Local Council Bureaucrats in Kebabs Bad For You Shocka.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/7852168.stm
Do you know what? I really don't care.
Tuesday, 27 January 2009
Friday, 23 January 2009
Wednesday, 21 January 2009
Mad Blog Disease
As mentioned elsewhere on this blog, I take a keen interest in the media - for my sins i need to keep an eye on what is being said about the various people who indirectly pay for my daily bread.
Until comparatively recently, this meant trawling through hectares of newsprint - everything from the Times to the Sport to the Bloggshire Herald and Informer. Latterly, though, the magic on the internet has automated things with alerts, keywords, Factiva et al. This cuts a lot of the drudge out of the equation (and consequently the optrex bill) but can lead to some fairly wierd things coming through on email.
The highlight today was set to be the death of the King of Quilting (reported on Gramma's Quilting Blog) until this arrived:
http://blog.beefmagazine.com/briefingroom/
Normally I'd not click through on that in case it was something rather nsfw - but the meta text mentioned cattle, so I thought it was safe. Interest piqued, on I went. Whilst I'm chortling at the concept of American Cow Man as the successor show to American Chopper, I've become terrified of contracting the Scours and being rubbed-out like that poor unsuspecting calf... so in his honour, ridiculous Vegetarian Moby:
Until comparatively recently, this meant trawling through hectares of newsprint - everything from the Times to the Sport to the Bloggshire Herald and Informer. Latterly, though, the magic on the internet has automated things with alerts, keywords, Factiva et al. This cuts a lot of the drudge out of the equation (and consequently the optrex bill) but can lead to some fairly wierd things coming through on email.
The highlight today was set to be the death of the King of Quilting (reported on Gramma's Quilting Blog) until this arrived:
http://blog.beefmagazine.com/briefingroom/
Normally I'd not click through on that in case it was something rather nsfw - but the meta text mentioned cattle, so I thought it was safe. Interest piqued, on I went. Whilst I'm chortling at the concept of American Cow Man as the successor show to American Chopper, I've become terrified of contracting the Scours and being rubbed-out like that poor unsuspecting calf... so in his honour, ridiculous Vegetarian Moby:
Tuesday, 20 January 2009
Out to Lunch
Today, foolish chap that I am, I had breakfast. Therefore I am bloody starving and am signally failing to think about anything but food.
Let's get one thing straight: anyone who says that you need a good breakfast to fill you up at the start of the day is talking out of their arse. All that food does in the morning is start your stomach working two or three hours before there's any reason to. So when when the half-toast-half-tea-half-air mouthfuls you gulped down as you dashed out of the door have been sludged away in a frenzy of caustic, gaseous, indigestion, your gut notices that it is empty and complains.
Constantly.
So there's the rub: Breakfast makes you hungry. Hunger makes you snack. Snacks make you fat. Tony Tiger, your honour, is culpable for the obesity epidemic.
So, today, instead of a sensible abstinence until lunchtime, I've eaten my apple, my sandwich, more biscuits than I care to think about and, in an unconsidered moment, a sizable chunk of pencil eraser. And I Am Still HUNGRY.
Anyway. There's really only one way to end that little rant:
Let's get one thing straight: anyone who says that you need a good breakfast to fill you up at the start of the day is talking out of their arse. All that food does in the morning is start your stomach working two or three hours before there's any reason to. So when when the half-toast-half-tea-half-air mouthfuls you gulped down as you dashed out of the door have been sludged away in a frenzy of caustic, gaseous, indigestion, your gut notices that it is empty and complains.
Constantly.
So there's the rub: Breakfast makes you hungry. Hunger makes you snack. Snacks make you fat. Tony Tiger, your honour, is culpable for the obesity epidemic.
So, today, instead of a sensible abstinence until lunchtime, I've eaten my apple, my sandwich, more biscuits than I care to think about and, in an unconsidered moment, a sizable chunk of pencil eraser. And I Am Still HUNGRY.
Anyway. There's really only one way to end that little rant:
Monday, 19 January 2009
Ch-Ch-Changes
Resolutions failed thus far: 2
Resolutions teetering on brink of failure: 1
Resolutions Holding, but causing unforeseen consequences: 1
Resolutions behind schedule: 1
Resolutions in danger of being abandoned as Not Worth Effort: 1
Every single bastard year, the same thing. I (along with a million other sheeple) arbitrarily fix on New Year’s Day to make major changes to the way I live my life. Two or three days later, one slight stumble and down comes the house of cards. So: A quick run through of this year’s inaugural failures:
EINS: I shall have January off the booze.
FAIL: Being an adherent of the ‘if the hangover’s bad, drink through it’ recovery regimen, January 1 is never going to be booze-free. I think it was about 5.30 before I crumbled this year. Once that was down, what’s the point? And anyway, there’s 5 gallons of home-brew fermenting away in a bucket in the kitchen, and it needs bottling soon. What’s the best way to get bottles? That’s right: buy them filled with beer.
ZWEI: I shall clear out un-needed tat and flog it on ebay.
FAIL: Ebay is designed to be easy to easy to buy things on. So easy, that in the process of putting a rather nice (but sadly miniscule) pair of trousers up for auction, I accidentally bought a half dozen LPs. And a signed photo of Jim Bowen. And then the light went and I couldn’t take photos of the trousers. And in any case, there’s an outside chance I might fit them at some point. Maybe.
DREI: I shall bring Lunch not Buy Lunch.
Partial FAIL: I keep running out of bread. Honest. Mainly as the consequence of using all bread for sandwiches and causing early morning toast shortage has been explained at length. But nonetheless, four days out of five ain’t bad. And buying boxes of biscuits and cakes and things from Somerfield around the corner counts as bring from home as it is not prêt or costa or other exhorbitant sandwich emporia. Kinda. Oh, as an aside: Ready-chopped stir-fry kits, no matter how well-reduced, are not a sensible substitute for bags of salad. Hidden Onion, Costly Breathmints.
VIER: I shall only touch every piece of paper once.
SUCCESS (PAINFUL) A glimmer of felicitatious hope. I am at the moment up to date with all the paperwork on my desk, all my filing is done, and have mental mastery of three odd projects. Woo. However, emerging from previous blissful ignorance into the blessed light of clarity has given me the shitting Fear. What’s more, I’ve made a schoolboy error in forgetting to manage expectations. Ergo, more shite is arriving at rate of knots. Flying-off-the-reel rate of knots. Arsebiscuits.
FUNF: I shall actually resume posting to this blog.
LATE ARRIVAL: Well, this would count as resuming posting – three months since the last. And nearly three weeks later than decided to. But hell, it’s done. In an effort to cajole self into more notes, I have even told two more people about these noodlings. Which will probably prove to be a mistake.
SECHS: I shall experiment with Clothes which are not Black.
Having had it pointed out to me that I’m too fat to be a goth. (And Too Old. And Too Ginger) I have resolved to attempt colours. And Patterns. And Shoes Other Than Docs. Mildly to my surprise, I actually enjoyed shopping. I even tried some bits on in the shop (this required some serious persuasion, and am willing to concede may have been a contributory factor in moving away from being a sack of shit tied in middle) So, on the face of it, one of my better-laid plans.
But, unfortunately my boss still things I’m a scruffy eejit, so I have resorted to Docs and facial hair in manner of lop-sided-two-fingered salute.
Ah well. In honour of my tardy resumption (good name for a band), the tune for today is:
Resolutions teetering on brink of failure: 1
Resolutions Holding, but causing unforeseen consequences: 1
Resolutions behind schedule: 1
Resolutions in danger of being abandoned as Not Worth Effort: 1
Every single bastard year, the same thing. I (along with a million other sheeple) arbitrarily fix on New Year’s Day to make major changes to the way I live my life. Two or three days later, one slight stumble and down comes the house of cards. So: A quick run through of this year’s inaugural failures:
EINS: I shall have January off the booze.
FAIL: Being an adherent of the ‘if the hangover’s bad, drink through it’ recovery regimen, January 1 is never going to be booze-free. I think it was about 5.30 before I crumbled this year. Once that was down, what’s the point? And anyway, there’s 5 gallons of home-brew fermenting away in a bucket in the kitchen, and it needs bottling soon. What’s the best way to get bottles? That’s right: buy them filled with beer.
ZWEI: I shall clear out un-needed tat and flog it on ebay.
FAIL: Ebay is designed to be easy to easy to buy things on. So easy, that in the process of putting a rather nice (but sadly miniscule) pair of trousers up for auction, I accidentally bought a half dozen LPs. And a signed photo of Jim Bowen. And then the light went and I couldn’t take photos of the trousers. And in any case, there’s an outside chance I might fit them at some point. Maybe.
DREI: I shall bring Lunch not Buy Lunch.
Partial FAIL: I keep running out of bread. Honest. Mainly as the consequence of using all bread for sandwiches and causing early morning toast shortage has been explained at length. But nonetheless, four days out of five ain’t bad. And buying boxes of biscuits and cakes and things from Somerfield around the corner counts as bring from home as it is not prêt or costa or other exhorbitant sandwich emporia. Kinda. Oh, as an aside: Ready-chopped stir-fry kits, no matter how well-reduced, are not a sensible substitute for bags of salad. Hidden Onion, Costly Breathmints.
VIER: I shall only touch every piece of paper once.
SUCCESS (PAINFUL) A glimmer of felicitatious hope. I am at the moment up to date with all the paperwork on my desk, all my filing is done, and have mental mastery of three odd projects. Woo. However, emerging from previous blissful ignorance into the blessed light of clarity has given me the shitting Fear. What’s more, I’ve made a schoolboy error in forgetting to manage expectations. Ergo, more shite is arriving at rate of knots. Flying-off-the-reel rate of knots. Arsebiscuits.
FUNF: I shall actually resume posting to this blog.
LATE ARRIVAL: Well, this would count as resuming posting – three months since the last. And nearly three weeks later than decided to. But hell, it’s done. In an effort to cajole self into more notes, I have even told two more people about these noodlings. Which will probably prove to be a mistake.
SECHS: I shall experiment with Clothes which are not Black.
Having had it pointed out to me that I’m too fat to be a goth. (And Too Old. And Too Ginger) I have resolved to attempt colours. And Patterns. And Shoes Other Than Docs. Mildly to my surprise, I actually enjoyed shopping. I even tried some bits on in the shop (this required some serious persuasion, and am willing to concede may have been a contributory factor in moving away from being a sack of shit tied in middle) So, on the face of it, one of my better-laid plans.
But, unfortunately my boss still things I’m a scruffy eejit, so I have resorted to Docs and facial hair in manner of lop-sided-two-fingered salute.
Ah well. In honour of my tardy resumption (good name for a band), the tune for today is:
Tuesday, 30 September 2008
Sampling
Struck by a little piece of iThingyphonic genius this morning; the little terror shuffled from the Prodigy's 'Out of Space' (a touchy too brash and chirpy for 0730) to Max Romeo's 'Chase teh Devil' (Dub is far more acceptable in the mornings - especially after last night's bottle of Morrisions 'Good French Red'. More on the Trades' Description Act later.)
This is genius because, of course, the main sample for Out of Space is lifted straight from Mr Romeo's 1972 classic. Two very very different songs with one hook.
This begs a question: Are we running out of original compositions? There have been acres of print decrying the huge number of cover versions which bestride the charts these days - (Girls Aloud, Atomic Kitten, I'm looking at you. Westlife: I'm not looking at you, you lumpen-headed fuckwits.)
Despite the above travesties, I don't think so. i think remixes, mash-ups and the whole reimagininginging theme can make some really fresh, new, minty products out of tired musical cliches. (Cf everything Soulwax have ever done) but quite apart from anything else people have been making very different songs out of the same half dozen chords since.. well, for ever.
Try Freebird ( Lynard Skynard) and Cum on Feel the Noize (Slade): Very similar chord structures. Every Rose has its Thorn (Poison) and Good Riddance (Green Day) - largely identical, just shorter hair.
The Ramones - well, you know that line.
My point? I'm not sure I have one... except, maybe, I was surprisingly cheered by rediscovering something before the grind of the day began.
This is genius because, of course, the main sample for Out of Space is lifted straight from Mr Romeo's 1972 classic. Two very very different songs with one hook.
This begs a question: Are we running out of original compositions? There have been acres of print decrying the huge number of cover versions which bestride the charts these days - (Girls Aloud, Atomic Kitten, I'm looking at you. Westlife: I'm not looking at you, you lumpen-headed fuckwits.)
Despite the above travesties, I don't think so. i think remixes, mash-ups and the whole reimagininginging theme can make some really fresh, new, minty products out of tired musical cliches. (Cf everything Soulwax have ever done) but quite apart from anything else people have been making very different songs out of the same half dozen chords since.. well, for ever.
Try Freebird ( Lynard Skynard) and Cum on Feel the Noize (Slade): Very similar chord structures. Every Rose has its Thorn (Poison) and Good Riddance (Green Day) - largely identical, just shorter hair.
The Ramones - well, you know that line.
My point? I'm not sure I have one... except, maybe, I was surprisingly cheered by rediscovering something before the grind of the day began.
Wednesday, 24 September 2008
So, Farewell then...
…Ruth Kelly. The diminutive, Opus Dei’d transport secretary has announced that she is to stand down at the next election. I cannot claim to be disappointed.
Although she’s given ‘time with family’ – that tired old cliché – as her reason for standing down, I can’t be alone in thinking good riddance.
For starters, Ms Kelly has not had an illustrious career as a minister – not least as a rather terrible Communities Secretary, where she presided over nascent bungled housing reforms and fucked up moves to unitary and regional government. A quick aside: when she was in this role I very nearly vomited over her, one coffee-fuelled, conference-hungover morning. More of this at a later date, no doubt.
Secondly, the whole fundamentalist Catholicism really grates. There’s widespread muttering that one of the reasons she’s going is that she opposes the embraeology bill on religious grounds. One of the few pieces of government legislation in the last two parliaments that I’ve honestly approved of, and she’s been assiduously working backchannels to stunt it. If ever there was a better example of why church and state – let alone politicians and judiciary - should always be separate, it’s Ms Kelly.
But thirdly, finally and most vividly, it’s all about her voice. She’s possessed of a hollow, hectoring, patronising tone that wouldn’t seem out of place in a public-school, Sunday-service pulpit. She intones sentitious, holier-than-thou monologues with all the humanity and passion of a dead haddock. Every, EVERY, time her voice pops up on the radio, I’m stricken with Tourettes and an insatiable urge to fling the stereo from the nearest, highest window.
The only other person to whom I have this response is Sarah Palin – a woman whose voice embodies that tired American trope which makes merit of mediocrity, normality, being blinkered, and celebrates small-town bigotry… without looking at her you just know she’s got her chin stuck out and her eyes sighted straight down the line of her nose* and that she thinks that anyone with an opinion different to her is a moose to be field-dressed. And then crucified.
I am not entirely sure why I have this reaction – maybe I was scarred whilst young by a teacher of similar tonality. But, ultimately, I’m very glad la Kelly is fucking off. And I rather hope that Palin goes the way of the dodo soon, too. Otherwise I'm quite scared for the future.
*the Alaskan version of snapping your fingers and wiggling your head from side-to-side. I’ve also seen this is Luton.
Although she’s given ‘time with family’ – that tired old cliché – as her reason for standing down, I can’t be alone in thinking good riddance.
For starters, Ms Kelly has not had an illustrious career as a minister – not least as a rather terrible Communities Secretary, where she presided over nascent bungled housing reforms and fucked up moves to unitary and regional government. A quick aside: when she was in this role I very nearly vomited over her, one coffee-fuelled, conference-hungover morning. More of this at a later date, no doubt.
Secondly, the whole fundamentalist Catholicism really grates. There’s widespread muttering that one of the reasons she’s going is that she opposes the embraeology bill on religious grounds. One of the few pieces of government legislation in the last two parliaments that I’ve honestly approved of, and she’s been assiduously working backchannels to stunt it. If ever there was a better example of why church and state – let alone politicians and judiciary - should always be separate, it’s Ms Kelly.
But thirdly, finally and most vividly, it’s all about her voice. She’s possessed of a hollow, hectoring, patronising tone that wouldn’t seem out of place in a public-school, Sunday-service pulpit. She intones sentitious, holier-than-thou monologues with all the humanity and passion of a dead haddock. Every, EVERY, time her voice pops up on the radio, I’m stricken with Tourettes and an insatiable urge to fling the stereo from the nearest, highest window.
The only other person to whom I have this response is Sarah Palin – a woman whose voice embodies that tired American trope which makes merit of mediocrity, normality, being blinkered, and celebrates small-town bigotry… without looking at her you just know she’s got her chin stuck out and her eyes sighted straight down the line of her nose* and that she thinks that anyone with an opinion different to her is a moose to be field-dressed. And then crucified.
I am not entirely sure why I have this reaction – maybe I was scarred whilst young by a teacher of similar tonality. But, ultimately, I’m very glad la Kelly is fucking off. And I rather hope that Palin goes the way of the dodo soon, too. Otherwise I'm quite scared for the future.
*the Alaskan version of snapping your fingers and wiggling your head from side-to-side. I’ve also seen this is Luton.
Wednesday, 17 September 2008
St Vitus Statistics
Oh, I hate it when a plan don't come together.
I've had the house to myself for three whole days (Ms Dive being off conferencing somewhere or other) and had constructed a schedule of male-oriented singleton activities in which to immerse myself. These were, in no particular order: the smoking of cigars; the thrashing of guitars; the eating of steak; the playing of video games; and the staying out late in the pubs.
Sunday started really rather nicely: Havanas were lit, a couple of cans of lager were imbibed and many many mutants were gunned down. This, by the way, was all carried out in my dressing gown. Brilliant.
And then, unfortunately, everything went a bit wrong. I'll not bore with details but 0300 to 0930 Monday were unpleasant. Projectile unpleasant.
Couple this with an inavoidable meeting in Bristol (note to train companies - serving cabbage in dining cars is just crass) and my week began quite horrid. The evening was lost to an 11-hour sleepathon, Tuesday evening was mainly shaped by the force-feeding of plain pasta (foie gross, if you will) but did at least see a brief rally of video gamage - after a couple of hours of reassembling the house into something resembling the state it was in when my session commenced.
Anyway: to the point: Nothing that I have endured these last three days is anything compared to that facing people in the financial sector. I never thought I'd say this (and may my ancestors forgive me) but I am finding my self feeling sorry for bankers.
A key part of my day is working through the papers - print and online - to pick up key themes and trends that are relevant to those who which pay my rent. As a result I'm almost preturnaturally aware of the different spin the various outlets put on a story - the Mirror, for instance, has carried barely a column inch on house prices the last 6-month, whilst the Mail has pretty much blocked out three pages in each edition.
Today, though, there is one, uniform conclusion across all the front pages: We are, to put it mildly, fucked.
Batten down the hatches, one and all. There's an axiom that says something along the lines that music plays louder and people dance harder in times of adversity. So in that spirit, enjoy:
I've had the house to myself for three whole days (Ms Dive being off conferencing somewhere or other) and had constructed a schedule of male-oriented singleton activities in which to immerse myself. These were, in no particular order: the smoking of cigars; the thrashing of guitars; the eating of steak; the playing of video games; and the staying out late in the pubs.
Sunday started really rather nicely: Havanas were lit, a couple of cans of lager were imbibed and many many mutants were gunned down. This, by the way, was all carried out in my dressing gown. Brilliant.
And then, unfortunately, everything went a bit wrong. I'll not bore with details but 0300 to 0930 Monday were unpleasant. Projectile unpleasant.
Couple this with an inavoidable meeting in Bristol (note to train companies - serving cabbage in dining cars is just crass) and my week began quite horrid. The evening was lost to an 11-hour sleepathon, Tuesday evening was mainly shaped by the force-feeding of plain pasta (foie gross, if you will) but did at least see a brief rally of video gamage - after a couple of hours of reassembling the house into something resembling the state it was in when my session commenced.
Anyway: to the point: Nothing that I have endured these last three days is anything compared to that facing people in the financial sector. I never thought I'd say this (and may my ancestors forgive me) but I am finding my self feeling sorry for bankers.
A key part of my day is working through the papers - print and online - to pick up key themes and trends that are relevant to those who which pay my rent. As a result I'm almost preturnaturally aware of the different spin the various outlets put on a story - the Mirror, for instance, has carried barely a column inch on house prices the last 6-month, whilst the Mail has pretty much blocked out three pages in each edition.
Today, though, there is one, uniform conclusion across all the front pages: We are, to put it mildly, fucked.
Batten down the hatches, one and all. There's an axiom that says something along the lines that music plays louder and people dance harder in times of adversity. So in that spirit, enjoy:
Friday, 12 September 2008
Il Retourne
Not written anything for a while - and I'll not bore you with the many and manifold reasons. Suffice to say that I am a social butterfly with a massive coterie of friends to pay fealty to. Also, wage slave.
I have had a very, very random week. Many things seem to have broken in the last 7 days: laptop - smoking; phone - battered; jacket - de-lined; washing machine - ticking; tree - collapsed; line between Bristol and London - bus replacement service; diet -3 (THREE) kebabs; and most worryingly, a significant friendship - hiccup.
And last night, bizarrely, I ended up sat behind the lesser Minogue.
Pondering these things on the way in this morning (ithing - powerless) I came to the conclusion that it is far too dangerous to go outdoors this weekend. Therefore I am going to lock myself away from the world with a video game and a pizza menu.
And, in that spirit, the soundtrack:
I have had a very, very random week. Many things seem to have broken in the last 7 days: laptop - smoking; phone - battered; jacket - de-lined; washing machine - ticking; tree - collapsed; line between Bristol and London - bus replacement service; diet -3 (THREE) kebabs; and most worryingly, a significant friendship - hiccup.
And last night, bizarrely, I ended up sat behind the lesser Minogue.
Pondering these things on the way in this morning (ithing - powerless) I came to the conclusion that it is far too dangerous to go outdoors this weekend. Therefore I am going to lock myself away from the world with a video game and a pizza menu.
And, in that spirit, the soundtrack:
Friday, 29 August 2008
Yawn
Why oh why did i wake at 0600 when I don't have to go to work today? I'm on leave, goddamit: I've been looking forward to a lie-in for WEEKS, and instead I've been laid out, gawping at the ceiling for half an hour.
I am not good at inactivity. This may seem an amusing contradiction to many of my friends and colleagues who have come to know and love my tendency to put things off until the last minute (see posts passim) but I'm never doing nothing. I'm just doing something I enjoy rather than things I find tedious, irrelevant and frankly, disagreeable.
What i can't do is waste time. Buses? Standing still, waiting, is a waste. I'll walk the stops. Sitting in a meeting room, small talking, until everyone arrives? Wasted time. I'm there on the dot, with papers to read if I've not managed to be last. And as for laying stationary, trying to figure out if the cracks on the roof of the bedroom are getting longer: sod that, I'm up, tea-toting and finding something to do.
But the painful truth is that there really is nothing on my list of things to do that I can crack on with at this time of the morning with out straying dangerously close to an ASBO. I'm also suffering from an excess of energy brought out by an early night and - quite possibly - having huffed the remnants of yesterday's creosote odessey when I walked past the kitchen. (For the record, I don't recall cleaning brushes with white spirit being so much fun - That's now my job). And this is despite an attack of my kappa-clad neighbours singing (SINGING) at 3am.
So here I am, tapping away at this post, which doesn't really say anything, and doesn't really serve any purpose. But it does mean that I've passed the last 10 minutes producing something rather than passively soaking up nonsensical TV dross. And in two hours time I can do something worthwhile. Like turn on the lawnmower and piss off the neighbours.
I am not good at inactivity. This may seem an amusing contradiction to many of my friends and colleagues who have come to know and love my tendency to put things off until the last minute (see posts passim) but I'm never doing nothing. I'm just doing something I enjoy rather than things I find tedious, irrelevant and frankly, disagreeable.
What i can't do is waste time. Buses? Standing still, waiting, is a waste. I'll walk the stops. Sitting in a meeting room, small talking, until everyone arrives? Wasted time. I'm there on the dot, with papers to read if I've not managed to be last. And as for laying stationary, trying to figure out if the cracks on the roof of the bedroom are getting longer: sod that, I'm up, tea-toting and finding something to do.
But the painful truth is that there really is nothing on my list of things to do that I can crack on with at this time of the morning with out straying dangerously close to an ASBO. I'm also suffering from an excess of energy brought out by an early night and - quite possibly - having huffed the remnants of yesterday's creosote odessey when I walked past the kitchen. (For the record, I don't recall cleaning brushes with white spirit being so much fun - That's now my job). And this is despite an attack of my kappa-clad neighbours singing (SINGING) at 3am.
So here I am, tapping away at this post, which doesn't really say anything, and doesn't really serve any purpose. But it does mean that I've passed the last 10 minutes producing something rather than passively soaking up nonsensical TV dross. And in two hours time I can do something worthwhile. Like turn on the lawnmower and piss off the neighbours.
Tuesday, 26 August 2008
Te-Riff-Ic #9
Hell. Yeah.
Panic over. First voicemail message was from consultant wondering why not returned messages from a week ago (Answer: not received) and where the promised strategy document has gotten to? (Answer: most of weekend working on it).
One short cross-leggedly panicked moment later, the next message started: It's the client asking me to call as all plans have changed.
Third Message: consultant, again, asking me to call as client has changed mind and needs to sound me out about changes to various campaigns.
And all two hundred and sixty-four emails are system messages which have somehow replicated itself backwards and.
Only one thing for it:
Panic over. First voicemail message was from consultant wondering why not returned messages from a week ago (Answer: not received) and where the promised strategy document has gotten to? (Answer: most of weekend working on it).
One short cross-leggedly panicked moment later, the next message started: It's the client asking me to call as all plans have changed.
Third Message: consultant, again, asking me to call as client has changed mind and needs to sound me out about changes to various campaigns.
And all two hundred and sixty-four emails are system messages which have somehow replicated itself backwards and.
Only one thing for it:
Prevarication Redux
Early start today. Very early start. 0530, to be exact. No particular reason, annoyingly. Meandered my way into office at 0830.
There are three messages waiting on my voicemail. And 264 new emails in my (already cramped) inbox. Bodes this well? No.
I have been staring at the little red blinking light for 25 minutes now. I have done everything I can think of to put off picking up the messages.
So, in an attempt to punctuate the end of this period of buggering about - and in tribute to their re-emergence at Reading this weekend...
There are three messages waiting on my voicemail. And 264 new emails in my (already cramped) inbox. Bodes this well? No.
I have been staring at the little red blinking light for 25 minutes now. I have done everything I can think of to put off picking up the messages.
So, in an attempt to punctuate the end of this period of buggering about - and in tribute to their re-emergence at Reading this weekend...
Saturday, 23 August 2008
When Google Ads Attack #2
Hmmph.
Karma, it seems, has a sense of humour.
Acid Reflux. ----->
Brilliant.
Karma, it seems, has a sense of humour.
Acid Reflux. ----->
Brilliant.
Friday, 22 August 2008
Te-Riff-Ic #8
Have spend the bulk of today head down in a mahoosive and very technical document, attempting to turn it into something approaching the English language. This has, frankly, scrambled what little brains I have left to me.
So in tribute to the weekend, my Friday-frazzle and the fact I’m feeling a like I’ve been been in school all day – a glorious belter of swaggering Americana to see you into the evening.
Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you… the mighty, mighty Stray Cats
So in tribute to the weekend, my Friday-frazzle and the fact I’m feeling a like I’ve been been in school all day – a glorious belter of swaggering Americana to see you into the evening.
Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you… the mighty, mighty Stray Cats
Thursday, 21 August 2008
Te-Riff-Ic #7
This post is being laboriously, and rather painfully, pecked out.
Following a fairly comic tumble down some stairs year before last, I am saddled with a duff back. One rogue vertebrae has turned my spine into an axis of evil.
Fuck me, that was a crowbar-job. Moving on...
As alluded to in yesterday's hasty effort, I am struggling with keyboards - right now a nerve thing is being pinched between two bone things and removing the feeling from several finger things of my right hand.
This is less than ideal. I am just back from the doctor, who is very kindly sending me off to hospital for scans. It's at times like this that I remember why I stopped freelancing.
Anyway, in tribute to my hooky skeletal system, here's a little track which pops into my head now and again -the opening phrase in particular. The (again, tenuous) link with my current predicament its source album, which sports a very Ameriteen Skeleton on its cover, titled Smash.
Oh come on... at least a few points for effort?
Following a fairly comic tumble down some stairs year before last, I am saddled with a duff back. One rogue vertebrae has turned my spine into an axis of evil.
Fuck me, that was a crowbar-job. Moving on...
As alluded to in yesterday's hasty effort, I am struggling with keyboards - right now a nerve thing is being pinched between two bone things and removing the feeling from several finger things of my right hand.
This is less than ideal. I am just back from the doctor, who is very kindly sending me off to hospital for scans. It's at times like this that I remember why I stopped freelancing.
Anyway, in tribute to my hooky skeletal system, here's a little track which pops into my head now and again -the opening phrase in particular. The (again, tenuous) link with my current predicament its source album, which sports a very Ameriteen Skeleton on its cover, titled Smash.
Oh come on... at least a few points for effort?
Wednesday, 20 August 2008
Pebbledash and Piffle
Just have to make a quick post, despite fact am not supposed to be using a keyboard (more on that at a later date).
I am filing this architectural soliloquy under W for 'Wank'. The typos have been retained for spite's sake.
'It is the culimination of the proceses her practice has been exploring throgh projects such as the Phaeno Centre, the BMW building, and the Centre for Contemporary Arts in Rome. Traditional architectural elements are dissolved, the arrangement of spaces determined by the composition. Form follows function is an antiquated concept these days, but here function is a mere conceit. Form follows more form.Form rides everything is where parametric modelling leads - an aesthetic darwinism of evolved appearances. You can see it in almost every project to come form the DRL at the AA, the farm team for Zaha Hadid Architects, and where Patrik Schumacher teaches.With this project, walls and roof are united into a sleek 'hull', transformed by parametric process which warped slice and skew the form into a sensuous, sinuous form that rises and twists it's way across the dunes. The sheer beauty of the renderings is breathtaking. I want to inhabit its spaces (virtually). I want to fly through it. I want to explore its surface, its textures and materials. But I have no intention of visiting it.'
http://www.superspatial.com/2008/06/015-night-at-opera.html
I am filing this architectural soliloquy under W for 'Wank'. The typos have been retained for spite's sake.
'It is the culimination of the proceses her practice has been exploring throgh projects such as the Phaeno Centre, the BMW building, and the Centre for Contemporary Arts in Rome. Traditional architectural elements are dissolved, the arrangement of spaces determined by the composition. Form follows function is an antiquated concept these days, but here function is a mere conceit. Form follows more form.Form rides everything is where parametric modelling leads - an aesthetic darwinism of evolved appearances. You can see it in almost every project to come form the DRL at the AA, the farm team for Zaha Hadid Architects, and where Patrik Schumacher teaches.With this project, walls and roof are united into a sleek 'hull', transformed by parametric process which warped slice and skew the form into a sensuous, sinuous form that rises and twists it's way across the dunes. The sheer beauty of the renderings is breathtaking. I want to inhabit its spaces (virtually). I want to fly through it. I want to explore its surface, its textures and materials. But I have no intention of visiting it.'
http://www.superspatial.com/2008/06/015-night-at-opera.html
Tuesday, 19 August 2008
When Google Ads Attack
I wonder how the good Tory Burghers of Strood will react when they discover the sort of ads Google is serving to their site?
Prevarication #5
If Will Smith made a movie of my life, set in a desolate, deserted Taunton, it would be called I am Hypocrite.
If Will Smith made a movie of my life, in a dystopian future Yeovil, it would be called I, Hypocrite.
If Mel Gibson made a movie about helicoptering into the Lower Parrett valley, under fire from hoards of disgruntled Somersetians, it would be called We Were Hypocrites.
Or possibly I, Sugar Tits.
Reason? I have been happily dispensing advice left, right, centre and arse-backwards to any number of people. Telling them that to make the trip they've been thinking about, change the thing that's not working, learn the skill they've been craving for years, pursue the dream that has occured to them 30 seconds before, broach the issue holding their attention every waking hour.
And all the time I'm doing the same old ignoring the same old cursing the same old lamenting the same. old. things.
Time to heed myself, I think.
If Will Smith made a movie of my life, in a dystopian future Yeovil, it would be called I, Hypocrite.
If Mel Gibson made a movie about helicoptering into the Lower Parrett valley, under fire from hoards of disgruntled Somersetians, it would be called We Were Hypocrites.
Or possibly I, Sugar Tits.
Reason? I have been happily dispensing advice left, right, centre and arse-backwards to any number of people. Telling them that to make the trip they've been thinking about, change the thing that's not working, learn the skill they've been craving for years, pursue the dream that has occured to them 30 seconds before, broach the issue holding their attention every waking hour.
And all the time I'm doing the same old ignoring the same old cursing the same old lamenting the same. old. things.
Time to heed myself, I think.
Monday, 18 August 2008
GET IN
Quite possibly the best news I've had today...
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/entertainment/7567840.stm
NAH NAH NAH NA NA NA NAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/entertainment/7567840.stm
NAH NAH NAH NA NA NA NAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH
Te-Riff-Ic #6
Apologies to everyone at Waterloo at 0815 this morning. The hobbling bottleneck at the main entrance was myself.
Paintball + poker + pints on Saturday = broken me. Mildly dehydrated, 27 identifiable bruises and overall, shattered. My legs are worst - seized up to an extent that stairs are a challenge, hence my new role as a rolling roadblock.
So, in tribute to my bolloxed thigh muscles, today's tenuously-linked song comes from one of my favourite films.
*edit 1929 hours.... Similar apologies to all those at Bristol Templemeads, Reading and Guildford who I have similarly annoyed today. Actually: Sod you. I hurt.
Paintball + poker + pints on Saturday = broken me. Mildly dehydrated, 27 identifiable bruises and overall, shattered. My legs are worst - seized up to an extent that stairs are a challenge, hence my new role as a rolling roadblock.
So, in tribute to my bolloxed thigh muscles, today's tenuously-linked song comes from one of my favourite films.
*edit 1929 hours.... Similar apologies to all those at Bristol Templemeads, Reading and Guildford who I have similarly annoyed today. Actually: Sod you. I hurt.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
