Sunday, July 18, 2010

I'm Moving (blog) House...

As of 18th July 2010, I have moved this blog to - thanks for visiting and putting up with the ranting and drivel (there'll be more to come, I have no doubt...!)

The more direct address of (and, of course, the "www." version for all those that feel you HAVE to do that) will repoint v shortly (in fact, I'm working on it right this very minute... well, ok not RIGHT now ... jesus, give a guy a break...!)


Wednesday, July 7, 2010

The Groom's Speech

This is my friend's speech he made as Groom:

My gorgeous bride and I, would like to thank you all for coming
To watch our vows, to sing the hymns, which I’m sure most of us were humming.

To see us both declare our love, at this our wedding mass
And witness lucky Englishman wed lovely Irish lass.

Pearls sister Grace and my friend Chris, brought Pearl and I together
Through a camping trip, a tent shortage, red wine and some cold weather.

We’re both grateful for their match-making, it’s as though they had it planned
They say, they knew we both loved ‘Beatles’, not the insects, but the band

So to Chris and Grace we’d like to say, you were both in the know
When you invited us to pup our tents with you 6 years ago.

And now I’d like to say a big thank you, to Maureen, Pearls mum
For giving away her daughter, and making me a son

I promise to look after Pearl, to honour and obey
Pearl told me to write that last bit so it’s started straight away.

Our thanks go out to Kevin, for being my best man
It’s so hard to plan a wedding when you’re living in San Fran

So we thank him for his sterling work and everything he’s done
And remind him for his best man speech, that I can legally buy a gun.

Thank you to the bridesmaids Federica, Rachel, Grace
For dolling up so beautifully and keeping train in place

Our thanks to my dad and Maureen, and all the family that are here
To make this day so special and to share our wedding cheer (that should say beer)

We thank our friends for coming, but my biggest thanks must be
To my gorgeous bride, my lovely Pearl who agreed to marry me.

I looked up the word ‘wedding’, in a dictionary, it said
“Removal of small unwanted plants, from lawns and flower beds”

But I think that it’s much more than that, it’s about the love we share
And the friends that came to witness it and show us that they care

As an atheist I don’t believe in purgatory or heaven
But as I proposed in Sidmouth, this is a marriage made in Devon

I Dreamed a Dream

I dreamed a dream. A solid, hearty dream
I’m sure
A stout yet languid dream, this dream
Of mine
With purpose and passion I shook
The bed in which I lay
In glorious mind

Monday, July 5, 2010

Dreaming at 4:30

I feel your kiss still,
Lingering on my lips,
As though they were touched by a ghost.
Faint reminder
Of the time we have spent
So recently.
It seems to me a dream,
This physical reminiscence,
Like sweet, morphemic torture
Which agonisingly disappears
Upon waking.
Is there something other than time
Which will return your lips to mine?
Let tomorrow come now,
For I think that I shall not survive
Another moment without your soft, crushing embrace.

Swindon - a Beacon of Civic Pride

This is for the swindonians, you'll all be able to understand this!!!

Ah...Swindon. With a population blended, like a cheap whisky, from the genes of navvies, railway workers and the dross London didn't want, you'd expect a bit of chav to creep in here and there - and you won't be disappointed. Chavs have always been here, although we tend to call them pikeys (nothing to do with gypsies, it's a local thing).

Now there's one simple rule in Swindon; pikey begins with a "P", and so do the places where they live. Park North, Park South, Pinehurst and Penhill. What an ingenious piece of subersive town planning. Unfortunately they're not content to stay in their ghettos full-time so the town centre is full of the critters in their white baseball caps with their 14-year old partners and their horrible little offspring. At night the bottom end of town (around the what used to be the Litten Tree) is like a war zone and a red light district rolled into one, with gangs of chavs fighting and barely-dressed underage girls looking for their next shag. You can thank the council for allowing 20 bars in 50 yards of street frontage.

Mobile chavs head for Greenbridge, where there is a drive-thru McD's and a kebab van. Under-car neon, blue washer jets and drum 'n' bass are the order of the day as the chavs live out their "Fast and the Furious" fantasies in a 1.1 Saxo. Suburban chav pubs include the truly horrible "merlin" and "messenger" (lower case obligatory) which have both carried 3 different names in the last 5 years and have been rough as a buzzard's crutch in each of these successive incarnations.

Oddly, you will see a lot of twentysomething chavs driving quite decent cars, because the giant Honda factory sucks up a lot of semi-literate Swindonians who might otherwise be unemployable. They can lease a new Honda for about £99 a month and - joy of joys - they're not allowed to modify it into some Max Power nightmare. They still wear a white frickin' baseball cap every time they drive it though.
And remember Swindon Tiffany is not just for social services cheques....she's for life!

Tuesday, June 29, 2010

My Best Man's Speech

This is the Best Man speech I made the other weekend at my friends' wedding in Whitby:

1978 was a year much like any other year – loaded with all the usual: music, art, fear, death & destruction, ignominy, love and compassion.

In terms of disasters, it was the year of the Amoco Cadiz, Harvey Milk’s murder, the Jonestown massacre, and the same year that Charlie Chaplin’s remains were stolen and Different Strokes first aired on TV.

However, on a more positive note, it was the year of the first computer Bulletin Board system, the year artificial insulin was invented, the birth of the first test tube baby, and the year in which 40 years of military dictatorship ended in Spain.  It was the same year that Charlie Chaplin’s remains were recovered and The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy was first broadcast on Radio 4.

And of course who could forget the genius of the thrilling debut solo albums from Chaka Khan and Gene Simmons..?

So in September of 1978, during my first week in “big school” I was approached by a lanky eleven-year old in the school playground.  I must have looked how I felt – lost, alone, and wondering why my world had been turned upside down, and why (not for the last time) I was being made to wear a tie, when Robin sauntered up and asked me if I wanted to see a magic trick.  Well, before I could say “stranger danger” or “I want my mummy”, he pulled a little green plastic cup out of his pocket and showed me this incredibly banal but utterly mesmerising Disappearing Ball trick.  My life has never been the same since.  And here we are, 32 years later...

It turns out that before we met, Robin and I lived in Germany at the same time, with both of us being military brats, so he said I qualified to join his international gang.  He gave me my code name, tried to make me memorise some indecipherable secret code-book, and we set about designing what every international child spy gang needs - a potato-firing bazooka.  Fortunately, we never got round to building it.  It would have been very cool, though!

When Robin first asked me if I was into the Beatles, I thought one of the entomology geeks had escaped from the biology department.  But, as it turns out, he was talking about the greatest band in the world, who I of course had never heard of at that time.  So he made me a tape to listen to, and I came back to school singing Doctor Robert – and it’s still my favourite Beatles song to this day.

Throughout our time together at school, we played our guitars, dreamed about being in a band, and learned about chord progressions and Computers instead of girls.  I skived lessons just once, but only went as far as the music rooms, and when it came to our Work Experience week, we were the only two from our year left at school (despite still wanting to be a pilot, the Careers Advisor determined I was supposed to be a tree surgeon), so we dug the school pond and played Flight Simulator on the ZX-81 - all week long.  Ah, halcyon days!

Later, Robin developed what I can only describe as a weird fetish for wearing a long old RAF greatcoat.  I don’t know where it came from, only that he never left home without it – from the depths of winter to the midst of summer, they were never separated.  He even wore it to a fancy dress party.  But he didn’t go as an RAF serviceman, oh no – he found half a dozen dolls and tied them together in a long line and went as a white slave trader.  He was a strange young man.  But then, to keep the perspective, you should maybe ask me later what our friend Jamie Cooper was wearing under his tutu – it was enough to make a nun faint...  The only time the coat really came into its own was at a Halloween gig – he threw some white powder on his face and played as a dead airman (except that he had a beard by this time, and the powder only made him look more dusty than dead).

His mad guitar skills come from a classical background, but he has been known to rock out now and then.  At a farewell party we played, he’d had maybe one bottle of Newcastle Brown Ale too many, and started leaping off his amplifier like Pete Townsend.  Everybody loved it until the morning after when he complained that we’d all put our muddy feet all over his new amplifier.

Music has been the centrepiece for our friendship; so much so that we once rented a small recording studio in the cellar of a hairdressers I think it was.  We’d spend as much time in there as we could – mostly eating Mars Bar ice creams, avoiding sunlight, and occasionally producing some music.

In looking back over our years as friends, I unwittingly sent myself on a small journey of reflection.  The 32 years I mentioned have passed in what feels like so short a time, but I count myself lucky that I’ve been able to not just witness my friends growing up, but to have so often been a part of it.

I must confess, though, when Robin asked me to be his best man, I found myself asking “why” - I mean, at best, I figure I’m more “least worst”, as opposed to “Best”, material and for a long time I was dreading this.  But I had a moment last week where I suddenly realised...  Robin and I have been friends for a long time.  Of course, we’ve argued and we’ve fallen out – though we only ever fell out over a girl (which was down to my petulance as I recall) and we only ever disagreed about band names, set lists, and what key Robin was going to make me sing “Rawhide” in.  But here’s a thing – when my mum died he came to the house.  Everyone else followed the instructions and went straight to the crematorium, but when it came to my longest and dearest friends (which I can count on one hand), each one of them came to the house to help me when I really needed it.  Friends account for one another and stand up when they’re needed, and so that’s why I’m here today – because a friend asked me.  That, and the fact that Pearl paid me to get him to the altar!

Oh Pearl – are you sure that was a wise investment?  A green card is one thing, but you do realise he comes with it?

Perhaps a word or two about what you’ve just done...
Man is a social creature – and with little exception we’re driven to group together, with perhaps the perfect group being that of two.  In that most perfect of groups, then, we find those things we need the most – friendship, compassion, understanding, and the idea that we’re no longer burdened with singular responsibility.  These are things that make a relationship work.  They don’t come cheap – we have to learn to forgive when some of these things go missing, and then work at encouraging their return.

The love of my life is sat only a little way off, and Sarah provides all of these things for me and more.  I try to do the same, and over time I’ve learned to appreciate her style of ...  “encouragement”.  Haven’t I? ...  Haven’t I?  Oh dear – must try harder!
If each of you gives as much as you receive, then I think you’ll be just fine.

As is so often the case, there are some folks who weren’t able to join us today – either due to other commitments, the distance involved for them, or because they’re sadly no longer with us.  Today is a day for celebration, not sadness, but I ask that you spare a kind thought for all our absent friends.

I’d like to end with a poem by Ogden Nash, who though New York born, appears to have had the wisdom of a Yorkshire sage:

To keep your marriage brimming,
With love in the wedding cup,
Whenever you're wrong, admit it;
Whenever you're right, shut up.

Well, if I thought my throat was dry when I stood up, it’s even drier now, so I think the best remedy is to drink a toast so that I can sit down and follow Mr Nash’s last piece of advice.

Robin, Pearl – may the road rise to meet you, and may the wind be always at your back.  Ladies and gentlemen, will you please charge your glasses, and stand and join me for a toast?

The toast is: The bride and groom.

They live in San Francisco, and as the groom pointed out, are legally able to buy a gun. The fact that I'm still alive has to say something... right?

Wednesday, March 31, 2010

Delroy Smellie has the twatiest name

I believe the caption in this image expresses how I feel about the decision in the case of Delroy Smellie (and, for the record - what a twat of a name!)... (btw, other headlines surrounding this case include a particular favourite of mine: "Officer Mistook Carton for Weapon" ... WTF!?)

Monday, March 8, 2010

Happy Birthday to ME – ME, ME, ME!!!

A couple of years ago, Paspartout claimed what she termed a "birthday week", and that I had to be "nice" to her all week. Well, I had a birthday last week (no, you don't get the number – that's not important right now), so I thought I'd play the same game and require that she be nice to me for a full seven days – in a row – as it was MY "birthday week". So...

The week started fairly uneventfully – I'd just come back from a week's snowboarding in the Haute Savoie with my good friend Bob, so all good there – and so I simply relaxed (and checked/packed my kit) for what remained of the weekend and Monday. I'm between contracts at the moment, so I try to make sure that the chores get done during the day, but my father came over to see me on Tuesday, which was great as we hadn't really spoken for nearly a fortnight so a nice long natter was a tad overdue. It looked like the chores were going to take a back seat for quite a while...

Then Wednesday (my big day, so to speak) came around – a chocolate cake with candles for my super-healthy breakfast started my morning, and got me all sugar-rushed up (yo!). Should I do the chores? Na – let's go out and play, we're off to my favourite local Chinese place for dinner later!

Thursday we had a power cut – NOOOOO! – I had to go out to the coffee shop to get my internet fix, which meant me being all caffeined up for the rest of the day (which was just as well, as I ended up going out to a friend's leaving work do – out at 5:30, home at 02:30 – oops!

Friday – big lights, bright city (or something like that!). Paspartout's treat for me was beginning to take shape: we booked into the Park Lane Hotel at 3pm (I'll say that again: the Park Lane Hotel), and later trundled out into the town. Paspartout was dragging me hither and thither through the streets, whilst I was saying things like: "er, how about a drink in here - here looks good?", all the while thinking: this is shit, I'd quite to relax for my birthday treat, but for now I'd just settle for slowing the fuck down ... a bit. We pulled up to a pub (screeched to a halt, more like), with Paspartout saying "this will do". OK, in for a beer – w00t! I walked up to the bar, peering to see what they had on tap, and of course didn't realise that I'd stood immediately next to my brother! I wandered along the bar at for a better look, turned to my left to ask Paspartout what she wanted to drink, and looked up at this bloke who looked just like my ... WAIT – that's my brother! DUUUUUDE! I thought he and Paspartout where going to ruin their underwear, they were laughing so much! Bastards! A couple of beers and off to the Diner on Ganton Streeet – good food, good music, terrific waitress (Carly?), great times.

Saturday was a shopping day, but in the evening I was instructed to don a suit, and follow Paspartout through the streets of Mayfair. Along Park street, I suddenly thought "please let it be Locanda Locatelli again, pleeeease!" (well, it was dinner time, and I was hungry!). I was faithfully following as we turned onto Upper Brook Street, when – whoosh – a quick turn up some steps, and I was faced with ... Le Gavroche ... I'll say that once again: Le Gavroche. Beyond here, my mind turns to jelly, as I'm lost in the memory. The joy is too overwhelming to explain fully – I might manage it in 2015.

THEN, as if all that wasn't enough, we topped the weekend out with a trip to Bristol to see Stephen Lynch in concert. Funny, talented, irreverent (and on such an angelic face!).

I love you, Paspartout...

Friday, February 19, 2010

Orange - epic FAIL

So, I've just bought an iPhone - yes, I succumbed (ignoring Flava Flave) and believed the hype. Sorry ... I love it. Despite the following tale of woe...

I decided to transfer to Orange from my current provider, and what a bunch of wasters they turned out to be! Firstly, when the phone arrived, it lasted approximately 5 hours before the screen went mental on me. I spent the rest of the evening trying to get the solution via the internet (resets no good - it has to be replaced). I resolved to go into the Orange shop and get a replacement the following morning, but when I asked for a replacement, they said I had to do it over the internet (or phone), as I hadn't signed up and received the phone from a shop (something to do with different business stock, or some such bollocks), but over the internet. I'm still seething when I think about the entire debacle, so I'll cut the story short(er). Including three 'members' of shop staff, I spoke to nine people in order to try and circumvent the "we'll send you an envelope, you send us your phone, and when we get it back we'll send you a new one" train wreck that their so-called customer service had become. I told each person I spoke to of my dissatisfaction, my ability to cancel and walk away, and my general rising bile, in the hope that someone would just 'own' the situation and make the magic happen for me. Instead, I got passed from pillar to post, and forced to listen to Florence and and the Machine (it turns out that I too sometimes feel like throwing my hands up in the air).

At this point, I excercised my right to terminate (bear in mind that I was a BRAND NEW customer - time was that losing a new customer, aka lost sale, was a big deal), which involved calling a new number and introducing myself to telephone person number 7 (total of 10). This last chap was actually contrite and apologised for me having to deal with morons and spending 40 minutes in their shop listening to hold music and inanities. OK, so I dressed up his apology a tad, but at least it WAS one - the only one I got. After my short-lived life as an Orange subscriber, I walked back over the road to my previous (and still current, as it turns out) provider, who quite frankly I should never have left, and got an iPhone, had it set up, and left the shop in 10 minutes.

The irony is that I still have the original iPhone, as the Orange shop couldn't take it back - I have to wait for the return envelope to arrive in the post so that I can post it back to them.

Orange - epic FAIL...!

Monday, February 15, 2010

Feelings - Spike Milligan

There must be a wound!
No one can be this hurt
and not bleed.

How could she injure me so?
No marks
No bruise

People say 'My, you're looking well'
.....God help me!
She's mummified me -

Thursday, January 14, 2010

Where do you think YOU'RE going, hmmm? I knew it. The cupboard. You and your cupboard.

This is one of the funniest things I've read for a long time: SleepTalkinMan

This guy talks in his sleep - totally random weird shit - and his wife records it, and puts it on a blog. Joyous. It makes me want a t-shirt.

Red Friday

I don’t know who the “I” is in the story below but agree with the sentiment

The Story Begins
Last week I was in West London attending a conference.  While I was in the airport, returning home, I heard several people behind me beginning to clap and cheer.  I immediately turned around and witnessed one of the greatest acts of patriotism I have ever seen.
Moving through the terminal was a group of soldiers in their uniforms, as they began heading to their gate everyone (well almost everyone) was abruptly to their feet with their hands waving and cheering.  When I saw the soldiers, probably 30-40 of them, being applauded and cheered for, it hit me. I'm not alone. I'm not the only red blooded Briton who still loves this country and supports our troops and their families. Of course I immediately stopped and began clapping for these young unsung heroes who are putting their lives on the line everyday for us so we can go to school, work, and enjoy our home without fear of reprisal.
Just when I thought I could not be more proud of my country or of our service men and women a young girl, not more than 6 or 7 years old, ran up to one of the male soldiers.  He knelt down and said 'hi,' the little girl then asked him if he would give something to her daddy for her.  The young soldier didn't look any older than maybe 22 himself, said he would try and what did she want to give to her daddy.  Suddenly the little girl grabbed the neck of this soldier, gave him the biggest hug she could muster and then kissed him on the cheek.
The mother of the little girl, who said her daughter’s name was Courtney, told the young soldier that her husband was a Corporal and had been in Afghanistan for 5 months now.  As the mum was explaining how much her daughter, Courtney, missed her father, the young soldier began to tear up.
When this temporarily single mum was done explaining her situation, all of the soldiers huddled together for a brief second.  Then one of the other servicemen pulled out a military looking walkie-talkie.  They started playing with the device and talking back and forth on it.  After about 10-15 seconds of this, the young soldier walked back over to Courtney, bent down and said this to her, 'I spoke to your daddy and he told me to give this to you.'  He then hugged this little girl that he had just met and gave her a kiss on the cheek.  He finished by saying 'Your daddy told me to tell you that he loves you more than anything and he is coming home very soon.'  The mum at this point was crying almost uncontrollably and as the young soldier stood to his feet he saluted Courtney and her mum.
I was standing no more than 6 feet away as this entire event unfolded.
As the soldiers began to leave, heading towards their gate, people resumed their applause.  As I stood there applauding and looked around, there were very few dry eyes, including my own. That young soldier in one last act of moment turned around and blew a kiss to Courtney with a tear rolling down his cheek. We need to remember everyday all of our soldiers and their families and thank God for them and their sacrifices. At the end of the day, it's good to be an Englishman (British).
Very soon, you will see a great many people wearing Red every Friday. The reason?
British men and women who support our troops used to be called the 'silent majority'.  We are no longer silent, and are voicing our love for Country and home in record breaking numbers.  We are not organized, boisterous or over-bearing.  We get no liberal media coverage on TV, to reflect our message or our opinions. Many British people, like you, me and all our friends, simply want to recognize that the vast majority of Britain supports our troops.  Our idea of showing solidarity and support for our troops with dignity and respect starts this Friday and continues each and every Friday until the troops all come home, sending a deafening message that every Briton who supports our men and women afar will wear something red.  By word of mouth, press, TV, let's make Great Britain on every Friday a sea of red much like a homecoming football team
If every one of us who loves this country will share this with acquaintances, co-workers, friends, and family, It will not be long before Britain is covered in RED and it will let our troops know the once 'silent' majority is on their side more than ever, certainly more than the media lets on.  The first thing a soldier says when asked 'What can we do to make things better for you?' is...'We need your support and your prayers'...  Let's get the word out and lead with class and dignity, by example; and wear something red every Friday.
If you agree -- then send this on.  If you don’t then hit the delete button.  It's your choice.  Their blood runs red----
Lest we Forget.

Wednesday, January 6, 2010

All is Jam on the Jihadi Front

Cool – looks like I got my Jam, and the Dexter DVD got its freedom (all together now: "Freee-dumm!"). Well, I say "got", but I haven't actually posted anything (I mean the terrorists haven't ACTUALLY released anyone/thing), and it's not the jam that was demanded that's being shipped out. Still, it looks like "the chef" will finally have his Serial Killer as Good Guy viewing urges sated. Though I'm not sure the same will be said of Paspartout with her near-narcotic jam dependency.

Ah well – what is it they say about the taking of part? Oh yeah – IT SUCKS TO NOT WIN !! I remember…