standing in front of me, completely oblivious to the fact that he was well within my personal bubble, and happy to wedge his bag against right my groin; I was gonna have a word, but I figured if someone set off the emergency alarm and the brakes slammed on, at least I wouldn't fall over. Surely things would be better when I got off (the train, you perves…)? You'd think… I remarked a few years ago that I thought a significant proportion of people in London where perverts and psychopaths. We may now add to that list dawdling pedestrians, spack-tastic old people, and emo-children who were congregating EVERYWHERE. And then there was that stupid woman in an electric wheelchair in HMV. Now I know I shouldn't rant or take the mickey out of the disadvantaged, but she was driving past the Top 20 DVDs not looking where she was going and almost ran me over. I felt like popping a copy of 'The Last Kiss' DVD on the back of her wheelchair so she got caught for shoplifting on the way out.

That would've taught her.

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Yes! Dancing on Ice is on tomorrow! Remember how I got right into Strictly Come Dancing during the last series? How I grew to appreciate the skill of the routines, and the beauty of ballroom dancing? Well none of that applies to Dancing on Ice - I just want to see D-list celebs smack their faces on the ice!

We all like to put it in our ears occasionally

I've been thinking about music a lot today. This has been for a number of reasons:

Firstly, I've woken up every morning for the last couple of weeks to find some kind of eighties power ballad rockin' my brain. I'm blaming Marcosy because he insisted on playing Bonnie Tyler's 'Total Eclipse of the Heart' in his car the other week, but I'm not exactly innocent either; there was, of course, that spontaneous T'Pau-based karaoke session in the office the other week. Other early morning power ballard examples include 'I Want to Know What Love is' by Foreigner, 'Too Shy' by Limahl, 'Nothing's Gonna Stop us Now' by Starship, 'Physical' by Olivia Neutron Bomb, and 'If You Leave Me Now' by Peter Cetera of Chicago (which, admittedly, I love).

Then, Scanner Dave and I had a musical conversation at work this morning. And by musical conversation I don't mean we chatted in the medium of song and dance, rather we chatted about songs. Because - and I promise you now that usually I'm not judgemental about other people's taste in music - Dave's taste in music is pretty shitty. We did, however, eventually find a song that we both like.


I think you'll agree, that is a beautiful thing. A snapshot of a glorious era. It's a stunning example of car-crash viewing. I mean, really, this could've been the end of not one, but two of the world's premier singer-songwriter's careers right in front of us, but they pulled it off big time. Those clothes go against everything that's good and holy though. And what's with all the flailing arms? Could've had someone's eye out.

Geez. I can't stop watching it. I think I know what'll be playing in my brain tomorrow morning…

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Another reason for the musical focus was yesterday's Brit Awards. My thoughts on that? The Killers were awesome even through Brandon Flowers dances like a mental monkey, Amy Winehouse is hideous but has an interesting voice, Joss Stone is off her tits these days, Flea from the Red Hot Chili Peppers needs to put a top on because at his age and in this weather he'll catch his death of cold, and after 10 years I *STILL* hate Oasis.

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I'll round off the last couple of days worth of Valentines posts with this handy hint for people who've forgotten the big day: the last time I sent a Valentines card I sent it after the event, but by turning back the date on the franking machine at work I made it look like the post office was responsible for its late arrival. And that, I think you'll agree, is officially *TOP THINKING*.

Let me touch on it again

As we all know by now, it's Valentines day. Hurrah! Did we all get lots of nice cards and wot-not? No, me neither. And this was despite me spending a good 45 minutes hack-sawing a bigger letterbox in the front door last night.

Snubbed - harumph!

The day started a bit weirdly, to be honest. I massively over-gelled my hair this morning, by accident I should note, and have spent the entire day looking like a combination of a complete mentalist and a massively-wired ketamine addict. There's an immediate turn-on for any potential Valentines, particularly if they're looking to score potent horse tranquilisers.

I must say, there was a suitably Valentines-type atmosphere going on at work. No, we didn't indulge ourselves in an orgy of delights beside the water cooler or leave bum-prints on the photocopier; rather, I spent a significant portion of the day zipping through a DVD of 'The City on the Edge of Forever,' Star Trek's most emotionally-charged episode in which Cap'n Kirk tries to get it on with Joan Collins. Captain Kirk forming a lasting relationship with the slutty one from Dynasty? Surely not! Of course not - he takes her out, shows her a good time, then she gets hit by a truck! What a superb conclusion, admittedly not for Joan, but definitely for Kirk who gets to continue his rampant womanising across the vast expanses of space without being tied down to just the one*.

Shall we veer back towards the day at hand? Yes!

So how have I spent this delightful day of romance and bliss. Generally being my usual studly and brooding self, to be honest. But of course the day hasn't ended yet, oh no! Despite the fact that Sweatband told me that Jude had no plans and we could indulge ourselves in a boy's night out, I've decided instead to arrange my stuffed toys on the sofa, crack open the Quality Street and fizzy pop, and settle down for a gala showing of 'Sleepless in Seattle!'

It's either that or wash the gel out of my hair.

One of these two choices will happen, I assure you - good times!


* Please note that I don't condone pushing helpless women under the wheels of a truck at the end of a night on the town. What works for Captain Kirk might not work for you; I say this from experience.

Light some candles, put on some music - I'm in the mood, baby

As if you didn't know, tomorrow is Valentines day, and everyone seems to be going crazier than usual. The amount of blokes I've seen carrying huge bouquets of flowers around is insane; I mean, dudes, it's not even today - where are you going to hide the flowers, and how are you going to stop them wilting? Think, chaps, think! I should've taken those flowers off them and beaten them with them.

I usually pretty much ignore any Hallmark moments that aren't Christmas or birthdays; Secretary's day, anyone? I don't have a secretary, but if I did I certainly wouldn't be buying her a card. My theoretical secretary might be crap for all I know. She might make a rubbish cup of tea and have a pathological dislike for picking up the phone. Maybe I will buy her a card. I could pop her P45 inside. You're fired, theoretical secretary!

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, Valentines day. So, yeah, not so big on it. Adding to the annoyance is the fact that about nine years ago I got an anonymous card and never found out who it was from. I hate pissing unsolved mysteries. I asked one lady friend and she sounded a tad horrified that I thought it might be her. One time I did get a card from a lady who actually bothered to sign it, but she did herself no favours by comparing her love for me to a cabbage "because it was the only thing that rhymed." A lyrical gangsta she was not.

I can't believe how these Hallmark moments are turning into such huge events. Christmas is over and - BANG! - Valentines looms. And the shops are full of naughty red undies and the like; I'll be honest, most of them look bloody uncomfortable, and christ knows what she's supposed to wear. I think I'll stick to the established jeans look, although I might break out my 'Bed Taker' t-shirt if I'm feeling particularly naughty.


I suppose the other thing is that there's no point making an effort if you're single (putting on special undercrackers, lighting some candles, and cracking open some fizzy pop? That's just a normal day for me anyway). That doesn't really bother me, to be honest, because, well... well I don't really know, actually. Maybe I'm just super laid-back about it all (although not, obviously, in the biblical sense). I'll probably spend tomorrow evening out on a run. A sexy run, perhaps, but still a run.

Or maybe I'll just go for a coffee.

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On a related note, the speed-dating thing I went on almost two years ago sent me an email telling me that they were giving me three days free 'flirt-messaging.' They also 'strongly advise' that I upload a picture of myself; I 'm thinking about whacking up a picture of someone reasonably heinous like Meatloaf, then messaging a load of women saying "I would do anything for love … but I won't do that you pervert!"

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Look here - I've been meaning to post about this for aaaaaages, and I keep forgetting, so I'm tacking it on here. Superman - hero, yes? Yes? No. You are wrong. Check out this site, because it is clear that Superman is a dick.

My particular favourite bit is the cover gallery, specifically THIS ONE. Man, he's such a dick.

Cast your freakin' vote

OK, so if you're reading this you'll probably have noticed that I've been faffing about with the appearance of my blog. What you won't notice is that I'm writing this with a spoon in my mouth (I'm just about to have some soup).

And if you haven't noticed (about the appearance, not the spoon) look up. Not at the ceiling, at the top of the page. Yes, there.

What do you think?

Now look, I'll be honest with you. It's pretty much taken me all weekend to do that (which admittedly isn't quite as bad as it sounds when you factor in that I've slept SOOOOOO much over the last couple of days), and I actually didn't mean to. It's just that there was something gnawing at me Saturday lunchtime that kept pushing me to meddle. So meddle I did. And I'm not afraid to tell you that the air turned blue in Sparky Towers. HTML is *NOT* my friend.

By about four o'clock Saturday afternoon I'd just about wrestled everything back to how it was, but I really wanted to get that new banner heading up because it's been sitting on my desktop since about last May waiting to be used. So this morning I got up and INEXPLICABLY STARTED MEDDLING AGAIN.

Thing is, because I'm so used to the old-style heading I'm not too sure about the new one now. So I'm going to do what I always do in these instances - ask someone else to decide for me.

Cast you votes in comments, people!

I thank you!

Time-wasting

I have wormed my way back onto the Xfm website. Again.

This time they're asking for drawings of Boycie from Only Fools and Horses, and who am I to turn down such a request?

So this afternoon I wasted a bit of time sketching one out, and I emailed it in.

Don't judge me - everyone else was down the pub. What? It was a Friday afternoon.

Anyway, you can see my pic in its natural setting HERE, but for anyone who can't be bothered to click the link, here it is with accompanying caption.


I'm quite pleased with it, even if my pen did begin to run out towards the end, and one of his eyes looks a bit wonky.

Snowed-in Thursday

So, having decided to work from home today, I stayed up a bit later than usual last night, safe in the knowledge that I wouldn't have to get up at 06:30 for the drive into work. At 00:40, I peered out my window to note that it was not snowing.

Bugger, I thought, deciding that it was probably best to go to bed based on the fact that it looked like it actually wasn't going to snow and I would need to drive into work.

At 06:30 I woke up, pulled the curtain back, and was presented with a vision of white loveliness spreading as far as the eye could see. "Hurrah!" I holla'd to no one in particular, threw the duvet back over myself, and whacked the snooze button on my alarm clock.

Just after 08:00 I woke up, and decided that as that's around the time I usually start work I better actually, well, start work. The journey was terrible, mainly because it was a bit cold going from my bedroom to the living room; don't worry, though – I made it OK. Soon enough I was sitting in front of my computer and working away.

As exciting as that sounds, it kinda wasn't. On the plus side, I got loads done. But by around 13:00 I was in need of a bit of a break, and the snow was melting ("melting, MEEEEELTING," for all you Wizard of Oz fans) and I wanted to enjoy it just a little bit before it was gone.

I decided on a jaunt to Richmond for a coffee. Which proved necessary because I'd drunk so much tea and was running low on milk.

This of course meant that I needed to clear the snow off my car. Following on from the other week, here's some more gratuitous photos of my snow-covered car.



Look - it was quite deep.

Any-hoo, it can't all be snow-covered cars. Here's a classy pic of the snow-covered Richmond Green.

To be honest, it'd all started to melt by this point and it was more of a mush-covered Richmond Green. Beggars can't be choosers though.

I suppose the only bad thing about working from home is that I always feel a bit guilty about not going into the office, so I actually end up doing more work. Dammit! I was re-writing a George Takei interview until 17:30!

The Wednesday post

Here's today's most notable points:

• We had the telly on in the office today hoping to catch sight of our advert for the new mag 'n DVD collection. We tuned to ITV, and were watching This Morning with Phillip and Fern. The postman, who I must add is a little bit too talkative, walked in and immediately confessed to a, erm, fondness for 'Fatty Fern.' At that moment she was sampling a cocktail, and I mentioned that she was 'hitting the booze.' Postie thought I said 'boobs,' and proceeded to tell me how she probably has to have custom bras made (at a shop near Harrods no less) to accommodate her lovelies. Cue fixed grin, and attempts to end conversation with postie, who was by this time apparently drifting off to enjoy some special mental time.

• Flicked over to BBC2, which was showing an episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation. I guessed the episode purely from a Troi/Riker scene. GET IN! Bow down before me, for I am truly king of the nerdlingers!

• Flicked back to This Morning with Phillip and Fern in time to see informative features about about spousal abuse and bull's semen hair conditioning treatment. Interesting.

• Met Marcosy for lunch. Marcosy does not like Starbucks coffee, but was quite insistant about wanting to go there today. The penny dropped, and I told him I was not going to allow him to come into contact with new favourite barista lady. Forced him to go to Neros in Chiswick. He did however, ask three questions, the answers to which were 'yes,' 'no,' and 'I don't know.'

• Lunchtime conversation consisted of discussion based on yesterday's naked housework theme. General consensus: I don't do many things naked. Am I repressed?

• Return to office after two hour lunch. Doesn't time fly?

• Engage in friendly office banter that ultimately ends up with semi-serious discussion about whether I would sexy-dance for cash.

• Editing and re-write of T'Pau article becomes a rather long drawn out affair due to me researching, playing loudly, and miming along to 'China in you hand' by T'Pau. Give a little bit of heart and soul, people.

• Weather warning - snow tomorrow! Make executive decision to work from home. Might make a snowman on the front lawn first thing, though. I'll see how things go.

The post in which I once again spread my wisdom via the medium of radio

Here's an interesting fact for you peoploids: one in seven people do their housework naked.

Yes, that's nude, nekkid, sans clothing.

One. In. Seven. Take a good look at your friends, because yes, one in seven is a SEXUAL DEVIANT. Hang on, that's a bit harsh, isn't it? OK, one in seven is a bit weird.

How do I know this, you might ask? Well, Marsha from Xfm read it out as a fact of the day this morning. And she's never wrong, because she's also the person who told me that Panic! At the Disco are awesome, and they are.

Anyway, so I heard this little fact this morning, and I felt compelled to email Marsha with a comment. It went a little something like this:

Naked housework? No, no, no, no, no, no, no, NO, NO, NO! That's just wrong! It's definitely an accident waiting to happen, and undoubtedly a health and safety violation!

So I sent it off, and got back to work.

Next thing I know, Marsha's calling me up asking if I'd be happy to go on air. Well of course I am - I'm a media whore! She told me just to repeat what I'd emailed, and I sat there on hold waiting for the song to finish.

When it did, Marsha said "I've got Tim on the line," and asked me what my thoughts on naked housework were. Truth be told, what with my appearance on Radio 2's Star Trek documentary last year I've gotten a bit used to this radio lark, so I decided to adlib a bit; I kept saying "it's wrong!" before chucking in the health and safety thing. London was undoubtedly in awe of my words of wisdom.

What's even funnier, though, is that I was probably on air longer than I was during the Star Trek documentary! There's no denying the 'on-air experience' bit on my CV now - you know it makes sense!

Back to naked housework. Am I the only one who thinks that's a bit, um, weird? I did some hoovering on Sunday, and the last thing on my mind was shaking off my little clothes and doing it nekkid. Some things just *SHOULDN'T* be done naked, and housework is one of them. Can you imagine how much it would sting if you got Cillit Bang on your dinkle? I know the boys in the audience are wincing at the mere thought.

-----

Do you want some more from the media whore? Damn right you do! My new magazine and DVD series is out in the UK tomorrow! For the princely sum of £2.99 you get a quality magazine and three - not one, not two, but three! - episodes of Star Trek: The Original Series! What more could you ask?

So do me a favour, dudes, pick one up if you see it - I'd a) love to know what you think, and b) appreciate the fact that you're contributing to my continued employment.

And don't think you get out of it by living in the southern hemisphere, oh no! It'll go on sale in Australia at some point in the next couple of months, so you can join in the fun too! Only you wily Americans have an excuse, because we won't be selling it there. But it doesn't stop you from checking out the website HERE!

Hurrah!

Me versus the Huxtables, apparently

So there I am this evening having a post-run, pre-dinner go on Star Trek on the ol' Xbox, and this dude enters into a battle with me. Must be said - he liked his microphone. Him and all his family, apparently.

I don't use my mic so much when I'm playing Trek; I don't know why, it just seems more suited to Project Gotham Racing malarkey. When I'm trying to blow the crap out of someone's starship I don't particularly want to know what the weather's like in Utah.

Anyway, as I said, this guy was rocking the mic big-stylee. I couldn't quite make out what he was saying, but he wouldn't shut up and the word "asshole" was definitely said when I blew him up the first time. And I could hear all this yammering in the background - it seriously was like I was playing against the Huxtables or some other stereotypical family all gathered around the telly. There were "ooos" and "aaahs" and gasps, singing, and a few other choice 'rudy' comments. I bet Captain Kirk never had to put up with this sort of behaviour.

So do you know what I did? I only went and submitted a player review and listed him under the category of 'off-putting, inane, or senseless chatter: avoid this player.'

Yeah, you know I did. Snaps.

-----

This weekend's not all been about being verbally harrassed by someone in Queens, oh no. Writing on my novel(la) is proceeding apace! I'll openly admit that maybe I'm not throwing myself 100% into it, but I figure it's healthy not to spend every waking hour glued to the computer; firstly because I don't actually want to glue myself to my computer, and secondly because I'll probably go nuts. No, when creativity dips, I bugger off and do something else for a while, such as read a book, watch some telly, or be verbally harrassed by someone in Queens.

I've been pretty consistant about writing, though; two hours on Thursday, and four hours spread over Saturday, with another four-ish today. Friday was a bit rubbish because I got stuck in traffic on the way home, then went to play badminton. All in all, though, I'm quite happy with how things are going, and I can definitely feel the story unfolding. Of course, there's still some unknown, unplanned patches ahead of me, but that's half the fun, right?

Right?

Hmmm…

Mighty oaks

Like many other people, I'm deeply concerned by the state of our planet, and there are only two ways I think we can resolve the problem of global warming:

1. All pull together and be more aware of our planet's needs; we've only got one Spaceship Earth*, so we better look after it.

2. Let our kids from the next generation sort it with their advanced future technology. If I'm alive in space year 2100, I think I'll be more concerned by the fact that I'll probably be pissing myself rather than if the world's heating up; old people always feel cold anyway, right? I'll probably appreciate the warmth.

Anyway, in all seriousness, I have been thinking of ways in which I can help the environment. Hell, I even did a carbon footprint test the other day - and guess what? I'm pretty damn clean! The average UK household puts out around nine tonnes of carbon dioxide per year; I put out three.

Three.

OK, it's only a guestimate, but that still gives me a pretty good margin compared to everyone else. Just because I can I might turn on all the lights in my house and leave the car running for a couple of hours (only kidding Greenpeace activists - don't hurt me!).

Which leads me round to junk mail, one of the biggest wastes of resources I can think of. We get a lot of crap through the post at work, most of which goes in the bin. The recycling, um, bin, I mean. But today we got possibly the best package ever.

It was from EDF Electrickery, and they sent us this:

An acorn.

Which is, quite frankly, genius. The idea is that you plant the acorn, and once it's fully grown it'll mop up around 13% of your company's C02 output. And as we're a small company, I reckon it'd suck up a higher percentage. On the downside, oaks take ages to grow to full size, and it was a bit of a scaby acorn; I think even Mr. Ed, our resident squirrel, might stick his nose up at it.

But hey, I'm all for the green, so I'm definitely gonna whack it in some soil and see what happens.

Unless someone's chucked it in the bin, that is.


*True story - I saw a documentary at infant school yeeeeeeeeeeears ago in which the narrator asked if anyone had ever wanted to go on a spaceship. Loads of my classmates nodded 'no' in silence. Then he went on to say we didn't have much choice in the matter anyway, because Earth is a spaceship and we're stuck on it. Some kids went visibly green at the thought.

The post in which I am referred to as 'shiny'

Picture the scene people: there I am in sexy Starbucks, just settling into a comfy chair with my grande misto. I see one of the baristas across the way, nod and say 'alright.' Then I get out my writing pad, turn up my iPod, and get down to some writing.

Five minutes later said barista is standing beside my table wiping down the bit where you get your napkins and chocolate sprinkly-things. I glance up and notice that he's talking, so I take out my headphones and say "sorry?"

"You one of our special customers, yes?" (His english isn't that great, as he went on to admit). Now, by special, I hope he meant 'prized' and 'venerated' rather than 'simple' and 'often displaying spackerish tendencies.'

"Um, yeah, I s'pose!" I replied.

"Ah." He smiled at me. "Always a misto, yes?"

"Yeah," I acknowledged, raising my cup in a manner that I think suggested that the coffee was good and I'd like to get back to my writing, thank you very much.

And that's where the conversation took a bit of a bizarre turn.

"So…" He looked around nervously, then squirted another shot of cleaning fluid on the counter. "Are you single?"

Dear reader, misto almost shot out of my nose.

[PAUSE]

Now this is where we take a closer look at my mental processes in the few short seconds between his question and my reply.

Firstly, I wondered what was the easiest, least wordy, way of saying "I'm very flattered old chap, but I think you've got the wrong end of the stick…"

(Realised 'wrong end of the stick' might be an inappropriate metaphor, and decided upon 'I think there's been a misunderstanding.')

Secondly, I wondered if it might be possible to wangle a free coffee before reverting to point 'the first,' because I'll pretty much do anything for free coffee.

Finally there was always the old "no - I'm married!" because it's simple and effective.

Truth or lie, truth or lie…?

[RESUME]

"Erm, I am, but-"

"Good! Because you know [NAME OF LADY BARISTA DELETED TO PROTECT THE INNOCENT]? She always talk about you. I think I might get you two together. She's shiny, and you're shiny. It will be good!"

And with that he wiped the counter once more and walked off, leaving me wondering if I was perspiring excessively or if he was a big fan of Joss Whedon's Firefly…

-----

I'm pretty sure my new haircut has something to do with my newfound, er, shinyness; comments from family, friends, and colleagues have all fallen into the overall category of 'awesome.'

My favourite hair-comment, however, came from Rob at work, who in passing mentioned that it made me "look sinister." And I don't know why, but that is definitely one of the coolest things anyone has ever said to me.

I am officially 'sinister and awesome,' and I think it's about time I seized control of the world…

That is all for now!!

Taking the plunge

So tomorrow is February 1st, and more importantly to me, it's 'write your long-awaited novel in a month, month.'

I decided to set myself this challenge back at the tail end of November as Dinah was getting toward the final straight of her novel-writing contest; back then February seemed like a long, long, loooooong way off, but what d'ya know: it's tomorrow.

Hmmm...

I'd be lying if I didn't admit to mixed feelings about the coming month. On one hand I'm looking forward to the challenge, to broadening my skills as a writer, and hopefully proving something to myself. On the other hand, what if I fail miserably? Wouldn't that be awful? I mean, seriously, if I can't do it, if I stumble early on, that's my dream of, ooo, many years over in an instant. I'd have to slap myself - several times.

I think you could sum up my current feelings in this way: have you ever meet your genuine honest-to-god hero? If your answer to that is yes, then you'll know what I mean - will they live up to your expectations and be every bit as amazing in real-life as you dreamt they'd be, or will they be a disappointment, will it be an encounter that shatters every fibre of your being? I met William Shatner very, very briefly at a signing last year, and I sort of feared then that he might be a disappointment. OK, it's not like I spoke to him for any length of time - I congratulated him on his Emmy win, and he quickly turned and said "thank you" in that distinctive … Shatner … way, but he oozed the Shatneriffic qualities I expected him to, and that made my day. Or life, even.

I'm hoping that writing this book will be equally Shatneriffic.

-----

Whenever I write anything, be it comic book or short story, I always try to immerse myself in things that remind me of the general flavour I want to bring to the story; for example, The Nightlies story you can look at by clicking the 'Sparky and Grum's comics' link in the column to the right (yep, there!) had me listening to lots of dark, omnious movie soundtracks (Batman, Star Trek VI), David Bowie's Outside album, and Nine Inch Nails' latest CD.

The novel (or novella, to be more truthful to my intent) has had me doing the same thing, but because I've been thinking about it for the best part of a year, the spectrum of influences has been much wider.

I'm thinking Jaime and Gilbert Hernandez's Love and Rockets comic book for language and style; the gorgeous soundtrack and scenary from Brokeback Mountain for the aching feeling of utter bleakness; the rich colours and textures of Smallville and The OC; the music of Sufjan Stevens and Willy Mason; a hint of Mark Poirier's Modern Ranch Living for the honesty of its characters…

Mix them all up and you've got a taste of what I'm aiming for…

Oh, and one of these features quite prominently.

Nice, innit? Yeah, 'cept the one in my story is rusty and a bit buggered.

Right then, wish me luck … God 'elp me, I'll probably need it!

Exactly who is having more fun...?

I went for a run with Sweatband last night - a short one, mind, because I'd done one the previous night, and I'm still easing myself back into this thing called exercise after that thing called extreme illness. Oh, and Sweatband had done 13 miles on Sunday because she's training for the marathon and because she's a complete nutter (she's even suggested that I should do the 13 mile course with her sometime - er, yeeeeeeaaaah...!).

So anyway, I get round to her place, and Jude the dude was sitting there looking pretty damned miserable. I know cats don't have the most expressive faces in the animal kingdom, but goddamn he looked pissed off. And he ignored me, which is:

a) Unheard of.

and

b) Rude, just rude!

Anyway, off we jog, and when we get back Jude's clearly had a little bit of time to think about his behaviour because he was all sweetness and light then; rubbing around me, wanting to be stroked, etc.

And then Sweatband introduced me to the new toys she recently bought Jude. First up was a new scratching post because he'd decimated the old one; this new version is furry, and coordinates awesomely with Sweatband's sofa. Then there was the stringy thingy, which is basically a bit of string with a couple of feathers on the end. Now, I know from experience that cats love stringy thingies. Case in point: Little Kitty who lives a couple of doors up from Sparky Ma and Pa likes nothing more than to chase string around the garden.

So Sweatband hands me the stringy thingy while she makes a cuppa, and I'm dangling it in front of Jude and I'm laughing and he's laughing (inside, I'm sure). But after a couple of minutes I'm still giggling like a special and Jude's just looking at me and half-heartedly batting the feathers on the end of the stringy thing with his paw. And as time stretches on he apparently gets more bored by the second; oh, and he starts frowning at me in that way that only cats can - that patented feline withering stare.

Did I get the message? Did I hell. I just kept dangling it in front of his little cynical face.

And that's when he grabbed the stringy thing, yanked it, attacked it on the floor, ripped the feathers off the end, and then walked off, flashing a disdainful look in my direction.

I, of course, just stood there holding the remnents of the stringy thing, and feeling a bit stupid.

"Tea's ready," said Sweatband.

"Just as well," I replied. "I think Jude's a bit pissed off again. God knows why…"

Social niceties

Reaching for something you've already put in the wash can be a dangerous thing. For example, before heading over to Sweatband's for a run I decided to dig a hoody out of the washing machine rather than pull a fresh one from the wardrobe. On the drive there, I suddenly realised that things in the washing machine can get inexplicably mixed up.

What would be the chances, I wondered, of a pair of worn undercrackers getting snagged in the hood?

This is not a question I ask myself on a regular basis, but it is one of those things that once you've thought about it for even a brief instant you're suddenly convinced could actually happen. And then, of course, you have the mental image of pulling off the hoody, and watching as a pair of pants fall to the floor.

However you play it, I'm not sure there's a good honest way of explaining that one away without at the very least succumbing to a little bit of embarrasment.

I think the nearest I can get to a good excuse would be by exclaiming with mock surprise "Ooo! How did THEY get there?" Before scooping them up, dabbing my forehead with them, and adding "it has been a tad mild today, hasn't it?"

It's either that or just pick them up and both pretend nothing untoward happened.

It's funny how the mind can play tricks when you get an inane thought, hey?

Fortunately it didn't happen!

-----

I sent a couple of mates in Skillz's direction today to check out his awesome monkey post. And what do I get back? An email from comics pal Graham:

"I don't think I've ever seen your stomach, but why have you had a monkey tattoo'd on it?"

I replied:

"I have not had a monkey tattoo'd on my stomach, and I'm offended you think that's me; my stomach is far more toned than that."

Harumph!

-----

Thank god Celebrity Big Brother has finished. I'd been watching too much of Big Mouth, and had begun to assume Russell Brand-esque habits. Several people have noted my exaggerated physical gestures, excessive use of the words "SWINE!" and constant demands for attention by shouting "LADS! Come an' have a look at this!"

For those unfamiliar with Russell Brand, take a look at this.


Fortunately, I have yet to stand in the office and shout "I pulled down my trousers and pants…!"

-----

I love Family Guy. And I think we all know I love Star Trek. In the words of Russell Brand - regarde!

A tale of two willies

Having bought some Josh Pyke tickets recently, I've slipped into the old 'need to go to some gigs' mood. I'm even thinking about picking up some Fall Out Boy tickets for their show at the Hammersmith Apollo in April (having missed the chance to get tickets for their Hammersmith Palais show on Monday, and for Sean Lennon at the Bush Hall); I don't really know why, as I only really like their new single - but hey-ho. The other day, however, something piqued my interest in the seetickets mail-out. And I instantly picked up my phone.

'Willy Mason is playing the Shepherds Bush Empire in May - shall we go?' I texted Yaz.

'Willy Mason?! Tell me about him later!' She replied.

Now I know Yaz knows who Willy Mason is, because I remember talking about how much we both liked his song 'So Long' a couple of years back. So I reminded her of that, but it just made her head hurt. So I reminded her again, this time texting how the song goes: da daa, da daaaa, da da da da daaa da daaaaa, da da, da da da da, da daa daaaa da daaaaa.

But still nothing.

So upon meeting up for coffee I tried to rattle her brain again.

"Willy Nelson?" She asked.

No, not Willy Nelson. Though truth be told, I'd actually quite like to see the old stoner play sometime.

Yaz still had that puzzled look on her face.

"Oh, do you mean-"

"No, I don't mean Perry Mason either."

"Oh. That's a shame, because an evening of that theme tune might be quite nice."

I frowned at her.

And then the neurons fired up.

"You don't mean that guy with the album called 'Where the Humans Eat,' do you?"

"Yes. Him."

"Oh. I like him!"

So, end of story - I'll be buying some Willy Nelson, I mean Perry Mason - DAMN - WILLY MASON tickets when they go on sale!

A little groan of appreciation

Having moaned incessently about the state of my hair recently, I actually booked an appointment the other day. I say booked, because it's been about seven years since I've been to an old-school walk-in barbers for a haircut; quite frankly I got a bit fed up with them only using an electric razor to cut my hair, and they'd always leave this big clump on top that made it look like I was wearing a toupee. OK, so I might pay a little bit more to get my hair done in a salon, but it's full of hotties so I'll cope.

Anyway, so I booked an appointment for next Sunday, but during the week they called me up and asked me if I could come in today. Hell yeah, I replied, quitely thanking the gods of Toni and Guy because my hair has really been looking pretty cack recently. And then today, about two hours before my appointment while I'm walking around Kingston shopping centre they call me up again and tell me the sooner I can get there the better because they've got some spare time; they'd clearly caught sight of me on the centre security cameras and realised I was in the midst of a hair-mergency. I could be wrong, but I reckon sirens probably rang somewhere.

The thing I really like about getting my haircut is the preliminary shampoo and conditioner stage. There's something slightly orgasmic about having someone else shampoo your hair, and ohmygod-that-bit- where-they-massage-your-scalp-is-worth-the-price-of-admission-on- it's-own. Several times I've almost drifted off to sleep while they're working the shampoo in. I think I enjoy it a little bit too much, to be honest, because I've gotten quite close to letting out a little groan of appreciation on several occasions. Not a squeal; a proper man-groan.

I'm not quite sure how that would go down with the shampoo lady, though. Even I would admit that it's not the most obvious noise to make mid-'poo, but on the flip reverse maybe she'd view it as it's intended – a sign of extreme appreciation.

"How's that for you?"

"Uuuuuurrr…"

"Jolly good!"

Shampoo over and I settled into the chair of hair destiny.

"What are we doing?" said my regular hairdresser, spinning her scissors like a cowboy spins a six-shooter.

"Short, scruffy, and awesome." I replied.

And short, scruffy, and awesome is what I got.

Uuuuuuurrrrrr…

-----

While walking around Kingston I encountered a ghost from the past - my old geography teacher - although we didn't acknowledge each other. You see, in my first year of sixth form, this guy, who had previously taught me for about four years, lied to me to get me to sign up to the geography A-level. Upon finding out about his deception I subsequently ditched the course, and he subsequently went on to blank me for the remaining two years I was there. Which is, I think you'll agree, very mature behaviour for a teacher.

And in an equally mature fashion I delighted in greeting him at every possible turn throughout those two years with a broad grin and a full-on "WHY HELLO MR-"

I almost did it today for shits and giggles.

-----

You can't see this, thankfully, but I'm super-blushing right now (and I don't have sufficient hair to hide behind now). The reason?

Tara has nominated this 'Tim Appreciation Day!' Bless 'er cotton socks!

I don't know what I've done to have such an honour bestowed upon me, but I'm very grateful. In fact, it's the topping on what's been quite an amazing couple of days.

So, by way of thanks, I'm going to show my appreciation in the only way I know how:

Uuuuuuuuurrrr…!

Foxy friday

There's several things you expect NOT to see while chilling (literally!) with a coffee outside Starbucks.

A fox in a cage is probably one of them.


And yet there it is.

According to the RSPCA lady who was lugging it down Hammersmith Road, this poor little bugger had slipped into the basement of an office block and needed a bit of a hand to get out. He looked kinda relaxed watching the world go by, and as I wasn't the only person who was asking to take his picture I think he was enjoying the attention. Whore.

What was surprising, however, was that this was the healthiest fox I've ever seen in my life. He was a young one, healthily chubby, and with a rich, red fur coat. Which makes a change to the usual foxes you see around London - thin and vermin-ridden, or smeared across two lanes of a dual carriageway.

-----

Today hasn't all been foxes and fun, however. No, because last night I got a puncture on my car. On one hand it wasn't as bad as it could be, because I've got runflat tyres on my car so I merrily kept driving it around with a massive nail sticking out of it; on the other hand, the replacement was 160 quid. And for any overseas readers not familiar with the current exchange rate, that equates to: Ouch!

Still, have faith in the Earl 'do good things and good things will happen to you' mantra. It definitely works.

-----

Did anyone watch the new gritty teen drama Skins on E4 last night? I did. Ish. And by 'ish' I mean that I watched the first, ooo, five minutes or so. I read an interview with the show's creator the other week, and he basically said it was something along the lines of 'the anti-O.C.' Something that wasn't quite so glossy and stylised, and was a bit more "gritty."

Hmmm...

I'm coming to the realisation that british TV is a bit rubbish at "gritty," because when the Doctor Who producers announced Torchwood they assured us it would be gritty and it just meant boobs and swearing. And Skins is exactly the same - boobs and swearing (no unrealistic CGI monsters though). That, my friends, is the unimaginative way of doing things. I can swear. I can flash my man nips. It doesn't make me gritty, it just looks like something's amiss with Teddy Ruxpin.

What really turned me against Skins, though, was that however glossy and stylised The O.C. may be, at it's heart it uses characters we grow to empathise with and enjoy watching week after week. And that's where Skins fell flat on its face, because I couldn't give an effing damn about a group of cocky, horny and, quite frankly, horrifically unlikeable teenagers.

Waking to a winter wonderland

We've already ascertained that I'm not the most coherent person first thing in the morning, and today was no different. To be honest, though, I'm especially incoherent and lazy in the winter months, and this extends to not bothering to pull back the curtains first thing in the morning; I figure it's dark when I leave the house, and it's dark when I get back, so I might as well save myself the effort.

That being the case, I'm sure you'll understand how I got the shock of my life this morning when unsuspecting ol' me opened the front door to find that it had snowed during the night. And not just a little snow. A lot of snow. When I lived with Sparky Ma and Pa, mum would wake me to tell me if it had snowed, and my eyes would spring open and I'd press my cherubic little face to the window in utter disbelief. Then I'd run downstairs in my jim-jams all excited. But living alone means this doesn't happen anymore, and thus results in a bit of an early morning double take where I sort of wonder if I'm being set up by a TV show and it's all a big gag. It wasn't.

To be honest, the weather forecasters had hinted it might snow, but they always say that sort of thing and it never comes true. Well, slap my ass with a snowball - they were right.

Amd the Sparky Mobile was covered.

Excuse the poor photography, but it was dark (I photoshopped it to make it look brighter), and cold, and I'm not David Bailey.

Anyway, being in a bit of a rush, I did what any boy does in such instances, meaning I just cleared the windows and lights of snow, and then carved a snow mohawk on the roof. And off to work I drove.

The journey, truth be told, was quite lovely. Everything was delightfully crisp and picture perfect, rather like an awesome Christmas card four weeks too late. I even saw some council workers snowballing each other*, and some kids making a snowman, though truth be told they were making it on a patch of park where I've seen dog's crap so it was probably a combination snow-turd man.

And when I got stuck in traffic I wound down my window and pushed the snow off the top of my wing mirror, an act I regretted when I was cut up by an Autoglass van; if I'd had any snow left I would've made a snowball and lobbed it at him.

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Television! Teacher, mother, secret lover, as Homer Simpson once said. If TV has taught me anything (and, let's face it, we all know it's taught me lots of things), it's that if you 'do good things, then good things will happen to you.'

(Thanks My Name is Earl)

Case in point!

I wander down to Sexy Starbucks today, get in line to buy my grande misto, and some rude woman pushes in in front of me. I thought about saying something along the lines of "oi, wench - you and yer sandwich get to the back of the line," but I was in a good mood, and I was OK with letting a couple of extra seconds slide. I felt bad for the lovely barista, though, when said woman was a bit obnoxious to her, and did that really annoying thing of reaching over the till and tearing off her own receipt.

And it was as she moved off and headed out of the store and I got to the till that I noticed the wench had left her credit card in the machine...

Lovely barista followed my glance and she too noticed the card. She called out, but ding-dong, the wench was gone. Our eyes locked. "Give it here," I said in the same sort of way that Superman bids farewell to Lois when he jumps out the seaplane to go sort Lex Luthor out in Superman Returns. I took the card and, running past the long queue of customers, shot out of the shop. I just know lovely barista clutched her hands to her bosum and fluttered her eyelids.

I stormed down the road (the wench had very long legs and had traveled a surprising distance), and when I was within reach I called out "excuse me!" She turned round.

I briefly considered flinging it Odd-job stylee into her head to teach her a lesson for her rudeness, but instead settled on a Superman-esque quote with a hint of sarcasm: "You'll be needing this."

She gasped, and in a surprising move even thanked me! I gave her a wink and a little salute, before heading back to Starbucks.

And here's where we get back to the 'do good things...' bit. You see, I'd already ordered my coffee, and rather than queue up again or jump in to pay, lovely barista told me to pay later. So I grabbed my misto, sat down, iPodded up, and started writing. Five minutes later there was a tap on my shoulder. It was lovely barista. "Don't worry about paying - this one is free."

"Eh?" I replied.

"Your coffee today - it's free."

"Wha...?" I said.

By now she was probably thinking I was a bit special. Adorable and suave, but special nonetheless. She touched my mug. "This coffee?"

I nodded like a suave, adorable special.

"Is free. Today. As a thank-you for taking that lady her card."

I grinned and replied with a torrent of "thank-yous" and "are you sures?" And she was. It was free!

Do good things and good things will happen to you. Amen to that!





*Which means something entirely different if you're an afficionado of Kevin Smith films. I don't mean that!

Jitterbug

I think I've drunk too much coffee today. And I'm not talking about that crappy decaf instant stuff, I'm talking the quality s**t, know what I'm saying?

And I'm blaming all the baristas in Secret Starbucks. Which I'm seriously thinking about renaming Sexy Starbucks because there's at least a handful of lovely lady baristas in there that I'd gladly marry in an instant. Let's face it, they've already ground my beans on several occasions.

Anyway, yes, too much coffee. Why am I blaming them? Well, in addition to my regular lunchtime grande misto, they gave me a free bag of house blend, thus forcing me to go back to the office and brew up a cafetiere full. I pretty much drank the entire thing on my own, leading to a lack of concentration, and severe coffee jitters. If you could see me now you probably wouldn't be able to focus on me because I'm vibrating so much. I'm like Tweek in South Park (And you wouldn't believe the amount of typos I've put in this post, and had to go back to correct. On the plus side I've written it in about half the time it usually takes...).

-----

I've been Xboxing online quite a bit recently, and had an amazing evening of quality intermaweb Star Trek Legacy battles on Sunday. The dude I was playing against actually mailed me through Xbox Live to say that I was "really good" which is possibly the nicest thing anyone has said to me in a long time. It certainly makes up for that bitter little arseface who rated me 100% unsporting because I clipped his car when he swerved infront of me in Project Gotham Racing.

So anyway, I got that mail through and it melted my stony, stony heart for an instant. But the captain of a starship can't allow himself to show too much emotion, so I turned my ship around and blew the crap out of him again.

It's true - in space no one can hear you scream (unless you're wearing your Xbox headset).

-----

Excitement a-go-go: following T-Bird and Dora's advice last year to checkout Josh Pyke's tunes, I've only gone and gotten tickets for his London show at the tiny tiny Borderline!

Now, I'm sure it'll be a great evening - in fact, it bloomin' well better be: I even friended him on Myspace...

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Awesome big-ups to Dinah for finding the M&M character generation thingy. Here's my artistic rendering.

Notice how I've tried to make it as authentic as possible, from my super-powerful robot arms right down to the triceratops and phone box that just shout 'Londinium.' Keeping it real, people, keeping it real...

Lunch

We were supposed to have a company lunch today, but it was postponed. Which was a good thing, because I'm STILL feeling a bit rough, so I decided to wander down to Hammersmith, grab a coffee in Starbucks, and swing by Sainsburys to buy some Lemsip. The thing is, because I thought we were having a company lunch I decided to leave my iPod at home, which meant I had to walk to Hammersmith listening to the midday soundtrack of West London, and by 'soundtrack of West London' I mean police sirens, roadworks, and crazy people.

There's one resident crazy person who always stumbles towards me with her crazy person eyes, wonky teeth, and shocking afro with weird bits in asking for a cigarette (to be honest, if she explored her 'fro she'd probably find 20 Marlboro lights and a box of matches). I'd tell her I don't smoke, but I think it's something primal within her - an animal instinct. It would be like politely asking a dog not to shat on the carpet. Awesomely, however, that did not stop some woman lecturing her in the middle of the high street. The only snippet I heard coming from the dumpy middle-aged lecturee was "I know life is tough but we must all just press on!"

Press on indeed.

So I went to Sainsburys and picked up some Lemsip MAX STRENGTH and some butter to put on my bagel. Then I walked upto the till. Now, I know till monkeys aren't necessarily the most clued up people on the planet, but this one looked at me, and said in the most cheerful voice ever "alright, how are you today?"

Now, the sheer fact that I was buying MAX STRENGTH Lemsip probably should've given the game away. I felt like picking up the box, rattling it in his face, and saying "how the hell do you think I'm feeling, you donkey?"

But instead I just said "not bad." Which was unenthusiastic, and a lie - but hey, at least I didn't need to engage him in unnecessary conversation! I hate it when random shop assistants talk to you like you're their best mate. I feel like putting my hand over their mouths and saying something along the lines of "shush until I speak to you, OK?" But I never do; I just answer politely, because I was brought up proper.

(A sports hall assistant tried talking to me like we were old war buddies on Friday when I went to play Badminton. "How are you? Good? Good!" He was emo-ish as well, so he was actually giving me two good reasons to slap him. I didn't... but just wait until NEXT TIME...!)

So, all that aside, I was thinking about the missed lunch. We always go to a pub round the corner from the office - a gastro-pub, if you will. Which just means that they charge twice as much, give you half as much, and take twice as long to serve it as a regular pub. And a couple of years back a test in the Daily Mail found that their ice was contaminated with - get this - wee. They always look at me funny when we go in there and I ask for a "coke - WITH NO ICE!!!!"

All in all, it must be said that I think I was more in the mood for my wander rather than a company lunch; I enjoyed my Lemsip MAX STRENGTH more than I think I would've enjoyed a wee-tainted coke, even if it is only a placebo effect that is giving me this temporary high. And I'd probably be feeling slightly better if I'd had my iPod, because quite frankly at the moment I think it's only coffee and Panic! At the Disco that's keeping me going...

A-Z of life (but not as we know it)

I was thinking I'd not posted for a while, due mainly to lack of inspiration, then Inexplicable Device tags me and suddenly I've got something to write about!

So, here you are - it's all about me!

A - available/single? Available - for weddings, christenings, and bar mitzvahs. Call me!

B - best friend? Too many to choose from, and I could never pick just one. They each have their different uses, you see - a bit like the Justice League.

C - Cookie, fave cookie? Starbucks chocolate chunk. Awesome, and reasonably priced too! Other than that, some sort of oaty thing.

D - drink of choice? Depends on the time of day! Earl Grey first thing, Starbucks' coffee at lunchtime... Loving Sainsburys' cranberry and raspberry juice too.

E - essential item you use everyday? Um, my car, my computer... clothes? Ooo-ooo-ooo - my iPod - must have music!!

F - favourite colour? Red, mostly. But I like black, too. Not in a goth way, though. I just like it for its versatility.

G - gummi bears or worms? I hate all gelatinous sweets. Basically, if I wanted something of that consistancy I'd eat my bogeys. They're free!

H - hometown? Bedfont in Middlesex. It's right by the airport don't ya know! oh, hang on - I don't live there anymore. Does that count?

I - indulgence? Books. I luuuuurve books. Must have books.

J - January or February? Um, February, probably? It's short. January just seems like the tail end of Christmas... the looming finality of having to go back to work...

K - kids & their names? Well, I don't have any, and I'm not going to name imaginary ones just for the hell of it.

L - life is incomplete without? Friends, family, good times. And Xbox 360. Star Trek...

M - marriage date? I'm not married, and I'm sure any potential date would need to be discussed with the imaginary future Mrs Sparky before I named it. I would also take the same opportunity to ask the fictional missus about our fictional children's names too!

N - number of siblings? Uno - Simon!

O - orange or apple? Terry's Chocolate Orange.

P - phobias/fears? Strangely, flying. Not in a Superman fashion, I should add, but in a plane-way.

Q - favourite quote? Something from Star Trek. Probably THIS. I also like Shatner's "FIRE!" from the end of Star Trek VI.

R - reason to smile? It gives your face something to do.

S - season? Season Four of Star Trek: Enterprise was awesome, and then they went and axed it anywa- Oh. Um... Used to be a winter person, no veering towards summer. Autumn and spring just make me confused about what I should be wearing...

T - tag 4 to 5 People? IDV did 'em all! How's about Skillz...? Tara? Anyone, in fact!

U - unknown fact about me? I don't know... I yabber on so much I don't think there's anything left to say...

V - vegetable you don't like? Pretty much all of them. Except the potato. I likes potatoes!

W - worst habit? Biting the inside of my mouth. Alot.

X - X-ray you've had? Ooo - I had this huge barium scan when I was about 10 'cos they thought one of my kidneys had shut down. They injected me with some sort of radiation, and I had to lie still for about 30 minutes. I thought I'd turn into the Incredible Hulk after. Strangely, never ... got the ... results ... EEK! KIDNEY ... SHUTTING ... DOWN ... GAK!

Y - your favourite food? Um... My Mum cooks the best chips EVAH.

Z - zodiac sign? Sc-sc-sc-scorpio!

That's all folks!

A mighty wind blew

And it wasn't because everyone had beans for dinner, either.

Good grief! The weather over the last couple of days has been insane!! Yesterday I actually got completely drenched walking from my car to the office, which as you probably didn't know unless you stalk me each morning isn't really that far; I looked like I was about to take part in a wet t-shirt competition and had doused my trousers just for the hell of it.

And then today it's been four-million mile per hour winds. Seriously, I walked down to Starbucks at lunchtime and felt like I was being aerodynamically-tested in a wind tunnel (official scientific data reveals I'm 'lithe'). That said, it was quite funny sitting in Starbucks watching people go flying down the road while I drank coffee and laughed at them; one woman saw me laugh at her, but I was totally like shrugging at her, as if to say 'what are you going to do about it?' Anyway, if the situation had been reversed I just know she would've been giggling into her decaf soy latte with a shot of hazelnut as I was blown past the window.

There have only been two really annoying things from my point of view - firstly, it's been playing havoc with my hair (the wind, not laughing at pedestrians, I should say), which has led me to the realization that it really needs a cut. I'm not too sure in what stylistic direction to go, but I'm erring towards the old school (skool?) short 'n ruffled look. Whatever I decide I need to act quick, because I've just hit that length where I get the sort of flick-ups that are only sported by four year-olds and mentalists and seem to be resistant to whatever product I slap on. (Stylistic suggestions gratefully received)

The second annoyance is that the office door seems to be sticking open about yay much (and by yay much I mean about 10 centimeters). This is annoying because the breeze gets in and I get chilly legs - which was particularly distressing yesterday when I had wet trousers. Unfortunately, no one else seems to have noticed, leaving me having to get up every few minutes to shut it. At one point I even combined my latest musical obsession for Panic! At the Disco with an attempt to make others aware by singing "haven't you people ever heard of closing the god-damn door?" but this failed on several counts, most noticeably that the song coming on the radio didn't necessarily coincide with the door being opened, and when it did everyone just came to the conclusion that I was simply a jolly little fellow singing along to the radio in the corner.

My final attempt to raise awareness for my plight came in the form of a politely-worded email, but again no one seems to be paying much attention, possibly, I fear, because in my haste to tap it out I misspelt 'draught' as 'draft.'

Hopes and dreams

I'm so excited. *So excited*. So excited, in fact, that I might just let a little bit of wee out.

...

...

OK, maybe not that excited.

So why am I excited, you might ask? I'll tell you why: because I've just got back from a summit meeting with comics pal Graham about our future artistic direction. Ohmygod! So many ideas! So much potential! Are you excited yet?!

First of all, we spoke about Grenwald the Great, which if it really was that good you'll recall that I posted the prologue here a short while back. We discussed its creative direction, plot points, characters, and all that jazz; did you know that I've always wanted to write a science-fiction story set on a planet called Chlamydia IV? Well that dream is going to be realised, my friends!

Graham showed me some of the concept art he's done for Grenwald, and he's nailed the look and feel of Grenwald as a dapper vintage action-adventurer in one! I seriously meant to take a photo of it, but was so giddy I completely forgot. His work always looks great, but I really think he's moved his style forward a bit. I hope my writing is equal to the task of Graham's stunning art.

Next up we talked about my February book project, for which I want some detailed little black 'n white illustrations done once I finish the story. The more I talk about the idea, and write up specific scenes at lunchtimes, the more excited and eager to begin I get. And I think I've got a title; I've recently taken to calling it by the name of the fictional town it's set in, but now I think I'm just going to call it what it is - Picture Novella.

Oh, and Graham also threw some thumbnail sketches my way and asked if I could come up with a story to go around it. Can I? Hell yeah! In fact, I began writing a rather epic script for a graphic novel based on, of all things, David Bowie songs a couple of years back, but abandoned it because I thought it was turning into a bit of a monster, and it'd probably be nigh on impossible to get the rights to it. But here I figure I can strip out one of the storylines and mould it into something new...

So all in all, exciting times for two fledgling comics creators...!

-----

Perhaps the only downside to going up town to meet Graham was the fact that I had to walk down Oxford Street during rush hour. I lost count of the amount of times I felt compelled to wave my arms around like a maniac in an effort to get stupid pedestrians out of my way.

And, goddamn, those frikkin' free newspaper vendors!! Geez, the amount of London Lites and TheLondonPapers I was offered tonight was off the scale - if I'd've taken one every time one was offered I would've been weighed down in seconds! The vendors are like damn parasites! At first I kept giving them the ol' Obi Wan style "these are not the droids you're looking for..." thing, but like the Borg they seemed to adapt to that and were soon immune. I almost resorted to taking a paper and whacking said vendor over the head with it until he collapsed to the floor and adopted the foetus position while screaming like a baby.

Next time, my friends, next time...

Waking up is hard to do

Let's get this straight: I don't like getting up in the morning. I can do it, but I don't like it. And during the week is especially difficult because I can work flexi-time, so the earlier I get in the earlier I can leave. Good eh? You'd think so!

What that does mean, though, is that I generally try to get up at about 6:30 every morning, so I'm in work by about eight, maybe a tad before, and can leave around four in the afternoon, thus giving me a nice long evening in which to do my thaaaang. The thing is, there's something in my brain, some devious litte bugger of a neuron, that tries to disrupt my well-planned, er, plans.

Initially this meant that like millions of others around the world I'd be woken up by my alarm clock, hit snooze, and have another five minutes or so. But over the years this has ... mutated, I think you could say, to the point where I've developed the amazing ability to actually turn off my alarm clock in my sleep. How the hell do I do that? I don't know!

So now I've resorted to putting the alarm clock out of arm's reach, so when it goes off I've actually got to get out of bed in order to turn it off (all the while stifling yawns and resisting the opportunity to then clamber back into bed for "another five minutes," because you know it's the most tempting thing to do on a cold morning).

Mind you, don't think that's solved all the problems - no word of a lie, I woke up one morning with my feet in bed, and the rest of my body supported on one arm while the other was clutching the alarm clock. You'd think I was doing one armed press-ups in my sleep, which would've been impressive because I can't do them when I'm awake.

To combat this I've since resorted to also setting the alarm on my phone, bacause I'd be really impressed if I could turn two clocks off at the same time while asleep, and in the process master the no-armed press-up - or levitation as it's also known.

Wouldn't that be funny?

Yes, funny. So laugh this up.

I woke up this morning sitting upright on the edge of the bed with vague knowledge that I was holding the alarm clock in my left hand. And as my eyes fluttered open and I yawned adorably like a little new-born kitten, I involuntarily threw it against the bed frame, which is wooden. And then I reached over, picked up my phone that was by now beeping like a heart-rate monitor, and promptly dropped that on the floor.

On the plus side, whacking the clock against the bed did shake me fully conscious, and made me think "bugger - I bet I've broken it," which was quite an effective way of waking myself properly (though not particularly cost effective on a day-to-day basis). And dropping the phone made me think "bugger - I bet I've broken that too."

Still, no harm done - they both still work. There's always tomorrow, I suppose...

(Personally, I'm blaming my new GOSA BLINKAS - sorry, pillows - they're so damn comfortable that they don't particularly encourage early rising!)

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Favourite sight while out running last night - a car with a number plate on which the first four figures were KN06.

It looked like it said 'knob!'