Housemates, now most of you have achieved ‘Sociable Kitchening’ Level 2; Washing up after your sorry arsed self.
I would like to suggest aiming for Level 3; Putting the bastard stuff away.
Not knowing where it goes is no excuse because you knew where it lived to get it out!
Neither is ‘draining’, once the stuff is actually dry.
Also, is it only me who finds it unacceptable to put things away wet?
It takes lazy to a new height and skanky into the stratosphere.
My friend from yesterday visited again today.
Her son wrote back to her with his phone number and she contacted him!
It went really well for a first ever phone call.
They arranged to meet a week Saturday.
A while later he phoned back saying he was too excited to wait and they are going to meet this week instead.
As she was telling me, I got goosebumps and all the hairs on my arms stood up.
It was so amazing having her share this.
I think I could actually feel the joy coming off her.
A nice feeling.
This has repeated on me all day long!
Then while I was in the garden, I overheard from builders next door;
A…. I feel sorry for you mate
B…. Why? Because I have to work for that cunt in there?
A…. Umm. No. Because you just stood in cat shit!
B…. OH! For Fuck’s sake!
A…. Hahahahahahahaha!
A smiley day!
Thursday, March 27, 2008
How Rage Begins
Being the "techno 'tard" that I am, what to others are simple tasks, to me are pure Hell.
I'll keep it as simple as I can (For my benefit)
Apple has Bluetooth.
Phone has Bluetooth.
I want to Bluetooth stuff to the apple.
Have attempted connection.
Boxes pop up about authorising.
I authorise.
Fuck all happens.
No bluetoothing occurs.
I try 4 or 5 times.
Nothing happens.
Short fuse ignited.
Constant banging, scraping and building work next door.
Still no bluetoothing.
Short fuse nearing crisis point.
Banging so loud and hard, stuff is moving in my house.
Sawing. Sawing. Sawing. Sawing.
Remember those kids spinning tops you got going by pushing a handle in and out of the top?
That is what the ball of molten anger was doing in the pit of my stomach.
Pointless anger management strategies are as follows…
Take deep breaths….. No. Makes top spin faster.
Counting…. No. makes me count hammer blows. Makes top spin faster.
Remove self from situation… No. Can be heard everywhere in the house. Makes top spin faster.
Relaxing starting at the feet… No. Floor is vibrating with blows, causing me to count… Makes top spin faster.
No relief.
I calmed down when a friend arrived and told me her fantastic news.
The child she gave up for adoption in 1972 is looking for her.
She was so delighted and happy that the anger went!
So did the builders.
A smoke and huge mug of tea helped as well.
I'll keep it as simple as I can (For my benefit)
Apple has Bluetooth.
Phone has Bluetooth.
I want to Bluetooth stuff to the apple.
Have attempted connection.
Boxes pop up about authorising.
I authorise.
Fuck all happens.
No bluetoothing occurs.
I try 4 or 5 times.
Nothing happens.
Short fuse ignited.
Constant banging, scraping and building work next door.
Still no bluetoothing.
Short fuse nearing crisis point.
Banging so loud and hard, stuff is moving in my house.
Sawing. Sawing. Sawing. Sawing.
Remember those kids spinning tops you got going by pushing a handle in and out of the top?
That is what the ball of molten anger was doing in the pit of my stomach.
Pointless anger management strategies are as follows…
Take deep breaths….. No. Makes top spin faster.
Counting…. No. makes me count hammer blows. Makes top spin faster.
Remove self from situation… No. Can be heard everywhere in the house. Makes top spin faster.
Relaxing starting at the feet… No. Floor is vibrating with blows, causing me to count… Makes top spin faster.
No relief.
I calmed down when a friend arrived and told me her fantastic news.
The child she gave up for adoption in 1972 is looking for her.
She was so delighted and happy that the anger went!
So did the builders.
A smoke and huge mug of tea helped as well.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Positive, Negative And Eeeeesh
At last something positive has come from belonging to Genes Reunited.
I discovered that the person my Grandfather called his ‘Step-sister’ was his ‘Half-sister’, they shared the same father.
She is still alive and living in Cambridge.
Tuesday I met her daughter.
She is just as interested in discovering the family story as me.
I did catch myself staring at her, looking for familiarities in her face and I’m sure she did the same.
I now have a copy of my Great grandfather’s birth certificate and, at last, can confirm he was born in Cork.
The other breakthrough is I now have my Great Great Grandparent’s names.
The irony of this won’t be lost on all of you.
My Great Grandfather was an Inspector of Schools and his Father was a Chemist!
I was on the point of giving up but the search is now back on.
I got an email this evening that involved changing a letter in a word and punting it on.
Feeling a little bit wicked I made sure I sent it to all the dyslexics I know!
I hate those ‘chain letter’ email things; they should bollocks it right up!
Then my Big little brother infected me with some kind of MSN spyware.
It trawled my address book and got up to mischief.
See, instant karma, for letting the dyslexics loose on the internet scrabble thing.
This is a cracker..
The story aside, check out the picture.
What are they doing to the eyes?
Isn’t the whole point of what she’s wearing that we don’t see her?
Even if it were an actual photo of the woman, you’d have to have some sort of fucking Autism to recognise and identify an individual woman from Bangladesh.
I discovered that the person my Grandfather called his ‘Step-sister’ was his ‘Half-sister’, they shared the same father.
She is still alive and living in Cambridge.
Tuesday I met her daughter.
She is just as interested in discovering the family story as me.
I did catch myself staring at her, looking for familiarities in her face and I’m sure she did the same.
I now have a copy of my Great grandfather’s birth certificate and, at last, can confirm he was born in Cork.
The other breakthrough is I now have my Great Great Grandparent’s names.
The irony of this won’t be lost on all of you.
My Great Grandfather was an Inspector of Schools and his Father was a Chemist!
I was on the point of giving up but the search is now back on.
I got an email this evening that involved changing a letter in a word and punting it on.
Feeling a little bit wicked I made sure I sent it to all the dyslexics I know!
I hate those ‘chain letter’ email things; they should bollocks it right up!
Then my Big little brother infected me with some kind of MSN spyware.
It trawled my address book and got up to mischief.
See, instant karma, for letting the dyslexics loose on the internet scrabble thing.
This is a cracker..
The story aside, check out the picture.
What are they doing to the eyes?
Isn’t the whole point of what she’s wearing that we don’t see her?
Even if it were an actual photo of the woman, you’d have to have some sort of fucking Autism to recognise and identify an individual woman from Bangladesh.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Shells And Palms
My beachcombing and shell collecting has thrown up an awkward problem.Combined with some good weed, a serious touch of OCD, the photo is the frightening result.
Cannabis doesn’t lead to heroin; it leads to fucking ‘Handycrafts’!
Now for the problems.
1.. How do I get it to stay together?
2.. What the hell can I mount it on?
And most importantly,
3.. How the fuck do I get it off the living room floor?
Come on, you are bright people, HELP!
Crisp-e visited yesterday, and I was close to tying him into the chair to keep from being anywhere near it!
On top of his dyspraxic tendencies, the bloke has a chaotic aura that he drags around with him.
His haplessness swooshes about him like an invisible cloak and this can sweep things from tables that he is not ACTUALLY near!
A bunch of arranged shells in the middle of the floor was basically, inviting disaster.
Today, instead of finding a nutter at Mass.
I, was someone’s nutter!
Palm Leaves are a fecking health and safety nightmare.
Kids were whipping each other with them and were nearly all crying by the time they had ‘processed’.
Everybody, but me, seemed to know the origami required to turn them into a cross.
The Gospel was FOUR pages long! FOUR!
I got disruptive.
Started poking the point of it into holes in the pews, trying to turn the pages of the liturgy book with it.
The man next to me took it; rustled up a cross and gave it back.
I was SO bored.
All the statues were Yashmak-ed beyond the eyeballs, in a fetching purple, so there was nothing to look at either.
As soon as the priest had passed my shoulder, I was out of there and part of the procession.
Scared the shite out of him when he turned round outside!
He let out a little yelp.
I frighten him a bit, I think.
I gave him a thumbs up, said,
“Loving your work” and headed off for some smokes.
The new BBC six part, “The Passion” has started.
It doesn't say anything about a ‘new’ ending, so I’ll give it a miss.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Avoidance, Adverts, Amsterdam
There is a secondhand bookshop along Rue Albert that I avoid.
It’s a few doors along from the Porn shop and you’ve got more chance seeing me coming out of there.
But something in the window of the ‘avoided’ shop caught my eye and I stopped.
This place must have some sort of super sensor because it started making a noise like I had entered the shop.
I stepped away.
It continued.
Then he was there. The reason for my avoidance.
I know that the bloke who runs the shop served 18 months for sex offences with a minor.
It was all over the local press a few years ago.
The way my memory is wired I can’t forget this and want to scream,
“Nonce!” every time I see him.
There is also a part of me that thinks, ‘He’s done his time, his slate’s clean’.
But the overwhelming part of me just wants to go,
NONCE! NONCE! NONCE! NONCE! NONCE! NONCE! NONCE! NONCE! at the top of my voice.
Fortunately, I had the ipod on and pretended I couldn’t hear him as I walked away.
Adverts, as usual, have been catching my eye.
The BT one, where she is sat in bed with the laptop, Nick from ‘My Family’ is cleaning his teeth.
She tells him she’s lost the file with all the baby pictures and stuff.
He says not to worry they can make another one.
She thinks he means ‘make more babies’. He means another file.
It’s all backed up you see!
In the real world, the first words from his mouth would have been,
“What have I told you about fecking around with that thing? How many times have I told you to tell me want you want and I’ll find it? Jesus Christ woman, give it here! Don‘t touch ANYTHING!”
No thoughts of a baby there.
I can also guarantee that the conversation would not have been conducted between the bedroom and en suite.
Yeah BT, we all have fucking en suite bathrooms.
The other ad is the Vanish Oxy-somethingorother.
This loud woman appears in a house and says,
‘You like whites don’t you?’
The lady of the house answers in the affirmative. And she is then shown how shite her whites are.
I scream at the TV,
“NO! and I’d like to know what the FUCK you are doing in my kitchen!?”
I’ve fallen in love with Johnny Kingdom.
I like wildlife programmes, I don’t particularly care if people are good I like them enthusiastic.
Bill Oddie gets on my tits with his totally childish attempts at humour.
Johnny is enthusiastic!!
Plus, he has one of the best West Country accents ever.
I read somewhere that on TV he is using his ‘Posh’ voice.
He has a new series out charting the trials and tribulations of owning his own land.
The tricks he is trying out to encourage animals to settle on there.
Through Johnny I have come up with a new drinking game.
During his latest series, every time he says, “My Land” drink a shot of vodka.
You’ll be mash up by 9pm, courtesy of BBC2.
Almost worth the license fee.
Almost.
The Chancellor has more or less, guaranteed that Labour lose the next election.
11p on a pack of smokes and increasing the price of booze.
Bye Bye Labour.
My Big little brother made it back from Amsterdam, unscathed and STI free!
There was also an awesome bit of synchronicity.
He went to one of my favourite coffee shops on the 8th of March.
Ten years to the very day, that I was there.
Love it!
It’s a few doors along from the Porn shop and you’ve got more chance seeing me coming out of there.
But something in the window of the ‘avoided’ shop caught my eye and I stopped.
This place must have some sort of super sensor because it started making a noise like I had entered the shop.
I stepped away.
It continued.
Then he was there. The reason for my avoidance.
I know that the bloke who runs the shop served 18 months for sex offences with a minor.
It was all over the local press a few years ago.
The way my memory is wired I can’t forget this and want to scream,
“Nonce!” every time I see him.
There is also a part of me that thinks, ‘He’s done his time, his slate’s clean’.
But the overwhelming part of me just wants to go,
NONCE! NONCE! NONCE! NONCE! NONCE! NONCE! NONCE! NONCE! at the top of my voice.
Fortunately, I had the ipod on and pretended I couldn’t hear him as I walked away.
Adverts, as usual, have been catching my eye.
The BT one, where she is sat in bed with the laptop, Nick from ‘My Family’ is cleaning his teeth.
She tells him she’s lost the file with all the baby pictures and stuff.
He says not to worry they can make another one.
She thinks he means ‘make more babies’. He means another file.
It’s all backed up you see!
In the real world, the first words from his mouth would have been,
“What have I told you about fecking around with that thing? How many times have I told you to tell me want you want and I’ll find it? Jesus Christ woman, give it here! Don‘t touch ANYTHING!”
No thoughts of a baby there.
I can also guarantee that the conversation would not have been conducted between the bedroom and en suite.
Yeah BT, we all have fucking en suite bathrooms.
The other ad is the Vanish Oxy-somethingorother.
This loud woman appears in a house and says,
‘You like whites don’t you?’
The lady of the house answers in the affirmative. And she is then shown how shite her whites are.
I scream at the TV,
“NO! and I’d like to know what the FUCK you are doing in my kitchen!?”
I’ve fallen in love with Johnny Kingdom.
I like wildlife programmes, I don’t particularly care if people are good I like them enthusiastic.
Bill Oddie gets on my tits with his totally childish attempts at humour.
Johnny is enthusiastic!!
Plus, he has one of the best West Country accents ever.
I read somewhere that on TV he is using his ‘Posh’ voice.
He has a new series out charting the trials and tribulations of owning his own land.
The tricks he is trying out to encourage animals to settle on there.
Through Johnny I have come up with a new drinking game.
During his latest series, every time he says, “My Land” drink a shot of vodka.
You’ll be mash up by 9pm, courtesy of BBC2.
Almost worth the license fee.
Almost.
The Chancellor has more or less, guaranteed that Labour lose the next election.
11p on a pack of smokes and increasing the price of booze.
Bye Bye Labour.
My Big little brother made it back from Amsterdam, unscathed and STI free!
There was also an awesome bit of synchronicity.
He went to one of my favourite coffee shops on the 8th of March.
Ten years to the very day, that I was there.
Love it!
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
After The Storm
This morning I spent over two hours walking along the beach.
Just to see what the sea had given up during last evening’s storm.
Judging by the amount of shells that have washed ashore, it was just as brutal at sea last night.
It was still very windy but the sun was out.
I met four people during the whole time.
A couple with metal detectors, a bloke with his dogs and Mr fuckingknowitall.
There were hundreds of small pink shells so I decided to collect a few for the garden.
This is when Mr Fuckingknowitall couldn't keep his thoughts to himself.
He started gesturing at me, it was so windy I couldn't hear what he was saying.
He caught up with me and started going on about 'people like you', 'Sea defences'.
At first I thought he was going to tell me that homosexuality had caused global warming and it was my fault there were cuttlefish all over the Promenade.
No.
People like me were eroding our natural defenses and would be responsible for his daughter's cellar flooding.
Or something.
Twat.
I told him my impact on the beach was not as devastating as his had been on the gene pool and that he should fuck off.
He did.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Storming Southsea
It blew an absolute hooligan last night.This is what the seafront looked like this afternoon.
The road had been closed and the sea was beginning to whip up again.
There were loads of shells, bits of crabs but hardly any ‘pollution’.
No masses of tangled ropes, clumps of tar, a rafts worth of plastic bottles or carrier bags.
The latter being a real surprise given the current news coverage.
Maybe the council had been out early and cleared it.
I went to Lidl today and marvelled at how multi-cultural it is.
As I was bimbling around I heard, at least, 5 different languages being spoken.
They have some blinding stuff if you have a European/Mediterranean palate.
I love that I can buy squid, a bucket of Greek yogurt, Camembert, dodgy looking slippers and a Mitre Saw all in one place.
And very cheaply!
The ‘impulse buy’ basket at my till was filled with secateurs and those Belgian chocolates shaped like shellfish.
An usual combination I thought.
As I was bimbling around I heard, at least, 5 different languages being spoken.
They have some blinding stuff if you have a European/Mediterranean palate.
I love that I can buy squid, a bucket of Greek yogurt, Camembert, dodgy looking slippers and a Mitre Saw all in one place.
And very cheaply!
The ‘impulse buy’ basket at my till was filled with secateurs and those Belgian chocolates shaped like shellfish.
An usual combination I thought.
It’s blowing a gale again now and pissing with rain.
Everything is tied down in the garden but I’m worried that my frog spawn will get washed out of the pond if it overflows.
Everything is tied down in the garden but I’m worried that my frog spawn will get washed out of the pond if it overflows.
Sunday, March 09, 2008
Slime And Sublime
This is the frog spawn I transferred from the pond in Wiltshire to the big bucket of water that is mine, in Pompey.The picture is blurred.
Half to do with my camera and half my revulsion.
Frog Spawn is like an iceberg.
There is SO much more below water.
I was gagging as this lot slopped all over my hands as I shook it into the jar.
Horrible, Slimey, Nastiness of the highest order.
Boarding School flashback!
Today, I have watched Pompey fluke their way into the FA Cup Semis, beating Manchester United.
11-1 on Portsmouth winning.
Fucking 11-1!!!
I wish I’d had a punt on that!
Just as well really, Gambling is a vice I could really do without.
This evening Mr and Mrs Crisp-e have hosted me.
Splendid food, outstanding company, ‘descriptive’ weed!
Saki Vodka… Amazing tasting stuff.
There was also something made of Damsons.
It all became too much and I laid on the floor to await the cab.
This is my tune of the day.. There is something about the lyrics.
The video is a bit good too!
Friday, March 07, 2008
Identity
One of the housemates has an Irish heritage, that on one side, goes back to 1160 and on the other back to G-d, apparently!
So imagine her surprise when she received an invitation to join the local Anglo Italian Society.
The name does look and sound totally Italian but is ancient in Ireland.
The Irish got about a bit while they served in the British Army, even more so during The Famine.
It wouldn’t be beyond reason that a few ended up in Italy and Spain.
She was a bit miffed to discover that she had missed the monthly presentation,
“How to dress and present yourself - The Italian Way”.
We did wonder how much this would differ from the Irish Club presentation of the same thing.
We decided it came down to an age group and a look.
Those with a Headscarf, Rosary Beads, judgement in their eyes with optional Wellies are the same in both cultures.
For the younger generations:
Irish = Clothes that booze and food stains come out of in 1 wash.
Italian = A thousand ways to tie a Hermes scarf.
Trips:
Irish = 3 day debauched piss up in Dublin or 3 days on your knees at Knock/Lourdes/Fatima.
Italian = 7 day Food and Wine holiday in Puglia, Wine tasting in Umbria or 3 days in Rome/Lourdes/Fatima.
Raffle Prizes:
Irish = 1st A milk churn of Guinness
2nd Six Rashers
3rd Basket of Pot Pourri
Italian = 1st Five days Wine tasting in Tuscany
2nd A Parma Ham
3rd Italian Food Hamper.
I’m now sharing a house with someone practising an Italian accent at a Joe Dolce level and copying the hand movement as seen on ‘Football Italia’.
The real splitter was the letter was signed by some bloke with the surname,
‘ Mcavoi’.
A story that nearly slipped me by was about a Jewish School in London.
The students there refused to sit the English exam because they ‘could have’ studied The Merchant of Venice.
Their complaint was the negative racial stereotyping of Shylock.
I like to think that this was an intelligent protest.
I like to hope they are trying to point out that Shakespeare, by having knowledge of and writing about The French, Italians, Danes, Jews and Moors; may have lived in a quite a multi-cultural 16th century.
You never know.
I invented a new word this evening,
‘Fish Butcher’.
I was too stoned to pull Fishmonger from my memory.
I kind of like it better.
‘Monger’ sounds a bit yukky.
So imagine her surprise when she received an invitation to join the local Anglo Italian Society.
The name does look and sound totally Italian but is ancient in Ireland.
The Irish got about a bit while they served in the British Army, even more so during The Famine.
It wouldn’t be beyond reason that a few ended up in Italy and Spain.
She was a bit miffed to discover that she had missed the monthly presentation,
“How to dress and present yourself - The Italian Way”.
We did wonder how much this would differ from the Irish Club presentation of the same thing.
We decided it came down to an age group and a look.
Those with a Headscarf, Rosary Beads, judgement in their eyes with optional Wellies are the same in both cultures.
For the younger generations:
Irish = Clothes that booze and food stains come out of in 1 wash.
Italian = A thousand ways to tie a Hermes scarf.
Trips:
Irish = 3 day debauched piss up in Dublin or 3 days on your knees at Knock/Lourdes/Fatima.
Italian = 7 day Food and Wine holiday in Puglia, Wine tasting in Umbria or 3 days in Rome/Lourdes/Fatima.
Raffle Prizes:
Irish = 1st A milk churn of Guinness
2nd Six Rashers
3rd Basket of Pot Pourri
Italian = 1st Five days Wine tasting in Tuscany
2nd A Parma Ham
3rd Italian Food Hamper.
I’m now sharing a house with someone practising an Italian accent at a Joe Dolce level and copying the hand movement as seen on ‘Football Italia’.
The real splitter was the letter was signed by some bloke with the surname,
‘ Mcavoi’.
A story that nearly slipped me by was about a Jewish School in London.
The students there refused to sit the English exam because they ‘could have’ studied The Merchant of Venice.
Their complaint was the negative racial stereotyping of Shylock.
I like to think that this was an intelligent protest.
I like to hope they are trying to point out that Shakespeare, by having knowledge of and writing about The French, Italians, Danes, Jews and Moors; may have lived in a quite a multi-cultural 16th century.
You never know.
I invented a new word this evening,
‘Fish Butcher’.
I was too stoned to pull Fishmonger from my memory.
I kind of like it better.
‘Monger’ sounds a bit yukky.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
Gutted
As some of you know, I’ve more or less cut myself off from my Mother’s side of the family.
The Big little brother, an Uncle and a couple of cousins are all I keep in contact with.
One of those cousins has broken my heart.
I’ve housed him, more than once.
I’ve fed him when he wasn‘t working.
Got him a job.
He has stolen money from me.
He has stolen from Housemates.
His Mother (ATM’s sister) has had me hide him when the police have been after him.
Supported him through a break up and loss of custody of his son.
All, I have done because I considered him another ‘black sheep’, like me.
I considered him a brother.
Yesterday I found out that his son was christened on Sunday and he didn’t even tell me it was happening.
I spoke to him just days beforehand.
I wouldn’t have gone even if I’d been asked…. But to have had the invitation would have been nice.
Gutted people. Gutted.
The Big little brother, an Uncle and a couple of cousins are all I keep in contact with.
One of those cousins has broken my heart.
I’ve housed him, more than once.
I’ve fed him when he wasn‘t working.
Got him a job.
He has stolen money from me.
He has stolen from Housemates.
His Mother (ATM’s sister) has had me hide him when the police have been after him.
Supported him through a break up and loss of custody of his son.
All, I have done because I considered him another ‘black sheep’, like me.
I considered him a brother.
Yesterday I found out that his son was christened on Sunday and he didn’t even tell me it was happening.
I spoke to him just days beforehand.
I wouldn’t have gone even if I’d been asked…. But to have had the invitation would have been nice.
Gutted people. Gutted.