Sven's guide to...

...my first blogiversary!

2006-06-10T15:20:00.000Z

In celebration of my first blogiversary, I thought I would celebrate by moving blogs. Yes fans, now that I have the gist of the thing (you would hope, after a year doing it) I plan to brach out and try something new. So, goodbye to Sven's guide, hello Recipes for disaster. I'm tired of the guide format and thought I would do something new. Just like Dr Who or Madonna, the time has come for a regeneration.

So, head on over there and take a look! And remember to change your favourites, bookmarks and bloglines subscriptions.

BUT, in the meantime, vote vote vote for your favourite blog from the last year! And keep reading - the news continues, just in another place!!

Love you all, my precious readers!!

...ukelele sing-a-longs

2006-06-05T22:37:00.000Z

So; what do you blog about when you haven't done that much lately? Believe it or not, there's not much to report from the last week. Yes, we had the new bed delivered (there's nothing like a new matress - it's like sleeping on a cloud) and yes, we have the new sofa in the lounge (it's SOOO lovely I am finding it difficult to get up from it - the kettle has boiled and I can't even prise my ass off the leather cushions to make myself a cup of tea!) but being tempted to lie around does not do any favours for a man who needs to do things to be able to write about them. Allow me to wrack my brains for a moment, and make a luke-warm cup of tea while I think about it...

...well, I was totally making that up. I just made a cup of tea and ran through the past week's events, and realised that being unemployed has not stifled my social life one iota. Alright, alright, I have to start the Saturday previous but oh my, what a weekend that was! Oh yes, the Chippenham Folk Festival might not sound like much of an event, not for a spritely twenty-something like myself, but let me tell you: it turned out to be an excellent night!

Ah, Chippenham. By day the tumbleweed blows unhindered through this Wiltshire market town. By night, Fred Perry-clad yoofs patrol places like Fizz Bar drinking cheap cider and stronger lager until the small hours. But, on the final Bank Holiday in May, this parochial little place turns into a lively, ceiladh-packed confluence of folksters and playing accordians and all sorts. Or so I'm told. After a bit of searching we finally found the party, though not before several pints in the various hostelries of the town. After a healthy dose of traditional bells-and-whistles fun, we all headed back to James's godparents' home for a traditional round of karaoke. Imagine the soundtrack to Grease, out of tune, with maraccas and tambourines as percussive assistance. I thought the night couldn't get any stranger after singing Summer Nights with Jim's dad on the female vocals, but I discovered I was wrong when the opening strains of YMCA cranked out of the box. Oh yes: the best fun I've had in a while.

Sunday night and we won the pub quiz back in Bristol. I call it a victory, but some might see using Google on your friend's PSP as breaking the rules. In our defence, mobile phones were outlawed, but no mention was made of anything else, so I think our leaving ten quid better of is fair enough. Monday was a Bank Holiday but not having a job, it was the same as any other day for me: shopping, lunch, and an evening with friends.

After buying ourselves a new sofa, James and I headed into Bristol for a nice lunch at the Spyglass to celebrate James's friend Katie's birthday. The restaurant is half on a barge, half on the dockside and beautiful. It was sunny enough to make it gorgeous inside, which made it all the nicer. The best part though, was the company. We've all been there before: the dinner party where you don't get on with your neighbour and awkward conversation lasts all night. Not so at this dinner! When you get on with the people near you, there's nothing better and this was a fine example of that. It was almost a shame to wrench ourselves away and head on to our final rendez-vous of the evening: a night at the cinema with yet more friends.

Sadly, all this hilarity had to come to an end sometime, and this week all my hard work in job hunting began to pay off. Although I'm glad to be getting back to work before the money runs out, it's a shame: I was enjoying my role as home-maker/gent-who-lunches. By Friday I was back into the rat-race, temping for the Arts and Humanities Research Council. In a cruel twist of irony - having been officially turned down for this year's MA Creative Writing - I am working in the Postgraduate financial awards department, processing applications for funding from students taking, yes, that's right: MA Creative Writing. Wasn't it only a fortnight ago I was saying 'what goes around, comes around'? What I have done to deserve such a cruel rubbing of salt into an open wound I have yet to determine, but I think it must have been bad. On top of that, I suffered a mini-cold this weekend, from which I am still recovering, meaning I spent the best part of the sunniest weekend this year wrapped up in bed trying to get better (not getting sick-pay is the ultimate incentive to get well soon). We did manage to tidy the flat from top to bottom on Saturday though, and even got out for a walk in the sunshine on Sunday afternoon (Clifton Suspension Bridge, The Downs and the Avon Gorge) before another thunderstorm hit and called time on the British summer: two days, that's all we get.

So that's it! My brief run of sitting at home doing nothing has come to an end (for the time being - I am only temping after all), and the only thing that's helping me get over the shock of being back in the office is the fact that the social diary is choc-a-bloc from now until mid-September! Hurrah!!

Next week: A reporrt and pictures from James's much-belated birthday party. The summer party season has indeed begun! (Isn't ever season party season in Svenderland?) Also, as we approach my first Blogiversary, I might think of someway to celebrate it. Any ideas welcome at the usual address or on the comments button below.

...Big Brother

2006-05-31T08:10:00.000Z

Not having to think about going into the office, I have had a fortnight to think about other things. It's amazing what you notice when your mind isn't on filing or fixing someone else's computer. (Speaking of which, still no news on the estimated repair of my iBook, though at least it's only costing me £50. Still can't express enough how pleased I am we have good insurance!). After getting over the damage from Monday's harrowing interview, I have spent my days reading, writing, cleaning and generally pottering around. Thanks to everyone who sent me a rejection story, and the threats of violence against my detractors are much appreciated. I think the whole experience was something that needed to happen; now I can get on with the real business of trying to make it. It had all been too easy up until now.

So, what with all this time on my hands, I am amazed that I have not been sucked into the abyss that is Big Brother. Its beginning slipped under my radar what with the play and all, and James's visceral disgust with the whole concept means that even if I did want to watch it, I would have to turn the volume down very low and sit very close to the telly so as not to get caught. James has threatened that, should I get hooked on BB, he will take up smoking at a rate of thirty-plus per day. Need I say with overmuch emphasis, this is not a habit I am keen to encourage, thus I refrain from watching this year's series. But more than that, it's shit.

Now, I am certainly no BB expert, but neither am I some reactionary nay-sayer. When it first began I was addicted with a crazy, can't-miss-an-episode-or-the-oceans-will-boil kind of obsession. I was so BB-is-like-oxygen hooked on it, that I wrote the dissertation for my degree on the relationship between reality television and the Naturalist Theatrical movement (the producers of BB had claimed this was the ultimate expression of the Naturalist ideology). BB was my main reference source. The year was 2000, it was the turn of the millennium and here was the entertainment of the future: how could you not watch? Almost immediately though, the charm began to wear off.

Without poncing it up about Naturalist and Realist theatrical movements, let me just say that BB is not what Zola had in mind when he started it. The actual title of my dissertation - "Is Naturalism just an excuse for voyeurism in contemporary performance?" - summed up rather succinctly what I concluded about the series. BB is not a grand, altruistic social experiment into human relations: it's an excuse to watch vacuous tossers get pissed up and naked. Maybe they'll have a fight too - that would be fun, wouldn't it?!

BB7 reaches perhaps the lowest depths in its short but remarkable history. Is it just me, or have they have filled the house with the most inane, mentally inert individuals they could find amongst the thousands of desperate, E-List celebrity wannabes to turn up at the auditions. They also promise to make this the 'meanest BB ever', reducing the space inside the house so they are living in one another's pockets, stealing random bits of luggage and generally indulging in cruel and unusual punishment designed to drive the contestants out of their minds: not exactly a challenge, since they have precious little to hang onto in the first place.

Is it any wonder then that four contestants have walked already? Showing extraordinary presence of mind, they got out while the going was good. And yet there is uproar in the papers - the entertainment pages are full of the shock departures as the contestants come to their senses and run like bloody hell. Wouldn't you? Living with thirteen other freaks in a house the size of a shoe-box, getting tortured by a disembodied voice that withholds your dinner on a whim? At least Pavlov's dogs had a reliable framework of rules.

Amazingly, one of the contestants left because 'he didn't like being famous.' Staggering. I just don't know where to start. How does he know what it's like to be famous? He's been in the house since it started. How does he know he is famous? Even the BB website describes it as 'fame'. If fame = being on tv then yes, he's famous. If fame = using your talents and skill to remain in the public eye, then his fifteen minutes will be mercifully short-lived. And couldn't he have worked this out before he went into the house? Seven years of BB - you would have thought he might have considered the chance that someone might recognise his mug on the street afterward. He claims that he went into the house to 'dispel the myth of the typical public schoolboy'. Good work, twat.

My main concern however, is not that they have filled the house with Class-A, socially defective nut-jobs, but that the media lap it up. For the next three months (oh God, yes, did I mention it went on for longer than ever before? No? I must have been circumcising myself with anaesthetic) the papers will be filled with screaming headlines about how they housemates all have a sordid past and once fellated a chocolate finger on camera. Then there's the kiss-and-tell from the fame-hungry hangers-on, who most certainly do not deserve any form of public recognition since they are clearly too lazy even to turn up at the BB audition and get 'fame' under their own steam. Heat will be filled with it. Now will be bursting with scandalous tit-bits. Closer will Reveal and the list goes on and on and on... It's all I can do to stop myself combusting in the newsagent. IT'S NOT NEWS!!! It's pseudo-celebs in a bubble. It's like talking about goldfish. Thinking about it, that would be marginally more interesting.

Only three months more to go! Cyanide, anyone?

Next week: With any luck, new job! Also, this weekend it's a night out in Jongleurs and we get a new bed and sofa delivered! Hurrah!

Forward date for your diaries: My birthday celebrations will be the weekend of the 28 July this year. Keep it free!! Suggestions for events welcome!

...tasting your own medicine

2006-05-23T10:56:00.000Z

I am blue. Despite all the exciting things that happened over the last week, I am feeling a bit depressed this morning, and not just because I missed Eurovision on Saturday night (though the winners did look pretty funky dressed up like trolls, I can safely say they would not have been my first choice. Heigh-ho). The week went like this:

Monday started bright enough and being paid to do nothing is always nice, so I was in fine spirits. I did a lot of writing, made myself busy and pottered, which as you all know, is a favoured pastime of mine. I felt on top of the world and my future lay before me like a blank canvas. Tuesday was much the same. Dress rehearsals for the play were going well, I was improvising and character building like a pro, and everyone was having a whale of a time. Opening night on Wednesday was a success (though I personally felt it lacked energy) but once the first night is out of the way, you get over your nerves a bit and look forward to the rest of the run.

After Wednesday's show, I did something I have never done before: I rang a radio talk show! Graham Torrington's Late Night Love is cheesy enough, and I listened to it all the time on the way home from rehearsals, shouting at the radio and dispensing my opinions to no one in particular as I powered it home down the motorway. Tonight's topic: "Molly" came home to find her boyfriend of ten years in bed with another man, dressed in women's clothing. How should she feel? Naturally, I had something to say on the matter, so I called in.
"Try not to mention Bristol" the woman said, since this is a nationally syndicated show but on local radio, fooling you nightly into thinking he cares about you and your area, "and when he says hello, say 'Hello Graham' back, as it sounds more friendly on the radio." Instructions done, I was on the air.

Now, I was sympathetic to the fellow getting caught because he's obviously a very confused and unhappy young man. In my position (as a former straight man now living with a boyfriend) you would have thought I would have been able to express this with tact and compassion. Apparently not. Instead of pointing out that he (the boyfriend) was clearly a confused individual, needing support and advice on how to deal with his sexuality, I charged in with all guns blazing:
"He hasn't just cheated on her once, he's betrayed her twice: yes, he's in bed with someone else (man, woman, it makes no difference) but he's also lied to her for ten years about who he is and what he really likes. Also, ten years is a long time: this probably isn't the first time he's done this - you don't just decide that day to have a man home and dress up in your girlfriend's clothes - this is just the first time she's caught him."
Even Graham was stunned, asking me what I suggested she do.
"I know it's easier said than done, but she should accept that this is over and move on." A shining example of tolerance and tact, I think.

The more astute among you will have spotted that this is not quite the tender response I was expecting to come out with. In my defence however, the topic was 'how should she feel' and not 'what's up with the boyfriend', and I think you'd be hard pressed to find anything in there that wasn't a version of the truth. James and I have discussed this pragmatic attitude at length over the past week, and whilst I am not that callous and mean in practice, there does come a time when an objective appraisal of such matters is prudent and necessary. Besides, "Molly" isn't my friend and she rang a talk show for heaven's sake: there's no need to sugarcoat it for her, is there? As it was, 'Eric' e-mailed in to agree with me and, after my skit; 'Andy' rang up to fight the boyfriend's corner with the kind of sympathy I had wanted to express. He and his ex-girlfriend (who had suffered the same fate as poor old 'Molly', though without the cross-dressing) were still speaking, which made all the difference: my ex-girlfriend and me really aren't.

What goes around comes around, and vengeance was waiting till Monday for me but, as an extra boot in the face, I got a nasty surprise the following day. When I went to start writing on Thursday morning, I nearly cried: the screen of my iBook was cracked and massive black patches traced the fractures across the screen like giant, LCD bruises. I was distraught. I rang Apple (since I am still within warranty) but apparently this was "accidental damage not covered by the warranty. Take it to your local supplier and see what they suggest". Despite the fact that I honestly hadn't done a thing to cause such massive damage, they would not accept this was a fault in the casing or screen. The local Apple store was similarly ambivalent.
"Well, plastic casing is less prone to this than the aluminium casing, but it's just one of those things I'm afraid."
"It's not 'just one of those things'" I replied. "If I have to pay to get this fixed I want to know how it happened so it doesn't happen again. Everything I have had from Apple has had to go back for one reason or another and I'm very disappointed in this breaking so soon after I bought it." The fellow looked sheepish, but the technician quoting the repair did not.
"Well, Apple didn't do this" he countered, and I couldn't argue though I very much wanted to. 'Apple did little to prevent it', I should have said, but I wasn't quick enough and a withering look was all I could muster.
"£475 for the screen, then £120 labour plus VAT" came the quote, and I actually thought I would break down in tears. "Almost the price of a new one," (they had already handed me the up-to-date brochure) "it's an insurance job really."
This I knew. I had already called the insurance company who were checking I was covered for accidental damage. Imagine my delight when they rang me back and told me that yes, I was covered, and it was either repair of replace new for old. Total charge: £50. After the prospect of a £640 bill, £50 was so good that I forgot to be upset about the damage and rejoiced in the possibility of repair. It's at the assessor's now, so the blog this week comes from Jim's laptop (slow, but effective) and normal service should resume shortly.

Saturday was the closing night for the play, and the after show party was set to go off with a bang. Despite one of the cast being rushed to hospital early in the day (suspected gallstones though still unconfirmed) we managed to put on a good show and did ourselves proud. It was a sell-out and I miss it now it's over. The party was good fun - just luvvie enough to be drama-like, not so luvvie that you wanted to vomit. Party done, drinks finished, I crawled into bed after a few whisky nightcaps at about 4am. Sunday was a bit of a write-off, but I managed to prepare for my MA interview in the afternoon and went to bed feeling positive about the whole thing.

It took twenty minutes for two MA Creative Writing lecturers to destroy any confidence I had in myself, taking a confident young creative and reducing him to an immature, whimsical amateur. The questions were challenging, though I think I acquitted myself to a reasonable standard, and when I was asked how I would take criticism at the level they were used to, I responded that I appreciated honest feedback and would take the knocks in the spirit they were intended: constructively. After being gently chided for sending in too much manuscript, I was questioned about what books I read, what had inspired me to write, and my opinions of various forms of story-telling and construct. Each time I answered, I was told that 'really, at an MA level, we would be expecting a student to say this, that or the other'. I was heavily questioned about an over-reliance on adjectives 'which really show a writer's insecurity and serve to reduce reader participation in the story'. I agreed that I use adjectives to ensure the reader sees exactly what I see when I write, but the suggestion was to re-write a large chunk with no adjectives and see what I thought afterward.

At the end, when asked if I had any questions, I asked for feedback on what they had read so far (if I don't make it onto the course, and chances are that I won't, it's an opportunity to get something out of the whole experience). "Too dense" was the main drive, though I was also told "you're obviously very dedicated to your writing, but it's very young writing - not you as being young, but in terms of experience, it's very young. You really need more of a portfolio.” This final comment came with the kind of dismissive finality that is impossible to misinterpret, prompting the first lecturer to try to lift the mood (possibly to avoid some kind of lawsuit for being rejected out of hand in an interview) by telling me cheerfully that 'of course, you will receive a letter within a fortnight.' Final confirmation of my failed attempt to get on the course.

After I had left and (for the second time in a week) suppressed the tears, I told everyone about it. Naturally everyone was surprised, shocked, outraged etc etc, but when I reflect on it, they had valid points. Perhaps I am too young to be a writer. Perhaps I don't have enough experience or even ability. Maybe I have just been hanging onto a dream I don't have the talent to realise. But writing is surely a personal thing. I can't go from being told I have promise one week to being trash the next. I must have something going for me or I wouldn't have received an interview at all. I did invite the criticism, so I shouldn't get distraught when it comes thick and fast and brutally frank. After all, isn't that what I did to poor 'Molly'?

"Apply somewhere else," my mother suggested, "take their advice, make the changes they said and send it off to someone else." Good old mum telling me to get straight back on the horse again.
"Don't think you're on the scrap heap," Jim told me. "So what if you are too young. You can't change that so just stick at it." I was in the pit of 'what am I going to do with my life' despair at this point but this is the same advice I had given just days before.

'There does come a time when an objective appraisal of such matters is prudent and necessary'. So, I took my own advice and did what they had told me to do: I edited. Three hundred fewer adjectives, six hundred words of descriptive prose removed, and the whole thing was a damn site slicker. It might stick in my craw, but they aren't lecturers for nothing. And, just to prove I was worth something as much as to help my case, I sent it back the university. They might consider it with my application: they might not. At the end of the day, what's done is done and there's no point crying about it. There are plenty more opportunities out there, and like Jim said, this is only the beginning.

Next week: With any luck, the final verdict on my MA application. Also, I will hopefully have found a job, and I'm sure there's some other stuff I will squeeze in along the way.

...escaping office life

2006-05-15T12:30:00.000Z

Yo! A big 'Hi there' and 'Hello' from the wonderful world of unemployment! It hasn't really sunk in that I don't have to go back to the office yet, and I'm still in the 'it's just like a holiday' phase; here's hoping the truth sinks in before the pay stops rolling in altogether. That said, this morning I went for an interview with a recruitment consultant and fortunately got shat on by a bird AFTER I had met with the man: beforehand, and I wouldn't have been smiling. I could barely muster the energy to go at all since the fire alarm went off at a quarter-to-one in the morning. It's a way to meet the neighbours though! Not the best method, I grant you (I was in my dressing gown, hair everywhere, half asleep). He asked what was going on, I told I didn't know but I had sorted it, and we both stumbled into our respective flats wondering whether we were going to burn to death or not.

So, what about my last week at work? Well, contrary to popular conjecture, I actually worked quite hard. It's not really fair to hand off a load of unfinished rubbish to someone else, is it? In the spirit of friendly co-operation (not to mention the fact that I was still being paid to work) I tried to get as much done as I could so that life could continue in the office with as little disruption as possible. Now I am wondering why I bothered: immediately the clock struck five on Friday afternoon, I realised that it was finished - I was never coming back to sit in my chair or log onto my PC again, and I didn't really mind. Whatever I might have left undone was someone else's problem - all week I had slogged my guts out because I thought it was nice when I could have just left things to tide over as there were NO COMEBACKS! I'm off the hook! Out the door! Never going back!!!

Friday was my final day and in traditional style, everyone in the office joins you for a boozy lunch with cards and gifts and charges everything to expenses. I took full advantage of the free drink and went hard at it, so much so that the rest of the afternoon in the office was a constant challenge between falling off my seat and tripping down the stairs. It was all free! What else was I going to do? Everyone in the office must have been particularly generous with my leaving collection as I got LOADS of lovely presents and cards, for which I am very grateful. I know that everyone sort of expects something when they go (it is customary, after all), but it was genuinely touching when it happened to me. Plus, what with me working hard all week I had completely put it out of my mind, so when the gifts came out I was genuinely surprised. What did I get? Only everything going in Paperchase - I am fully stocked on the funkiest stationery money can buy! Also, as a serious gift, I got a lovely pen which I will be using to make copious notes as I work my way through my novel writing adventure.

The weekend was spent in a drunken blur, I'm afraid to say; mandatory drinks after leaving work and then a night out (albeit more sedate than normal) with Al and Lisa on Saturday. Jim and I did eat in Fuschia on Friday (which is doing 50% off everything except drinks until the middle of June) and I strongly recommend you get yourself down there for a meal: the food is beautiful and the restaurant is surprisingly tasteful given it is slap bang in the middle of Broadmead. There are few things I like more than eating out, but eating out for half price has got to be one of them.

Sunday, following a home-cooked roast with the folks, was the technical rehearsal for Beyond the Fringe. Anyone who has ever performed on stage will know how gruelling these can be: sitting around waiting for the technicians to light the stage correctly, or get the sound cue in the right place. Surprisingly, this one went swimmingly and we were out in record time. I had expected the worst and brought masses of things to do (books to read, books to write, you name it) and, since the opportunity to go home and do nothing was too good to miss, I achieved none of it. Hurrah for me! Two days into joblessness and already I'm slacking off!

The only other news of the week (apart from my writing being described as 'masterful' by my novel-writing mentor and MA course referee - I'm so proud of it, I just have to tell everyone) is that I have been asked to interview for the MA Creative Writing course I applied for. This is EXCELLENT news and, since the interview is next Monday, I shall be spending all week preparing for it and NOT hunting for a job. Ah well, what are recruitment consultants for if it's not to do that for you? To that end, next week's blog will be on Tuesday since I shall be far too nervous over the weekend to write anything. Also, it's the play this week so I'll be (a) too busy and (b) too hung over after the after-show party to make it worth my while even switching the laptop on! James rolls his eyes when I tell him that with the play, the MA interview, KTN (which starts again next week), the writing groups and the social events we have planned, I'm far too busy to get a job. He agreed that I could be a kept man. For one day. A Sunday.

Next week: A review of the play, a report on the after-show party, and a run down of the interview that could seal my future creative writing career. I'm on the edge of my seat just thinking about it!!

...getting Lost

2006-05-08T18:04:00.000Z

Isn't it funny how phrases change with use? Getting Lost used to mean you fucked off back to where you came from, and usually with a flea in your ear and yet now it's the coolest thing on the planet.
"Did you get Lost last night?"
"Oh my God yes, did you?"
"No, I don't get why the shark is branded or what's going down with the crazy tribal people."
I suppose it's just the nature of language. While I was listening to the radio the other day it struck me that the 'B side' of a CD single isn't actually on the B-Side any more: it's amazing how quickly linguisitc anachronisms can develop. Why do they even have B-Sides anyway? It's not as though they have to fill up the gap while you rewind your single any more, is it? And who buys CD singles?! If you want the song, surely the whole world downloads now and saves their other seventy-nine pences for songs they want instead of three remixes of the single and a song that wasn't good enough for the album. But I digress.

Lost. It's true, I am officially an addict. I have even been hitting up every reference to the Hanso Foundation online in a desperate attempt to stave off the DTs as I wait for next week's episode. It's out of control. How will I ever get another job when all I can do is try to find clues on the internet all day, read message boards (seriously geeky), and hunt for references to 'The Numbers'? It's got to stop, although on this tack:

COUNTDOWN TO JOBLESSNESS: ONE WEEK!

The last time I was this excited about anything so totally trivial (Lost, not the job thing) was when The Times put three Sudoku puzzles in every day. Nonetheless, I am resisting the urge to spend another hour frustrating myself and will instead discuss things of a more mundane nature with you all: budgeting.

Yes fans, we all like to think we do it but we all know that deep down we don't. How many of us can honestly say that we limited ourselves to not spending that extra tenner in the bar, or not buying those shoes that were on special in the shop because it would have overspent on the budget? I'm willing to bet not many, and I hope I win that bet because it would help me pay for a couple of new jumpers and a few more iTunes downloads. As it is, with joblessness five days away, James and I sat down to find out exactly what we do spend on living, and where we could afford to save a little. Now, I'm not going to talk about our finances here because it's just not the done thing (I am British, after all), but the experience of writing down everything that comes in and everything that goes out is one of the most harrowing things ever. I do this every month for my personal expenses because I never trust myself to have remembered everything, but when we broke down the household expenses too, it was like pulling teeth. I thought the list would never end! Everything costs money, and four times as much as you would like to pay!

Of course I knew this was going to happen: I've lived away from home before and I know that golden rule: 'whatever you think it will cost, double it', but when you review the direct debit list and realise you had no idea how much things actually cost, it sort of makes your blood run cold. Who knew that electricity was so expensive!? Granted, we have no gas bills but still, that should mean we save on our heating, no? And as for water: did you know they actually know how much water you return to the drain!? Then they charge you for it! I haven't quite figured this one out yet as we've not had an actual bill, I'm assuming they actually charge you for it coming into the house and then what? Deduct what you return at a certain rate? Or charge you for the difference? I don't know, but if I can make it cheaper by taking every drop of water in the house and emptying it into the streets then b'joves, that's what I'll do!

At any rate, more shocking than the fact that we spend untold fortunes on Sky TV that we barely watch, was the fact that James had never before sat down and worked out his finances in an orderly fashion. And he's an accountant. I couldn't believe my ears. He said he'd just never had the need: it was all in his head, pretty much. Now, I know we all keep a mental list of everything financial (at least I hope we all do) but there comes a time, at least once in your life, when you have to sit down and wonder where the rest of your money goes each month? No? Is it just me? I'm all for the mental post-it: I'm trying to be a writer, for the love of Jebus! I'm all about the thinking it through in your brain ('composting an idea' is the phrase of choice) and then waiting till you get something worth writing, but I just have to write money down or I'm screwed!

Well, this revelation brought with it some clarity on an idea I have been pondering for some time: the work/life balance. I know it's a horrible corporate-lingo phrase that seriously pisses people off, but I did wonder whether there is such a thing as a balance, in the complementary sense, or whether work and life are often just two conflicting interests that require careful management in order to stop you annihilating yourself out of boredom/frustration. Allow me to illustrate:

I am an arty kind of a chap: there's no pretention in this statement; I posit it as undeniable fact. I'm not the greatest, but I'm up there (ho ho - no, seriously, I'm just a regular chap with a creative manner). However; every month, I write down what goes in and what comes out of my accounts. I have three accounts labelled 'Working', 'Playing' and 'Saving' so that I know what I have, when and where. Without such a system, I would be royally up the creek with no propulsion. Jim however, spends all day doing accountancy things (I have NO idea what it is he actually does do) and yet never in his life has he even thought about writing down his own accounts. Surely we are completely the opposite of one another in this respect, or more importantly, diametrically opposed to ourselves?

A discussion we had recently about clearing up the country to make it a better place to look at led me to suggest a unilateral 'tidying day' where everyone in the UK would have to get out and clean up. James pointed out to me that this would mean almost certain financial ruin for the country as the entire infrastructure would come to a halt whilst every citizen in the land donned their marigolds and broke out the Cillit Bang, not to mention the complete impracticality of enforcement, logistics and management. I suggested the Army enforce it and, before you knew it, what started out as a nice idea became a houseproud dictatorship. Further conversation on the matter revealed that investors would get worried if the government could make snap decisions to shut down the country, people would quickly learn to milk the system and on the whole, it was destined to fail. What did strike me was the empathy required to understand all this. There I was gaily lashing the citzenry to death to get things looking nice and all the time it was the accountant who talked me out of it by pointing out that other people have opinions too, and they might not be the same as mine.

I'm not really sure where I'm going with this, although I have discovered that I am actually a secret power-crazed maniac and if ever stand for anything I urge you to vote the other way. I suppose the point I was trying to make is that life is a funny conflict between different ideas - often in your own head - and that everyone is the same. If I can turn the country into a giant gulag in the name of aesthetics, isn't it possible that some of the bankers and politicians and middle-managers I lambasted so vehemently last time are actually trying to make the world a better place after all.

...not finding a job

2006-05-02T20:38:00.000Z

COUNTDOWN TO JOBLESSNESS: TWO WEEKS!!!

And what am I doing about it? Middling efforts to find something else, so this week's blog is going to be super short as I could be using the time to look into other employment opportunities.

In a nutshell then, this weekend was another quality party: Sarah's birthday party in Birmingham; having Monkey down to stay was lovely, lovely, lovely, and we went out on Sunday night to try Caribbean Food (I will discuss this restaurant fully the next time we have been there); writing classes started again (thanks to everyone who read my novel by the way - very helpful and plenty of food for thought) and there's a new member in the group who will hopefully stay and shake things up in a good way (more on this next week too, I hope); and rehearsals for latest RTC stage offering are entering their final stages. I will now shamelessly plug this show, and leave you to it. I'll be back on top form next week, I promise!!

PS: If you want tickets, please click the picture and use the details on the website: the phone number on the poster appears to be wrong!

Next week: I think we're going to a barbecue this weekend, which will be nice, and I will expound the tales I have begin this week. Plus, an employment update.

...the real ingredients for a good weekend

2006-04-24T21:11:00.000Z

Thanks to Clancy for highlighting that last week's post had the feel of Oscar acceptance speech. It seems I just can't get out the habit of being grateful. I will make more of an effort to take things for granted in the future. But not this week!

Another super week of all sorts of fun stuff, although I did mention to James that it is becoming increasingly hard to make the fun things we do every week interesting for everyone else. For example: this week James and I took to the road again, this time travelling to Winchester for a night out with party regulars Nuala and Clancy, hanging out in my former uni city and sharing the old memories with the new(ish) boyfriend. Then, after recovering from drinking about seven million litres of red wine the night before, we headed into London town for another night out to celebrate Robin's (HM) thirtieth birthday. More drunken revelry ensued in and around various venues in the capital, before calling it a night at about 3am and heading back to the hostel to collapse in a heap. However fun this is for me and everyone else there, and seriously, it was FUN, it's gonna make for pretty boring reading since it's not that different from every other weekend at the moment. Who would have thought I would complain about having too much fun to talk about?

This got me thinking about what it is that actually makes these weekends exciting. Is it the drinking? There's no denying that I do enjoy a nice beverage of a weekend. Is it the places I go? We have been gallivanting around the country like a pair of Romany gypsies of late. Is it the things that we do? Partying in cheesy discos and singing along to cheesy karaoke tracks is undeniably a highlight of any weekend. More than all this though, it's the people. It may sound corny and trite, but it's really quite true and it's only now I think about it that I realise how much. Without the people - the friends - to make it all worth doing, it's just another night in another pub and another dance in another disco before another hangover on another weekend, which is why trying to make it fun for people who don't know the friends I have will always result in with slightly less fun in the retelling than I had at the actual event.

What to say about the people then? Yes, you have guessed it: I am grateful I know them. I would not be having the fun I am having, doing the things I am doing, or going to the places I am going if it weren't for each and every one of them. What other reasons would I have for going to one of the smallest cities in the country for a night out, if not for the fact that I have friends who live there and I enjoy hanging out with them? Why else would I be going to the capital to dance the night away in the cheesiest club I have EVER seen, if not to celebrate a friend's thirtieth anniversary of being alive? What other reason would I have to laugh so hard I thought I would expire, watching people limbo and pole-dance on stage, if I didn't love them so much?

It's friends like these, friends who will always make sure you are having a good time, or pick you up when you are feeling down; friends who call you just because they want to know you, and who make you feel better about the interminable waiting to hear back about getting on the MA course, that make life worthwhile, and make it easier to hand in your notice at the office job you hate, knowing that you don't have anything else to go to. Reckless? Perhaps. Exciting? Definitely. Necessary? For sure! One month's notice is almost too long, but one month's wages are a must.

So here I am with one month to go before I am jobless, pinning all my hopes on going back to university to study a course that might not pay me to live once I finish it, and the only thing that makes me think that any of this is going to turn out alright is that I already have the best things that could come out of any of it: a wonderful boyfriend, a supportive family and the very best of friends.

Next week: Slushfest over, I'll try to scare up a rant from somewhere but it will be difficult: I've got friends coming to stay and we're off to another birthday party all weekend!

...gratitude

2006-04-19T08:10:00.000Z

Yo! I'm trying to revive the nineties one phrase at a time - try saying 'yo' to someone today instead of 'hey' or hello'; or 'Cowabunga dude!' when something really cool is about to happen. Let me know how you get on. Since this is a short week, this will be a shorter blog as I'm sure those of you reading at the office have plenty to do to keep you busy. I will just recap some highlights of the week gone, and the hectic weekend that was Easter 2006, via the medium of thanks...

Thanks to Lisa for making brownies for our inaugural dinner party at the flat. Thanks also to Ben and Alex for coming too. Thanks to Mike for providing the port that finished the meal (and all the guests) off perfectly. Board games are always entertaining and never more so than after a decent meal and a few drinks. Sadly Jim did not quite get the hang of 'Towns and counties' and tried his best to derail the game, but it was all in the name of fun and he was quite netertaining drawing anchor tattoos on my arm instead.

Thanks to Kara, my sister, for inviting us to her birthday party on Friday, and thanks to Naomi for making us very nearly wet ourselves laughing. Jon had the idea for getting the cake, and James and Naomi ran to the shop to buy two victoria sponges which we stuck together with an ordinary sized candle (no mini cake-sized candles were available) before presenting it to her surrounded by tea-lights and a rose from her own floral display - not a bad artistic achievement given the materials we had to work with, and she loved it anyway. Jim and I left at 10.30 to get the last train home and try to have an early night, but a 'cheeky one' on the way back to the flat turned into an all-nighter and we rolled in at about 3am on Saturday morning somewhat worse the wear. I should thank the barman for serving us despite me obviously being slaughtered, and the chap at the bar we spoke to all night about drivel (though he should really thank us for listening to him witter on - drunken old queen).

Thanks to everyone who came out on Saturday night in Bristol, and bought me drinks in a vain attempt to get me drunk again. After two days solid partying, it takes more drink than you can possibly buy to get drunk and this night was no exception. It was nice to have the whole gang together (except Al, sadly), especially as it's so rare that we are all in the same room at the same time. Ben and I discussed how nice it is that we friends from sixth form college (a) keep in touch at all, as many seem to drift apart, and (b) all seem to be doing the jobs we want to do, or at least are on the road to it, and are generally quite successful. I'm not trying to be smug about it, but it is true. And why shouldn't we be happy about it?

Thanks to James for my excellent Christmas present: tickets to see Jeff Wayne's musical version of The War of the Worlds on Easter Sunday. Thanks to the Jury's hotel who had to upgrade us to a very, VERY nice suite as they had run out of the standard one we had booked, and thanks to the cast, musicians and crew who made an AMAZING show. Neither of us were sure really what to expect and we were both blown away by the production, the only down side being the prologue they created for the martians, changing them from random international bullies into desperate aliens looking for a new home. No matter, the opening score did more than enough to erase this from my mind almost immediately. The recreation of Richard Burton through digital wizardry was ingenious - a giant, twenty-foot face suspended from the ceiling with his features projected onto it: fantastic! And, in some extraordinary attention to detail, they left it on throughout the interval, where it just kept blinking eerily at the audience. Superb.

Finally, thanks to Kara and her boyfriend Jon for this (I got my sister this card for her birthday) which made me laugh for hours and hours. It has sound, so turn your speakers up for the full effect:

Next week: Rehearsals, a trip to Winchester, a party in London, and a development in the office. Stay tuned!

...happiness

2006-04-09T17:52:00.000Z

After two weeks worth of ranting and no photos, I promised Liccy I would do a light-hearted, photo-filled week this week, and so here it is. I thought that since I had spent a fortnight talking about things that wind me up and/or piss me off, I would take note of some of the things that make me happy, or give me a little smile every now and then (not people though - there are far too many and I'd be here all night). So, things that make me happy:

This is my breakfast. Marmite on toast and a cup of tea. I love marmite and the toast has real butter on it too, so the marmite and the butter mix together when the toast is really hot, and run all over the place: yummy. That cup is my favourite cup - I forget when I got it or from whom. It's real china (not pottery) and it's chipped and battered but that just makes me love it more. Tea always tastes better from a real china cup.

(Dusty lens on my phone camera - sorry!) This is my desk at work. The cup has a picture of a frog hitching a lift on a plane with his tongue, which I like. The mousemat is the one I bought at Butlins when we saw Timmy Mallet, and it reminds me of the fun we had. The pen pot has more pens, pencils, markers and highlighters than I can ever use, but I like it that way. Also, since the photocopier and fax machine are right in front of my desk, everyone steals my pens. By having fifty to choose from in the pot, no one takes the nicer pens that I hide under my keyboard. Not just a pretty face!

I was going through some stuff I had left at my sister's recently, when I came across this. The 'Ashbarn Angel' was named after the street we lived on when I was at university. She's made from a paper plate, some glitter and glue and a bit of wire to hang her on. She's utter crap but I just can't throw her out.

This foot is made out of an old tyre. We did it at uni as a part of our final year performance (Liccy, Elsa, Gabs and me) by the sole of my foot (or Elsa's - I can never remember whose is which) and then standing on a tyre. The chaps at the garage across the road cut it out for us and we used it in the best piece of theatrical work I ever helped produce. This reminds me of the fun we had doing it all - after we made this foot, we went out and drank cocktails.

This is the view from Glandore in Ireland, across the bay to Union Hall, where my family are from. (Thanks to Maria for sending me this film ages and ages ago). This ALWAYS makes me feel happy.

There are hundreds of things that make me smile, remind me of things I've done or people I know and generally make life better and more fun. This week though, one of my favourite things was the fireworks display for the Brunel Bicentenary. Fireworks always remind me of being a child, being afraid of the bangs, and trying to guess what colour the next one would be, yelling at the top of my lungs with my sister, much to the amusement of everyone standing nearby. This particular display was worthy of Sydney Harbour at New Year, so I'm told. The Clifton Suspension Bridge is a remarkable feat of engineering and the perfect setting for the celebrations, and it turned into a classic night of drunken revelry. With Ben back in Bristol it was nice to have almost everyone out together again, and that made me happy too.

Finally, as a comical end to the working week, I saw this in the car park on Friday afternoon. I don't think whoever forgot to put their handbrake on could have been very happy after finding this upon their return!

Next week: The blog will be late next week as it's Easter, and following my sister's birthday and a few other nights out, James and I are off to Cardiff to see the musical of 'War of the Worlds'! Oh yes, and I almost forgot: we got Madonna tickets for August! Woo hoo!!

...ID cards

2006-04-02T16:53:00.000Z

I feel strange. It's only 6pm on Sunday and yet here I am blogging. There is nothing outstanding for me to complete, the house is tidy, I am up-to-date with everything on television, the washing is under control and once I have done this, there is nothing I will have to do: it's just not normal. I know that I have turned into this model of efficiency, but that was only because I had so much to control there was no other way to do it: I never thought that being motivated and organised would actually lead to having nothing to do!! You learn something new every day.

This week has been a funny one - all week I was raving about ID cards. I plan to rave about them some more a bit further on, but I'll get the light, frothy stuff out of the way first. This week I have contracted head lice. God only knows how or from where: these little bastards are not only fiendishly easy to catch but particularly irritating, not least for the effort in having to get rid of them. As I write, James and I are committing nit genocide with some innocuous-looking but potent lotion. That will teach them. Still, life goes on. Tuesday was a fun evening at the first rehearsal for Beyond The Fringe. I was a little reticent to go and wondered if I could be bothered, but when I got there I had such a good time it reminded me that I am doing it for fun and now I'm looking forward to it again. Thursday was the final KTN (the talking newspaper for the blind) for a few months which means I feel good for having done my charity stint and now have three months off (hurrah!) and I took a half day on Friday, where I treated myself to a shopping trip, and an early bath with a good book, a cushion behind my head, Scissor Sisters on the stereo and a large whisky-and-coke. If you're going to have a half day, make it a good one.

Friday night was a nice, low-key, no-pressure night drifting up the Gloucester Road on what became 'Whisky Friday'. I recommend everyone have at least one night like that a month: go somewhere reasonably crowd-free, drink things you don't usually drink and take it easy. You might not feel *too* great if you have to get up and help your sister and her boyfriend move house the next day, but if you assume the rôle of 'tea manager' and make yourself look busy enough, you can just about pull it off. Today (Sunday) I took James to the Show of Strength performances at the Southville Centre in Bristol. Show of Strength are a Bristol-based theatre company who specialise in performance in unconventional spaces. They have a writing competition every year on a different theme, and a friend of mine from writing won the chance to have her work performed. This year's theme was 'Waiting' and Tracey wrote an excellent monologue about a little girl, ten minutes before the start of her birthday party, who had been forced to invite the school bully without telling her mother, who had specifically told her not to ask her along. It was brilliant and so exciting to see things and people you like doing so well. There was also an hilarious monologue about a mermaid visiting Asda to emancipate the fish counter and we left (to go to Asda, funnily enough) still laughing about the concept of the 'mop and bucket man' trying to clean up after her.

All this loveliness aside though, my week has been dominated by the prospect of the introduction of the National Identity Card, and it's progress through the House of Lords. This week, I received this in my inbox which those of you who know me will appreciate was like pouring chip fat onto an oil fire. I thought that it might be a little over-excited with it's prophecy of doom and gloom, but then I read this and that confirmed it: ID Cards are the single biggest threat to personal freedom and individual liberty in the history of modern Britain. I am opposed to them on so many levels but I will give you my arguments in a nutshell:

(1)It is not the card, but the database, that scares me. I mean really scares me. Not the 'ooh, what a scary thought' kind of scared: the 'how can I get off this train-wreck of impending doom' kind of scared; the kind where you really don't want to be a part of what is about to happen. This is a centrally-held information store of everything they want to know about you, accessible (for a price) by almost anyone with a demonstrable interest. It will also hold records of every time you use your card, which will be anywhere and everywhere, thus filling in any blanks on your record through inference and analysis.

(2) The data is not static, and is open to interpretation. For example (follow the clues): the government have said that they will not ask for details such as religion/sexual preference/health/political persuasion. However you will have to scan your card every time you visit here (to prove you are old enough to drink), your doctors and chemist (to prove you are entitled to NHS benefits such as free treatment and/or prescriptions); or fill in your application to join a political party (to prove you are who you say you are and avoid breaking rules on party funding), any six-year-old can interpret the data to arrive at a more in-depth conclusion than you might first have assumed would be possible: I am, according to those facts, a gay, drug-addicted Tory.

(3) You have to pay £90 (estimated) to own your own identity. Identity fraud means it is more and more difficult to identify yourself to anyone else with any surety (when I worked for a bank it was common to turn people away for having insufficient means of proving who they said they were). The government response to this threat is simple: you can't be trusted with your own identity, so we will own it for you. Well, at least it's pragmatic. Despite the number or reasons we have not to trust this government, I am meant to entrust them with the ultimate proof of my identity (including iris scans, fingerprints and facial recognition information: all currently reserved for identifying criminals), in the sure and certain knowledge that this information will be used as they see fit and not as I would wish, because:

(4) This scheme can only grow. When we had ID cards in the war they started with defined functions (and were free). By the time they were abolished in the 1950s, the National ID card had approximately thirty-six administrative uses, most of them introduced as additional 'benefits' of the card. What additional 'benefits' will be attached to the database once the card has been entrenched in the national consciousness? Businesses will use the card as the default method of identity and/or proof of eligibility, not through constitutional loyalty, but rather to protect the interests of shareholders. It will become the norm to have your card do everything for you. How soon before banks allow you to use it as your cashcard? Or Sainsbury's use it to collect your reward points on? Then picture the scene:

One day you are around the corner from a robbery and considered a potential witness (your whereabouts have been clocked because you were buying cigarettes in the corner shop one minute earlier (card swiped: over sixteen-years old). You don't know that you area potential witness as you didn't see anything but the police, anxious to get your information as soon as possible, check the register for your details and show up at work, or the train station, or your home in the middle of the night. Perhaps it's your day off, or you are away for the weekend, so they track you down in Tesco (buying your groceries) or The Red Lion (getting lunch in on a sunny Friday afternoon) or Blackpool (booking into your hotel for the weekend) and pay you a visit to question you about the incident. Perhaps they think you were involved and are trying to flee the country from your sea-side getaway spot, so they revoke your card (it's not your property, after all) making it impossible for you to do anything, and alerting them the next time you try.

You might think I'm overreacting, assuming the worst and trying to make you afraid of this concept, but it is happening already and you should be afraid of it. Before you know it, there will be a two-tier 'have cards' and 'have nots' system, where foreigners/objectors/the elderly/mentally ill will be treated with suspicion and doubt by those who did the easy thing and got the card. It's just another form of discrimination waiting to happen.

I'm not suggesting proving who you are is a bad thing - I believe quite the opposite - but having the government in day-to-day control of it's citizens' identities has to be a bad thing. By 2010, we will all be visiting 'Registration Centres' to get our new, government-owned identity documents. What other regimes throughout history have done the same?

You are your identity and giving it to the state is surrendering it for yourself. Currently you have prove who you are, and that is right. You should not have to rely on your government to licence you to use your identity for ten years, then force you, no doubt at a cost, to replace your card or face the consequences (proposed penalties for ID inaccuracies range from £1000 fine to five years in jail). For those with no choice but to live in the UK, it is a tax on life, ageing, and a citizenship which throughout history has been a gift by birth. We did not choose to be born here, but soon we will have to pay for it.

Next week: If I'm not bundled into an unmarked car with a hood on my face, I will let you know how preparations for changing my nationality are going. I thank my lucky stars I'm half-Irish.

...irritability as an art form

2006-03-27T17:53:00.001Z

Aargh! I don't want to be here today. This is the shitty side of blogging and having people text and e-mail you when it's late: sometimes you would rather be sat down doing sweet F.A. than writing up what happened to you last week and trying to make it amusing and fun for all. Bugger all happened last week and that's the truth of it.

The working week was the working week and there's precious little to say about it. We did have a hacker in the computer system which has caused (a) a lot of damage, (b) a lot of worry about fraud (us being a finance company and all), and (c) a companywide manhunt to root out the bastard and find out who let him in in the first place. Once the culprit is identified, there may well be hell to pay (let it be me! Sack me! Let me spend my days at home working out how to screw you over in an industrial tribunal! ) but it's not likely as the general rule with these things is: the staff follow the rules and get shit when things go wrong; the bosses break all the rules and nothing happens when the whole fucking company goes tits up for three days. As the designated 'computer contact' for the company, who gets everyone ringing up every twenty minutes complaining that 'this has just crashed' or 'that won't let me log in' - muggins here. All that guff about how it would be good for me to do: '...you like logically solving problems...', '...integral part of the team...', '...extra responsibility...' - has anyone ever noticed that 'extra responsibility' never means 'extra pay', but 'extra pay' ALWAYS comes with a generous helping of 'extra responsibility'? Swines.

So, after the PC's crashed we had the fun of the rebuild. (Might I just say at this stage that this would never happen with a mac.) Our IT consultants decide that the best thing is to remove all access to the server (does this sound right? I was only half listening) and replace everyone with new passwords and access paths and shit. Simple enough you might think - set everyone's passwords to expire and then get them to replace in the morning when they log on. Noooo, can't do that. "OK", I think, "set up your flash new whoojimmywhatsits and give everyone a default password which they will need to change at first log-on". Apparently not a viable option either. Instead, why don't I make a paper list of everyone's confidential passwords and then e-mail it to you on our violated e-mail system, so you can set everyone up and then we can all get back to work!? OK, that sounds like the twenty-first century solution I was waiting for. Let's go, brains!! Christ almighty - that really was the absolute limit. There I was, pen in hand, getting people to write down their new passwords for me so I could send them across a hacked-up connection to make our network more secure. More than once I sat down and pissed myself laughing, it was so absurd. The rest of the office met this idea with riotous laughter and that shaking of the head that indicates they understand it too: 'nothing will ever change'.

By the end of the week, after a comical morning of "nothing is working" phone calls, which I answered with a standard, "I know, I told you that last night, the matter is in hand", the final wrinkles were being worked out of the office, only to find that if you want to work from home, you can't. Now, why you want to work from home when you spend all day in the office anyway,I have to fathom, but there you are: people do. I'm all for working from home if you don't have an office (it is, in fact, my goal in life) but if you work for a nine-to-five company, work nine-to-five. It's that simple. Perhaps I'm being naïve about the work-ethic thing, but come on people - we all think it! By Friday I had had enough and when I got home it was nice to just sit down, order in an indian (meal, clearly) and watch a film with James at home. Quiet nights in are severely underrated.

Saturday, James and I did a spot of shopping, followed by a delicious lunch in Wagamama's, then back to the flat for what turned out to be another quiet night in, having some drinks, playing some tunes and dancing in the kitchen like a couple of clowns: excellent fun! We did venture into town at about 10.30 but we got to the door of the pub, were just about to pay, and then James turns to me and says: "do we really want to go in here?" Well, of course not! We're only out because we feel obligated on a Saturday night. Let's get pie and chips and go home. So we did. Sunday was Mother's Day so we went to my parent's early and cooked my mum a proper English breakfast, then on to James's parent's for lunch before coming home to have quiet drinks with Al and Lisa at the flat again, and then another super early night. Heaven. The first weekend for ages that we didn't have to go hither, thither and yon, and I've just read last week's blog and checked my diary and realised that we missed the 'Superheroes Party' because I thought it was next weekend. Curses.

Finally, since this does seem to be a ranting week, I would just like to raise a question about what it is that they (ah, the fabulous 'they') are teaching people in schools. Whilst watching "Who wants to be a millionaire" the 'fastest finger first' question was to put the following characters in the chronological order of creation: A: Bill Sikes B: Miss Marple C: Professor Moriarty D: Draco Malfoy. ONE PERSON GOT IT RIGHT! One person out of ten knew the answer (A, C, B, D), and these are well known books (Oliver, Sherlock Holmes, The Entire Miss Marple Collection and Harry Potter)! I don't profess to be the widest read person in the world, but come on! Do people actually read anymore? Or am I about to embark (assuming that I actually get on to the MA course) on the biggest waste of time in the world becoming a creative writer? And don't even get me started on how they teach poetry in schools these days. Is it any wonder no one wants to read it anymore when all the joy and fun of it is sapped out in the desperate quest to understand it. Bugger that! Read it, love it, make up your own mind. Life really is too short. My friend Greg linked to this blog (Some thoughts about my life as a creative individual)and I didn't think I would but I seem to have talked myself into it. He is right: imagine a world without bankers and politicians and middle managers (and IT consultancy firms and finance company computer systems), and then imagine a world without the arts. Where would you rather live?

Next week: Rehearsals, KTN, Kara moves again (twice in two weeks - long sorry story) and God only knows what else. You know how it is.

...house-warming parties

2006-03-20T22:21:00.000Z

Hello there blog fans! Hang-over behind me, it's that time of the week and, what with the internet finally having been sorted at home, I can happily blog away from the dining table whilst James works hard in the spare room - oh, the wonders of modern technology!! The photos this week come from the wonderous housewarming party (pics available here): well attended, well liquered and well enjoyed! Thanks to all for coming - a summary follows after the rest of the week's events!

On Monday, James and I took my sister for our final visit to Ikea in our lives* and spent enough to make ourselves feel sick. That said, the house is fully kitted out now praise be for it - the only thing I couldn't bear more than going around Ikea again was opening the door to the spare room and seeing all the mess in there. I didn't see it coming (and uni friends are surprised to see it) but I have become an insatiable house-proud nutjob. I am obsessed with tupperware and cleaning products and table-runners. I am Anthea Turner; I am Bree Van De Kamp, Kim and Aggie, Margo Leadbetter. I am beyond help. Sufffice to say we spent all Monday evening knocking up shelves with those dinky little alun keys - guaranteed to last a year! After it was all built we stood around and took stock of the showroom we had constructed and shook our heads. "I hate it all" was all we could say, but we hate the mess more and needs must when the devil drives. When we can afford to upgrade, it's bespoke all the way.

Wednesday was the Bath Spa University Open Day and along I went (with Jim as support) to investigate my latest idea - going back to college! Yes indeed, if all goes according to plan and I actually get a place, I will become Sven, Ba (Hons), MA!! Oh yeah! (Note to self - reign in the exclamation marks.) Now, I know that in the past I have had some crazy schemes and not many of them came to fruition (remember when I was straight - that was a good one) but I really, really think this is something I can do. Look at the blog! This is just a bit of fun and yet fifteen-hundred words a week x fifty-one weeks = seventy-six thousand words!!! In just under ten months I have written the equivalent of an inaugural novel AND I've stuck with it. I was thinking about it on the train today and I always wondered why I had made the choices I have: English Lit and Theatre Studies A-Levels; English and Drama degree; writing course and Am Dram: when I look at it now it's all so clear but at the time you just do what you want to and hope that somewhere down the line it all comes together.

Anyway, tangent over. The Open Day went well. Not only was the tutor very enthusiastic and informed (not to mention published) but he seemed excited by what I have done so far, told me to apply immediately and then told me to ring the course director and introduce myself so that when my application came across his desk he would remember me and look favourably upon my work!! I was thrilled and couldn't stop talking about it all the way home! Yes, it's full time so gainful employment will be a part-time distraction and yes, it's thirty hours a week reading and writing and reading and writing, then a further six hours getting talked to and about, but how exciting!! Every Tuesday they have authors and agents and publishers give talks and network and then take on graduates for all sorts of writing jobs - including publishing their novels! - and one day one of those could be me!! Fingers crossed!

Friday was St Patrick's day, which in my family is also my Irish Grandad's birthday. It is funny since he is called Patrick to boot, but the history of my family's birth certificates and their passing acquaintances with the actual events they are meant to record, mean that St Patrick's day is not his real birthday (he has two birth certificates - work that one out - with two different dates) and was probably an educated guess by his family before him. Rural Ireland: it's a law unto itself.

Anyway, it's always fun to hang out with the grandparents, not least because they are all mad as hatters, and it was a nice way to spend a couple of hours before going shopping for the party buffet of the century in Tesco *cough*scum of the universe*cough*. Did you know that one in every eight pounds spent in this country goes through Tesco's tills? It's scandalous. Support your local store, I say, although my local store doesn't sell mini pizzas and cheese-and-pineapple-on-sticks at 10pm so he was kind of ruled out this time. Sorry!

Saturday finally arrived and the party was upon us.

Dining area before:

Dining area after:

Kitchen before:

(see below for after)

We said to show up any time from about noon, so when it was only my parents and James's friends, Katie and Adrian, at 2.45pm we were getting a little concerned. We shouldn't have worried - if we had thought about it sensibly we would have realised no one would show up much before 3.30pm and so it was that by four o'clock the house was filled to the rafters with merry-making amigos. The rest of the party went swimmingly and moving twenty-five-odd people around from venue to venue was deftly handled: getting them out of the house by means of chronic wind was not my first idea, but certainly one of my most effective. Oh, you all mock me but it works!!

The rest of the night was spent drinking wayyyy too much, singing karaoke at the Chinese/Karaoke restuarant, of which Rudy (old friend/acquaintance from sixth form
college) is now the manager, and dancing like a twat in the cheesiest disco on earth.
I don't recall a lot after Elsa and I were the first ones up to karaoke, but I spilled a whole table of drinks, danced with my shirt off and got lost outside the toilets in the smallest club on Earth. Thanks to everyone for coming, and everyone who rescued either James or myself from some scrape or other: we couldn't avoid James being chucked out in the end, but we hung on in there as long as we could! Kudos to Elsa for staying up until 4am drinking more and playing Quizmaster on the television.

Well, party over and back to the normal routine of everyday life. Normal is great when you get it back, although we did spend all of Sunday lounging around, feeding friends bacon sandwiches and chatting away before getting back into bed and chain-viewing Desperate Housewives (Season 1) - can you believe James missed it the first time around!? James and I would just like to thank everyone for such a great weekend - it was an absolute joy to have everyone there. Apologies to those of you who made the effort to come and with whom we did not get the chance to properly catch up: Al & Lisa, Rowin & Dan, Si & Laura, Woodsy (thanks for the port!) the list goes on. The good news is we have loads of diary dates now to go and see everyone so I shall have plenty of stuff to write about and hoards more photos to keep you all entertained.

Finally, respect to Katie & Gemsy who had such a good time they ended up spending Sunday morning talking down the big white telephone. It may look like Nick is tidying up in this photo**, but that bucket is just to make sure Katie has somewhere to vomit in the car on the way home. Now that's hardcore.

Next week: Applying for the MA course, Mother's Day I, my sister moves house and a superheroes party!

*one can only hope. Seriously, one more hour in there and I will burn the place down. All that untreated wood? It's a tinderbox, I tell you.

**I just spent 40 minutes choosing and posting the phots only for them all to vanish just as I was two from the end. I am so livid the air is actually blue, but I will do it all again tomorrow. I actually could cry, I'm so cross. [ Finally got there via photobucket. I think it's the smaller broadband we have at home now :( ]

...time management

2006-03-15T10:43:00.000Z

Gemsy B! If it weren't for you texting me abuse about not getting this entry out there I would still be working hard and earning my wage. As it is, I am doing neither of those things so indirectly (since I am being paid for doing something entirely unconnected with work) you are responsible for theft. I expect a comment for the personal mention, by the way!)

Tardiness this week is, of course, due to the move and the lack of internet access at home (which should be fixed today - hurrah!) and my actually having something to do in the office for a change! It's funny how, when you have things to keep you occupied, even the dullest of jobs become bearable; don't you think? Also, if you had a week like mine last week, you would be too exhausted to even think about blogging. Let me begin...

Monday 6 March

9am:

Show my face in the office. After having last week off I am expecting the worst. I am not disappointed. My desk looks like a paper recreation of the Himalayan foothills - I can just about see my keyboard peeping out under the tonne of crap I have been left to deal with. Still feeling lethargic (doesn't a week off do that to you? You just can't get into the swing of it, no matter what it was that meant you were off) I half-heartedly attempt to make an impression on it.

12pm:

I forget I had brought my own lunch and go and buy some. I don't know what possesses me but I eat both lunches and spend the rest of the afternoon feeling fat as a house and unable to work for being so stuffed.

5pm:

Having succeeded in making no impression at all, I make my way home. First day back at work: Mission accomplished! My sister and I pop in to see my grandad who turned eighty-six on Saturday. His eyesight is failing him which scares us both; he tells us it is age-related and nothing can be done. It hits me that we won't all last forever, and that I'm actually VERY lucky to have three out four grandparents still alive, still independent and still as cantankerous as ever.

6.30pm:

Move the last of my crap out of mum and dad's house, and take my sister back to the new flat for dinner. She loves it and much fun is had by all.

Tuesday 7 March

8.20am:

The first day of getting the train to work from Bristol. I jump on the 8.20 train from platform 7 and all seems to be going swimmingly. I did not put two and two together however, in looking at the departure screen and seeing it went to Cardiff. From Bath (where I used to live) the Cardiff train goes via Bristol. From Bristol (where I now live) it only goes to Cardiff. A platform alteration meant the 8.20 train I needed had left from somewhere else and I was now going at 80mph in the wrong direction, under the River Severn and into Wales.

8.50am:

I manage to alight the train at Severn Tunnel Junction without having to go all the way into Cardiff. The plan is simple: this is rush hour and trains from Cardiff to Bristol should be ten-a-penny.

9am:

Still at Severn Tunnel Junction: The Station That Time Forgot. I speak to the guard who tells me there are two trains an hour to Bristol, and one an hour direct to Bath. I plan to get the first one to Bristol and change to get to Bath sooner. I ring work (they all piss themselves laughing) to explain why I will be late.

9.02am:

The first train is cancelled.

9.30am:

Still at Severn Tunnel Junction. I begin to wonder if I am actually in the twilight zone. The station is like the waiting room at the end of the universe. Wind-blown and rain-lashed, there is nothing around it and the land is eeriely flat for a hilly country like Wales. There are three roads that run next to each other out of the station: one braches left, the other right and the middle one straight on; all vanishing into the horizon. A post-van takes the left, only to return ten minutes later down the middle. Has he actually delivered something to somewhere, or merely driven in a staight line to come back to where he started? Was that really the Severn Tunnel we went through, or some glitch in time and space that has taken me to the Train Station of Eternity, where all time stands still. Will the next train take me to some historic event, or some place far in the future? Will it actually ever arrive?

9.45am:

The guard shouts across the platforms (no tannoy here, but a personal service) that the train I need has left Newport and will arrive shortly. If I believed in God I would thank him, but I have my doubts so I just wait patiently in the shelter/shack on the draughty platform, reading my book.

9.54am:

The train finally arrives. It is not going to the Battle of Agincourt or The French Revolution, but it does go straight through to Bath. I get on, explain my predicament to the conductor who does not make me buy another ticket (I am clearly an idiot so why push it? I might turn violent) and sit down.

10.45am:

I finally arrive at the office. Everyone laughs at me. Then they laugh some more. E-mails I receive mock me relentlessly. I will never live this down.

12.30pm:

After one-and-three-quarter hours in the office, I leave for a training course. The mountain range of paper on my desk remains unconquered. I am mocked as I head for the train to take me back to Bristol for the course, though at least I can walk from the training venue to my house, rather than have to commute from Bath in the rush hour. A day well spent, I conclude.

Wednesday 8 March

10am:

The final writing group of this term. A calming influence on this week, the last session is always a presentation of works in progress by the group and they are always exceptional (you pick your best bits to showcase, of course). This term I have discovered poetry, and also learned a lot about inspiration. It really can come from anywhere and often it gets ditched halfway through, but where you end up is really more important than where you started and the journey is always fun.

Thurday 9 March

9am:

I am in the office and actually motivated to do some work. Proabably because I know it is a half day. Also, since I will spend a cumulative total of two days in the office this week, I feel I should be making more of an effort.

1pm:

The final novel-writing group of the term. It is also Dawn's (fellow writer) birthday so there are cakes and we all sit around chatting. We do theu usual readings of work prepared and critique it. It is also the last meeting in our usual spot since Louise (the teacher) is moving house and next time we meet it will be in her new kitchen! No tears are shed, but we all have a lovely afternoon. I get home nice and early (3.20pm) because it's in Bristol, but my stay at home is short-lived.

5.20pm:

I leave for Keynsham Talking Newspaper as I am the technician this month. I don't have to be there till 7pm, but I haven't got the keys to the studio (in the GP practice) so I need to be in the building before they lock up, or else two-hundred-and-fifty blind people in the area will be without their weekly 'news and entertainment' bulletin, and I will be in a lot of trouble.

7.30pm:

A problem with the tapes means recording is slow. I wonder if we will ever get out of there.

8.15pm:

We identify the problem withthe tapes as beiong a mis-recorded master copy (my fault) and rectify the situation. Finally we pick up speed and things are looking up.

9.00pm:

We are free! Only forty-five minutes late and it's lashing it down outside again!

9.30pm:

I get home and James has my dinner on the table and ready to eat. What a hero!

Friday 10 March

9am:

Rock up at the office. Nothing to report though I am busy busy busy and actually manage to get some stuff done - hurrah!

1pm:

At lunch, from time to time, I like to take a walk as I'm sitting down all day and since I'm not a member of the gym anymore, I'll just get fat. Today's walk takes me slightly out of town, but it's scenic and not too far to walk back in good time.

1.30pm:

As I am walking, it starts to rain so I turn around to head back.

1.34pm:

The sole of my right shoe comes unstuck. It is not so bad that I can't walk normally so I decide to risk it back to the office, spend the rest ofthe day shoeless, hurry discretely home and then bin them (the shoes are so old repair is not worth it).

1.36pm:

I catch the sole on something and stand on it, bending it backwards and making walking normally impossible. I stop and remove the shoe, pulling the sole off viciously so I can at least make it into a shoe shop with dignity and buy a new pair. I am outside a student house, and attract a crowd of interested residents wondering what this guy is doing pulling his shoe apart on a rainy day in the middle of the street. I smile, replace the shoe, put the sole in my pocket and hurry away as fast as assumed nonchalance will allow.

1.55pm:

I get into Dune, and find they have £20 off almost all their shoes, including the ones I bought full price a fortnight ago. I am gutted, but by Irish logic decide that buying more shoes in here will get my £20 back (am I insane? The answer is yes.) I buy a nice pair of shoes for a reasonable price and wear them immediately, so I cannot take them back.

4.10pm:

Whilst in the office, the shoes start to rub my feet.

4.50pm:

All the way to the train station, the shoes continue to rub my feet.

5.10pm:

On the train, the shoes still insist on rubbing my feet.

5.20pm:

Walking home, the shoes cause such agony that I am virtually limping. I decide that wet feet are better than sore feet and, in the street for the second time today (this time next to the uber-busy A4 road) I take off my shoes, put the old ones back on and make my way home watched by a smattering of bemused passers-by.

7pm:

James has friends around and after a few wines, I meet Al in the pub and relate my weeks trials to him and Lucy. They both find it hilarious, and Alex comments that these are the reasons I have a blog - this kind of thing just doesn't happen to normal people. It's a lovely thing to say, but everyone's shoes rub, it's just that for normal people it just 'happens', for me it's an 'EVENT'.

Saturday 11 March

12pm:

James and I leave the flat for Ikea to search for a desk for the spare room. We don't find one we like, so decide to go home and give it a good coat of thinking about.

5pm:

Having thought about it, we get ready for James's friend's wedding reception and leave at about 7pm.

7.40pm:

We are lost. It's only five miles from Bath and we haven't a clue. And I'm NEVER lost (well, rarely). I can negotiate foreign capitals with ease and yet my own countryside and we're screwed. Thank heavens for Orange GPRS or we'd never have found the place!

7.55pm:

We finally arrive and the party is in full swing. James met some old friends with whom he had lost touch and arranged to meet up again, and all in all we had a lovely night. I love weddings and like I said to Al, you kow it's a good one when they break out the Lionel Ritchie! 'All Night Long' - oh yeah!!!

Sunday 12 March

12pm:

More fruitless desk-searching begins. If I see the inside of another furniture store, I will go wild.

2pm:

I remember I have a rehearsal for the new play I am in (Beyond The Fringe), and curse my luck. I want to be in it of course, but when things like that slip your mind it buggers up your whole day.

4pm:

We head to Mum and Dad's for lunch (I may have moved out, but I'm always up for a free roast dinner!)

7pm:

Start rehearsal. James gets the train home from Bath to Bristol and gets lost trying to find a quicker route from the station to our flat. Rehearsals go well and I am home and in bed at a reasonable hour - another eventful week ended!

Next week: More bloody Ikea, an open day at Bath Spa Uni, St Patrick's Day, and the event of the season: the Housewarming!!

...square eyes

2006-03-08T09:59:00.000Z

Well, what a week it has been! I have watched more DVDs than I knew it was possible to view, thanks to being laid up sick as a dog with proper flu-like symptoms. So, from my sick-bed, I have watched:

Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith (The best of the ‘prequel trilogy’, and almost passable as a film in it’s own right, notwithstanding the utter shite that the three of them have been and how much of a sell-out George Lucas remains)
Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl (Excellent romp and jolly good pirate fun. Love it)
Mona Lisa Smile (Sentimental but amiable enough film about burgeoning womanhood in the 1950s)
The Recruit (Colin Farrell is good. Al Pacino is not)
Birth (Beautifully shot film about re-incarnation. Not much happens but it’s a visual treat)
Batman Begins (Pisses all over the other Batman films, except the original, and I am rather partial to the second one with Catwoman in it too).
The Thomas Crown Affair (Stylish remake with Pierce Brosnan and Rene Russo. I really really like this film and I think my sister enjoyed it too. I love it when you start watching something that you wouldn’t ordinarily and then it turns out to be something you enjoy: it’s an extra special treat to watch it happen to someone else too!)

On top of this, the new series of Loose Women started this week and I started watching that, not to mention a re-introduction to This Morning; it was almost like being a student again, except for the feeling like shite! All these televisual treats were marred on by the dreadful, dreadful, dreadful Jeremy Kyle Show. For those of who may not have enjoyed the delights of ITV’s worst offering, imagine Jerry Springer with worse guests and a host who insists on shouting full bore at his guests until they humbly slink off having been told off on national television.

What I hate most about this show is not the format, which belongs on the scrapheap of television history, nor the guests, who are selling other people’s grief for their own fame (I bet they all get a kick out of being recognised in their local at the cost of someone else’s dignity), but the way Jeremy sets himself up as the voice of morality, then lets loose at everyone who has the temerity to walk across his stage. Whilst he declares that “everyone gets a fair crack on my show”, he just shouts everyone down and tells them off for not conforming to the common ideaology of what is acceptable. This is ITV’s idea of what is an acceptable ideology, and ‘Shite TV’ is tabloid TV at it’s worst: closed-minded rubbish. I decided after Wednesday’s episode (“Wife, you’re pregnant: stop beating me”) that I would not watch it again. Ever.

This weekend was the big move, and that is why this week’s fiftieth entry is late: I have no internet access at home at the moment. Aside from that, the flat is BEAUTIFUL and making it a home is such good fun! I was caught off-guard by some unexpected home-sickness but that seems to be waning now my diary is filling up with things to do. I wonder whether it was full-blown homesickness, or whether it was just the inevitable comedown after such a big change. Time will tell. I wasn’t expecting any home-sickness at all since I have lived away from home before (my parent’s house, that is) but I think having been there for nearly two years there was always going to be a certain amount of attachment to the easy life and comforts of living with the parents. That said, it’s soooo nice to have your own home I wouldn’t go back. That, and living with James of course, who puts up with my miserable home-sickness with beautiful grace and understanding. Even when I sat in the back of the moving van picking up crap that had fallen over, going into nuclear meltdown and shouting about how this was 'the worst, most disorganised move I have ever had' he just let me get on with my rant and helped me put things right: he's a diamond.

Well, that’s all the news really: moving has taken it out of me and there have been no other social events of late. What with being laid up in bed and moving house I haven’t really had a great deal to talk about. I must mention this week’s quote of the week from James before I go, as it made me piss my pants with laughter: whilst discussing immortality (we have been watching Time on BBC Four) I asked whether he would, were he able, download himself into a computer and live forever as a machine. Not listening fully, he gave this some heavy thought, before responding: “I think being a till wouldn’t be too bad”.

Next week: The return to work, an unexpected trip to Wales, KTN, new rehearsals for a new play, and a wedding reception. I shall be back on the social circuit in no time. Also, writing classes end (boo hoo) so expect a summary of the term.

...Cider Friday

2006-02-26T22:47:00.000Z

How to have your very own Cider Friday

1. Take a number of good friends. In this case, I'm taking three (Mike, Simon and Al), but you should choose as many as you are comfortable with:

2. The rules are (a) you can only drink cider, and (b) you must drink a different cider for every bar you go into. Whilst there you can have as many of the same drink as you like, but once you move on you must kiss it goodbye for the rest of the night. Here are the results of my Cider Friday (yours may differ from those shown).

Bar One: O'Neills. Cider of choice: Magners

I did suggest we do a short review of every cider we tried but that idea went to pot after a few, though we did concur that Magners is a great cider; particularly sweet and sticky, but very nice indeed. With or without ice, it is thoroughly refreshing. As the official cider of the Irish holiday last year, it retains it's position as 'honorary cider of choice' chiefly thanks to this sentimental attachment. We had three of these each (Simon was not drinking and for the purposes of tonight, acted as the 'control').

Quote of the pub: "Excuse me, I've been told to tell you that you look like Dick from 'Dick and Dom in da bungalow' (Random woman in the bar)

Idiots of the pub: Drunken Irish rugby fans in FCUK and clearly out on the sauce since opening time. I love the Irish (obviously) but there are exceptions to everything.

Bar Two: The River. Cider of choice: Weston's Organic Cider

Yay! This is the best cider on the market, and thanks to Si for the artistic direction in getting the photo right! Ahh, no aftertaste, no bitter, teeth-gritting yukkiness; just yummy yummy apple-iness. We were joined by the girls and George (who reminds me of someone but I can't place it (all suggestions welcome).

Quote of the pub: "Oh yes, that really is supping from the appley teet!" (Mike)

Idiot of the bar: Several office dicks who got thrown out and then argued with the the bouncers so much that the front door was open for an AGE and let the Baltic night (possibly Siberian in origin) freeze us all to death. Bastards.

Bar Three: The Ram. Cider of choice: Blackthorn

Oh, the desperation! Blackthorn is not a great cider, but it was late and having had just two other ciders we had no choice. We later abandoned the 'cider only' rule and extended it to cover all apple-based drinks, and just kept going till the end of the night. Oh, happy days.

Quote of the pub: "I hope you didn't just get all down my chest in that photo" (Barmaid) "Oh, I'm gay as they come love, it wouldn't matter if I did" (Me) She wasn't so chuffed. Mike pissed himself.

Idiot of the pub: This girl (with the bright red hair) who fell off her barstool from a reasonable height. After getting checked for spinal damage she got up and ran out off the place with egg on her face. Oh, we've all been there,so I don't feel at all bad about laughing at her quite hard.

The Results: I looked like this the next morning. Not good. Especially when you have to move your boyfriend out of his house the next day.

EXTRA: Fans of the iPod tale, be sure to check out the "Lucky Dip" link of the week this week. I love it!

Next week: Blog 50! Woo hoo! Fifty blogs ago I wrote this, and this week I am moving out of home! I couldn't have made it up! All the fun and folics will be reported in full detail! I appear to be fighting off yet another cold, so stay tuned: it should be fun!!!

...making literary history

2006-02-20T19:49:00.000Z

Another new look! Monkey was unable to open the previous template for some reason, and I can't leave such a good friend out in the cold, so I am hoping this new template will be more accessible for my Norflok-based amigo. This week, I am rushed off my feet and blogging rather naughtily while James makes my tea because he thinks I am working. As I write, a roll of wall-lining paper is lying on the bed awaiting a flow-chart sketching out the chapters and timeline of the novel I am writing and I feel a bit bad not doing that instead of this. Still, as with all the best books, while it's in my head it's perfect - writing it will just sully the concept and make me realise that it actually needs a lot of work. Whilst on the subject, I do need a couple of volunteers to read what I've written so far (it's about twelve thousand words) and give me feedback as I've reached a crucial point. The criteria for eligibilty are: you must be able to read, and you must NOT know anything about the novel so far. My having told you anything about it AT ALL precludes you from this exclusive offer. There is also a matter of confidentiality so I would need to trust your good faith that you wouldn't show it around and jeopardise any future publishing opportunities. If you think you fit the bill, let me know!

So, on with the week's events. Monday and Tuesday were the last days of our Viennese holiday, and James was struck with a cold. Despite the terrible man-flu he was afflicted with, we still struggled out and went ice-skating at the Wiener Eistraum and took a stroll around the centre before it all got too much and we headed back to the hotel. Whilst James took a nap, I had a mooch around the largest shopping centre in Vienna, conveniently right on the doorstep of the hotel. And I do mean right on the doorstep - you couldn't get out of the lobby without going through the mall: that's what I call local! Despite some great shops, it was also home to not just one, but two of the largest Spars in the world: I've never seen a Spar as massive in my life. For our last night in Vienna, we bought a DVD (Dark Water, or 'Dunkle Wasser'; an absolute bag of shite if ever I saw one by the way - don't watch it: you just never get those hours back) and holed up under the duvet for the evening. What we thought was a nice big carton of vegetable juice (don't even ask me why anyone would want to drink that - James insisted on buying it) turned out top be a nice big carton of vegetable oil and the half pint of it I had poured him didn't go down that well. He was most disappointed; I laughed my ass off. Almost as much a when we spotted this on the supermarket shelves:

Oh, how we laughed.

The flight home was uneventful and we were back in Blighty on time. I got us back from Heathrow to Bath in an hour and a half. I think I might have been slightly over the speed limit, but when you've been doing seven-hundred-and-fifty miles an hour in the air, ninety on the ground doesn't seem that fast. Well, that's my excuse and I'm sticking to it. The rest of the week was spent in the doldrums of 'return to work depression'. Even the fact that it was only a three day week couldn't shake the post-holiday blues, and the arrival of the weekend couldn't come soon enough. Isn't that always the way - the days immediately following a holiday are the most arduous, gut-wrenchingly dull days of the year, where you seriously entertain crazy schemes that would allow you never to have to work again. The crushing realisation that actually, you will have to come to work every day for the next forty years just adds to the melancholy. Finding there was a webcam at the ice rink in Vienna was, quite simply, a slap in the face, and I spent several hours staring longingly at the snow-bound city centre willing myself back there. Needless to say, it was all to no avail.

When the weekend did finally arrive I had planned a fun day of afternoon lunch, shopping and evening on the town for Sarah, an old friend from uni who had come to stay. What actually happened was a few lunchtime drinks, a vegging out in the afternoon, an early evening dinner followed by a couple of drinks and early to bed! What a bunch of party animals! In our defence, I was exhausted, as was James, and Sarah was distinctly under the weather. Sunday was much more our speed: getting up at about eleven o'clock and getting a home-cooked Sunday roast served up without having to lift a finger. Normally I would feel bad about this kind of a waste of a weekend, but I think we deserved it, it was lovely to see Sarah whatever we did, and I think it was actually a much broader social phenomenon since town was practically deserted on Saturday night.

Whilst at work today the general ambience was one of "I simply can't be bothered today'; even my boss - normally an indefatigable workaholic - confessed to sitting in front of her PC bimbling around for hours. I wonder if this kind of group malaise is actually a giant social trend and that the weather, or the charge in the air, or the position of the Earth in relation to the sun affects us all in the same way: it always seems to me that days when I can't be bothered are the same days as everyone else. It can't be coincidence, surely?

Back to more mundane concerns and I have to say that despite being super-busy, there's not much to report. Nothing doing. Zip. Nada. Nought. I have started packing ready for the move out (it's only fourteen days away!!) and have plenty of things to keep me occupied but nothing worthy of report. I do feel of late that I'm always on the move and never really getting anywhere. Perhaps it's just that time of the year, or maybe I'm just waiting to move homes and the anticipation is making everything else seem like wading through glue. Who knows - I'm just counting the days!

Next week: James moves out of his flat and the countdown really starts! Plus, an art exhibition with the writing group, and the return of the eponymous 'Cider Friday'!!

...city breaks

2006-02-13T18:15:00.000Z

Live from Vienna! Bet you weren’t expecting that, were you? Yes fans, as luck would have it circumstances forced me to take my laptop with me on holiday and although you will be glad to note that I have not used it once whilst I’ve been here, I have a spare few minutes today which I thought I would fill by showing you some of the delights of this beautiful city.

Firstly, to set the scene, let me say that it has snowed here every day and it’s so cold (min temp so far -4˚C) that the Alte Donau (Danube Lake - a massive oxbow lake next to the actual Danube) has frozen solid and is covered in snow; it’s a beautiful sight on the Ü-bahn (Tube equivalent) into the city every morning. Sadly I didn't get a photo of it, but you can see all the photos I do have, here.

Friday afternoon:

After a quick, quiet and comfortable flight, James and I hit the city for a mooch around to get our bearings. It is beautiful and the shops are lovely - even H&M looks like Prada. Vienna can only have a population similar to Bristol, I think, as the centre is strangely quiet for a European capital city. (We stumbled into an anti-cartoon demonstration, but it was tiny compared to some I’ve seen on telly so the peace wasn’t really disturbed). That said, it’s lovely to walk around somewhere and not feel crushed or hurried. I do tend to judge everything by the “If this were London...” scale and invariably it all comes out as quieter and smaller (except New York); still, in that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

Friday Night:

We head into town for drinks (waste no time; that’s what I say!). Viennese nightlife is excellent but disparate: you have to travel a fair old whack to get from one good place to the next. Highlights included Caffe Mocca on 9, Linke Weinzeile, and Motto on Schönbrunner Straße; both of these were chilled out and very, very cool. Motto had a toilet that was completely mirrored so when you shut the door you could watch yourself go from every angle, which is more entertaining than it sounds. We also managed to get a free drink each from Motto and so decided we would try and blag something for free (or ‘steal’ as it is properly called) every day. We rolled in at three o’clock and, using german I had forgotten I had, we managed to order a pizza but fell asleep waiting for it to be delivered, so we never saw whether my language skills did actually get us the barbecue chicken, large deep-pan we ordered. Ah well, that’s €15 we didn’t end up spending!

Saturday daytime:

The Sigmund Freud Museum is a strange affair. The Austrian Government bought Freud’s Vienna apartment and turned it into a museum to his memory, but they don’t own the rest of the building, so when you arrive at the apartment block it’s very low key and you have buzz yourself in, then ring the bell to the museum when you get up to the first floor (second if you are reading this in the US). You are provided with a guidebook in the language of your choice and left to get on with it. Whilst it was very interesting, it didn’t really tell you the story of his life, so much as catalogue the belongings they could salvage/borrow/buy. The exhibition resides in what was his surgery (waiting and consultation rooms and study) whilst the rest of the house is a library for psychoanalysts and an art exhibition of various works of psychoanalytical interest. I loved it in there, but when I came out I don’t think I really knew anymore than when I went in.

After coffee at Cafe Berg and a browse around Löwenhurz bookshop next door (it’s so cool: they have a two way mirror in an adjoining door from the bookshop to the cafe!) We hopped on the Ü-Bahn to Rathaus (the Town Hall). This monolithic gothic construction sits directly opposite the Hofbergtheater - arguably the most important stage in the german-speaking (deutschophone?) world; they are both astounding and you just don’t know which one to look at first! In between the two, in Rathausplatz (literally ‘Town Hall Place’), there is a giant ice-rink and fair of sorts. Wiener Eistraum (‘Vienna Ice Rink’) is an annual event where an enormous ice-rink network is built and for six weeks you can pay €3 to skate for as long as you like in a day. And they serve some excellent glühwein (mulled wine) in proper mugs (steal number 2). We decided to save the skating for a quieter day (Saturday was rammed - now I know why the city was so quiet!) and continued our tour. Just down the road was the Austrian Parliament (you can walk right up to the front door!) and the Hofberg - formerly the vast Imperial Palace; now the office of the President and various other national agencies including the National Library. Some highly impressive architecture meant we had to revisit the place the next day as the camera battery was flat and there was no way I was going home without some pictures of that!

Saturday evening:

Out into Vienna centre again, this time to eat and then drink. Ordering from a german menu is quite difficult when you can barely remember the basic german you learned at school, but we just about managed. The waiter saw us coming though and fleeced us - via some very nice alcoholic beverages - into paying €stupid instead of €reasonable when the bill came. The upshot was that we were quite drunk and thus didn’t need to buy many more drinks anywhere else. By far the most useful phrase so far this holiday must be: “Wir möchten zum (insert destination) bitte gehen”. This means you can get into any taxi in the city and get to where you want to go. Even when you can only slur it at the driver, it will get you back to the hotel. As it is, we are getting to know Vienna quite well so the taxi costs have dropped off as find we know where we are going. When I am rich and famous, I will own a winter residence here and you are all quite welcome to stay: I’ll show you around. GENERALISATION ALERT! At the risk of sounding arrogant, I have found that once you make the effort to speak german at the start, people are much more amenable to explaining things in english when they get more involved. If you start in english, you can expect a huff and a ‘stupid English’-style look before you get served. As a lesson, James and I have noted the paucity of language skills in England compared with the rest of the world (virtually everyone here can speak at least two languages) and look suitably contrite on behalf of the nation whenever we go beyond our ‘entry-level german’ abilities.

Sunday daytime:

The Kaiserapartments museum is dedicated to the former Austro-Hungarian monarchy and chronicles the life of Empress Elisabeth (wife of Franz Josef I) who was assassinated, almost on the off-chance, in the 1880s. This was a spectacular display of the history of the Austrian monarchy (which started out as the the Holy Roman Empire - a new fact for me) and took you through the history of the Hofberg (a vast ‘city within a city’ - the palace was extended by every new emperor/ess until the end of the monarchy in 1918, and has over 2,600 rooms all told.) The opulence of the living arrangements was staggering although we did get stuck behind a guided tour which brought back memories of National Trust visits with my parents when I was a child: learning to walk slowly and not look impatient at the people in front of you is definitely a life skill. One thing did strike me though: the lack of imagination in royal decoration - why is everything always red and gold? Would a bit of green really be that bad? Just on one wall? Go on, I dare you!

In the days before the London Eye, the largest ferris wheel in Europe was here in Vienna, and it’s still working today, despite it’s (comparative) diminutive stature. The Riesenrad in Volksprater is perfectly safe now they have taken the paraffin heaters out of the wooden cabins, though it’s pretty cold in a draughty box 200 feet in the air at 6pm and -1˚C. Still, the cold weather means the views are amazing and at dusk when the lights are on it makes it all the more beautiful.

Sunday evening:

Having had two huge nights out, we decided a chinese in town would suffice, followed by an early night back at the hotel. I know that Chinese is not really ‘authentic Viennese’, but since ‘authentic Viennese’ is mostly cakes and we tucked in to those almost every day, it was justifiable to go for something else. The meal was delicious and, tip included, came out at €55 (approx. £38) which for two people is very reasonable and rather puts paid to the idea that Vienna is an expensive city: anywhere can be as expensive as you want it to be. We made our way home on one of the last Ü-Bahns of the evening (even at 10.30pm it’s as safe as ever) and had a nice early night to prepare us for the busy, penultimate day of our holiday.

Next week: The final two days of Vienna and the comedy events I have missed out this week.

...buying theatre tickets

2006-02-05T15:30:00.000Z

After last week's 'deep and meaningful', I am back on form and ready to write meaningless guff that won't make my sister cry again. Everyone can breathe a sigh of relief, get comfy with a cup of tea and enjoy my anecdotes of idiocy from this week.

This week's main event was a trip to the theatre to see Improbable Fiction by Alan Aykbourn. I thought we were going to see this last week but managed to balls it up royally and to comic effect by getting the weeks mixed up. The story went a little like this:

The Theatre Royal in Bath sell stand-by tickets on the day of performance for a fiver. This is excellent value for money since tickets usually cost around £15. By getting stand-by tickets, you get the worst seats as far from the stage as possible, but since the theatre is rarely full unless it's a REALLY BIG show, you can sit in any empty seat you can find as soon as the show starts. Free upgrade: excellent idea. Thus, I rang up on Thursday and booked tickets "for tonight's performance, please". Before the show, in we wealked, picked up the tickets and made our way up to the Grand Circle at the very top of the theatre. It was only when the usherette asked for the tickets that I realised something was wrong, and I was not discrete about it either.
"What the bloody hell is this?" I declared, mystified. "I think they've given us the wrong tickets".
"Well, they've got today's date on them," James correctly identified. We both stood there for a few moments, grasping for some kind of explanation. We had tickets for a different show in the right theatre on the right day: there was a chinese wall in my brain that I could not scale to clarify what was going on. It was only then that James spotted the flier on the wall for the show we were about to watch and the mystery was solved: we were a week early. Instead of Improbable Fiction, we had tickets for Mack and Mabel, with David Soul. Like a proper pair of gayboys, we had bought tickets to a musical.

Having bought the tickets, we thought we might as well see the show, and actually quite enjoyed it. Some of the theatrical devices used were quite clever, the staging was well done and the actors all played their own instruments which I liked very much. The story (girl from nowhere is propelled to fame and fortune in 1920s Hollywood) was a bit hackneyed, but enjoyable over all. The songs were good and well delivered, and it's always fun to see a show in Bath before it hits the West End (as they all seem to do - I think Bath is a pre-West End warm-up venue, like Worthing and Salisbury). After the show, we planned a quiet drink and then a taxi home, but as with so many of these types of plan, you have one glass and another always seems like a good idea at the time.

The Bath Tap does karaoke on a Thursday night, and there were not enough people there to make it seem like a bad idea if we got up and did a few numbers. James took a bit of convincing, but once we'd done one there was no stopping us. Y Viva Espana was by far the most popular song of the evening, and I have to say we were bloody good at it. We were not so good at the Donna Summer classic (feat. that woman) since I didn't know the words and only had a vague idea of the tune: Enough is enough was the only line I could sing with any confidence. James's best efforts were ruined by my butchery of the lyrics: the poor man didn't stand a chance. After that there was no returning to the stage, so we headed home.

This week, we decided against the karaoke, but did get too see the right show. Improbable Fiction was excellent. The plot is strange in that nothing really happens, but it's very, very funny. Following an inspirational talk from a published writer (or was he?) the Pendon Writers Circle gather together for their last meeting before Christmas to explain their works. After the meeting, a storm breaks out and the characters of everyone's novels manifest themselves to remarkable comedy effect.

I like this show, not least for the laughs, but because it's so well written. The start is almost Alan Bennett-like in it's dour and ponderous tone, but you are carried from this sublime theatrical beginning to a ridiculous finale - the incremental degeneration from serious to stupid is done so gently and convincingly that it doesn't lose you as an audience, but keeps you in suspended disbelief. It's just good fun, and I recommend it to anyone who gets the chance.

The only other news I have this week is the successful house-hunt: James and I have found a flat and will be moving into it in March. Details of the housewarming will follow, and you know it will be the best night of the year! The dramas of telling the family have been deferred after last week's entry, and I am free to enjoy the excitement of moving in with my boyfriend: I'm looking forward to it more and more!

Next week: Oh, Vienna!! Next week's update will be very, very late as I will be in Austria, living it up in a four-star hotel and wrapping up warm before taking tea in swanky coffee-houses. That's if James and I can drag ourselves out of the hotel spa and sauna - I'll do my best for you all!

...comprehending surprising statistics

2006-01-29T22:36:00.000Z

It is a fact that gay men under forty are the most likely to commit suicide. I was surprised when I heard that (I can't remember where but I will try to find it again) but this week I am beginning to understand why. Before anyone gets excited, I am not suicidal - I plan to live to one-hundred-and-twenty just to spite you all - but there are some inherent difficulties about having a same-sex relationship that you must inevitably deal with. One of those is family.

My family are wholly supportive of me and my life, but only my parents and sister know that I have a boyfriend. I specifically requested that no other family be told about my bi-sexuality for two reasons: firstly, there was nothing to tell at the time, and secondly I wanted to do it myself when there was some news, and not have the revelation come second-hand. On reflection, I should have got everyone together and done it all in one hit as I have actually just deferred the 'coming out' traumas. You live and learn. Now I am facing having to tell everyone else in my family as James and I have decided to move in together. Of course, this excellent news and I am very excited about it (we practically live together as it is so having all our stuff in one place is just plain sensible) but the edge is taken off it somewhat by the very nature of the situation. Will the best will in the world, my family are having a hard time adjusting.

My family love me and I love them so I will try to explain the situation without making them, or me, look like hard-hearted bastards or prejudicial bigots. Similarly, this is only my experience: it might not be the same for everyone so I will try not to generalise wildy. I will also try not to whinge too much. I know I have to come out to the rest of my family sooner or later and this day was always going to come (it's actually going to have to be some time over the next couple of weeks) so I have no grounds for complaint there. Coming out bites big time, but it's a small price to pay for being happy afterwards and unfortunately it's a package deal: you can't have the good bits without putting up with the shit. However, coming out is just the beginning of the trouble, as I am now discovering.

When a friend decides they want to swing a different way, they tell you, you say 'ok' and then get on with your life because they are your friend and that's it. You deal with it, have an adjustment period or whatever, then get over it and move on. Nothing has changed fundamentally and the world keeps turning. When a family member, especially your child or sibling decides to break the same news, the entire dynamic of your family is thrown into chaos, everything you had envisaged for your family is shattered, and a whole new future is presented that you simply hadn't asked or planned for. In my family, it the end of the family name.

My parents have been great - James is welcomed into our house as though he is one of us - but underneath this, and entirely justifiably, there is the simmering threat of the end of the family line. My sister will presumably change her name when she gets married (no plans as yet) and, as the only son, if I do not have children of my own, that will be it: the death of the family moniker. Actually, this is an umbrella argument under which all the concerns about the situation can sit: my parents worry that I will be unhappy or lonely in the future, that I will not have the same joys in life that they have had, and that I will end up depressed or alone because of my decision to date men. They do not understand how my life can be as rewarding as theirs has been, and it's this incomprehension that creates a kind of tension. They don't care if I'm shagging imported quadraplegic whales so long as I'm happy, but I don't think they see how I can be happy long-term because my opportunities for family continuity are significantly reduced given my lack of ovaries. Similarly, their own long-term happiness is suddenly under threat for exactly the same reasons: there might not be any grandchildren. Imagine how they must feel, the family they always wanted waving at them from a distant hill-top and then disappearing over the horizon.

This is why it feels so bad: you have to sacrifice your parents' plans for the future in order to have your own. Of course, everyone has this problem - it's not the sole domain of the sexually divergent - but the ongoing trauma of it makes me feel terrible. I know that my parents love me and I love them, and I still have to break their hearts by making them jettison their plans for the future and accept me as I am. Every time something good happens, every time a relationship goes that bit further - moving in together, buying a house together, emigrating together, whatever - I just reinforce the fact that this is not what they planned, and move that phantom family a little closer to the sunset. Moving in together, which should be a happy and exciting time, is overshadowed by the fact that yes, I have to come out to everyone, but actually that 'yes, this is really happening to you.'

Having to do something like that to your parents every time something good happens to you is one of the most soul-destroying things you possibly imagine. Knowing you don't want to hurt them but having to do it anyway is crippling. Knowing that because they love you they accept you, in spite of how it makes them feel, is utterly devastating. I feel selfish for wanting to be happy. They feel bad because they're afraid for me.

The trade-off for being content is hurting and confusing the ones you love for the rest of your life, and that's why gay men under forty are the most likely to end it all.

Next week: Back to the usual light-hearted comedy musings you all expected this week. Now, go and have a stiff drink.

...good manners in public

2006-01-23T20:16:00.000Z

Firstly, apologies for the lack of posting last week - it wasn't for the lack of news, just a lack of patience with my mac which, as you know, crashed last week just before Desperate Housewives was due to start. The update I had written was lost and thus you were all forced to wander aimlesssly in the desert of your own lives desperately waiting to come across the oasis of Sven: for this I can only apologise. So let me quench your thirst for gossip and banality right away, with a run-down of the last fortnight's events. Hurrah!!!!

Man-flu

You will all be pleased to learn I am fully recovered from this most terrible affliction, and all through taking one tactical sick-day. I did feel a bit of a skiver taking off a day when I didn't feel that bad, but illness is a state of mind: not that bad at home is generally the same as feeling truly awful at work. And I am quite proud of myself for actually using the day to do some stuff around the house and catching up on my writing and the like, rather than lounging around in my pyjamas and whinging like i usually do - period schmeriod: man-flu is crippling and you women will simply never understand.

Norwich

Monkey's birthday was a perfect excuse for a party and James and I sped up the M11 to sunny Norfolk to be there: oh, the fun we had! Strangely, it was one of those nights where you think you are sober(ish) but actually, you are more drunk than you realise. All the signs were there, so even when I was ordering water because I thought I was simply wasting my time on alcohol, anyone could tell I was actually wasted: I was chattier than usual, I had more buttons undone on my shirt than common sense and taste dictate and still thought I looked good, nay, stunning; and I danced to Beyonce like I owned the floor. Optic's dancefloor (underlit, seventies style) didn't help either, but there's no one else to blame but myself; after all, I do have form.

On the way back to Bath we stopped in to say a final farewell to Pippa before she flew off to Australia (I am very jealous). Pippa was my local uni friend, gossip-buddy and partner-in-shopping more often than not, and I will miss her a lot. She'll be back (hopefully) and with a killer tan, so for the next seven months I am available as a 'gay best friend' to anyone in need - let me know for weddings, christenings and bar mitzvahs at the usual address. (Step up Basket - your number is up!)

Writing

Yay! Writing has re-started and the usual support group crowd of affected artists gather again on a Wednesday morning to share our work and biscuits and generally put the world to rights. I LOVE it! Currently we are writing about family life and how it shapes your personality which prompted me to write another couple of poems that everyone got very excited about, which is most encouraging. Similarly, chapter seven of the novel got the best reception of anything I have written so far, which means either (a) I was particularly inspired that day, or (b) I am improving. Either way, it's good news. I'm looking into a more formal study programme now, which might see me going back to uni full-tine doing an MA, but it will cost a fortune so I will have to keep you posted on that one: all donations welcome, of course: the usual account details will be fine.

Pantomime

Jim and I went to see Mother Goose this week before it closed on Saturday (Gay, dear? Who, dear? Me, dear? No, dear!). Three cheers for Madge Bishop who starred as the fairy. It was fun to be sure, but I think it was fairly woolly on the writing front and, being so close to the end of the run, the place was practically empty so the audience participation was thinner than one might have liked. James and I gave it our all though, which was more than can be said for the Bath Spa Uni Performing Arts students, who I have now made it my mission in life to utterly destroy.

Mock BAPAs as I have (relentlessly), at least they paid attention in the theatre and didn't conduct full volume conversations right behind you. This shower were the most ill-mannered dregs of the academic world and were not afraid to display their ignorance either. Yes, we all laugh at the 'actors' in Hollyoaks, but they're only making a living. Scornfully shouting 'Hollyoaks' ad infinitum when one of them appears on stage in a panto - historical home of the soap-star - just goes to show how much of a waste of time educating this bunch of no-marks really is: either they want to be performing artists, in which case Hollyoaks might one day pay their bills; or they don't, and they should really just shut the fuck up and let the working actors get on with it. The option I have missed of course, is that they really were too fucking ugly to get a part in anything better than Spitting Image and were just jealous that a pretty girl was doing alright for herself. Stern looks all round, believe me, though I didn't have the bottle to 'shush' them, especially given it was a panto and noise is really to be encouraged. Right, end of rant; I did have a good time at the end of the day.

Birmingham

Continuing our trek around the British Isles, Jim and I made our way up to Birmingham for Jim's friend's birthday. This is to be the last weekend away for a fortnight and I can tell you, I am glad of the rest! Although I really love travelling around and seeing everyone all the time, I forgot how much it takes it out of you. In the past month we have been to Hull, London, Norwich and Birmingham, not to mention a few nights out in Bristol: it's all too much! This weekend I plan to take it easy and stay in bed until 5pm on the weekends - I think I deserve it!

Birmingham then, and despite knowing Sarah for nearly seven years now, it was a city centre I had yet to visit for a night out (for shame!). The usual shenanigans took place of course, following a nice all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet from the thoroughly delightful Golden Pond. This was the first time I had met most of James's friends - indeed, James was the only person I had met before - and I had a whale of a time. Based upon this weekend and recent events, I must revise my own opinion of myself. I always thought I was quite reserved when meeting new people but it seems that I actuaally have no manners and no decorum whatever. Not only was I particularly sharp-witted (if I may say so myself), but totally foul-mouthed and even managed to clear one side of the table thanks to a particularly mean bout of wind. I believe I have made an impression and will not be forgotten in a hurry.

Well, I think that has pretty much covered it all - an eventful couple of weeks I'm sure you can all agree. Thanks to everyone who put us up over the past month or so - I hope no one will be offended if I say I'm looking forward to spending a weekend in my own bed!

Next week: Aha, I knew the quiet weekend plan would screw me over somehow. I'll think of something somehow - house-hunting, a dinner party, a night out or two: I'm sure there's plenty of material in there for discussion. If not, well, prepare for one thousand words of drivel.

EXTRA - IPOD UPDATE: Be afraid. Be very afraid. The replacement iPod has broken in the same way the first one did, and I have already had words with Apple Customer Services: it was not pretty. A draft of the letter will be available for your perusal next week. It will be distressing reading.

...gender identification

2006-01-18T21:57:00.000Z

Boy, am I livid! Fifteen-hundred words and then the damn thing crashes! Lost it all. And with only two minutes till Desperate Housewives starts again you can all just wait till I have another free hour to tell you all about my week last weeek. Apologies one and all, but these things happen. In the meantime, amuse yourselves with this:

You Are 80% Boyish and 20% Girlish

You have a tough exterior - and usually a tough interior to match it.
You're no nonsense, logical, and very assertive.
Sometimes you can't understand women at all, even if you're a woman yourself.
You see things rationally, and don't like to let your emotions get the best of you.

How Boyish or Girlish Are You?

Can you believe this is supposed to be a description of me!?!

...unexpected shopping experiences

2006-01-09T20:45:00.000Z

Lesson of the week: have faith! Here I was wondering what on earth I was going to write about this week given that January is often the most sinfully boring month of the year, and all the time fate had conspired to throw more material at me than I would have thought possible this week. You simply won't believe where I went on Sunday afternoon, but I shall tell you in due course. Firstly, a round-up of the weeks events.

None.

Now that that's done, on with the rest of the story. As you will recall, I was thinking that I would have to write a summary of the year just gone in order to keep you all amused for a week until something fun did happen to me that I could relate to you in a witty and concise fashion. I even used the week's non-eventfulness to organise my photos and pick the best (and worst) in order to display them to you all as reminders of the fun we had. The nights in were spent selecting images for use which did, handily, result in my organising them all and saving them to disk (something I have been meaning to do for a long time.) Other stored-up jobs completed included sorting out my parents PC for them; transferring my recipes from my old cookbook to a new one with dividers in it to differentiate between the courses, editing my novel (as instructed by the novel group) and saving the changes meaning I can now discard the paper copies; and colour coding my wardrobe. Perhaps I have written off January too soon - it certainly seems to be a useful little month.

This weekend James and I were meant to stay in and save money, do some work, read a bit perhaps and not much else. On Sunday, we were going to London for lunch and that would cost quite enough thank you; we'll pass on the rest of the weekend if it's all the same to you. What actually happened involved six bottles of wine, a trip into the sales and Â£100 on clothes, a brand new DVD player and very nearly (only my own forgetfulness saved us from) an iPod speaker-dock. In my defence, I did manage to write a poem (see the note below) and even one thousand words of novel, which is quite good going by anyone's standard. Pretentiously, quite a lot of that was done on the train to London, though any glamour I might have exuded tapping away on my plush white iBook was offset by my blonde boyfriend making like Sleeping Beauty on top of our pile of coats and bags. Bless his heart - he's a cutie really.

Lunch just off Covent Garden was lovely. We met up with Pippa and Elsa beforehand and had drinks in the Marquess of Anglesey (Wetherspoons style without Wetherspoons prices) then headed over to Papageno's (mixed reviews but I liked it in there) for food with Robin and Liccy, Liccy's twin sister Suz and their mum, Linda. Lovely lovely, one and all. It was a leaving bash for Pippa (who is off to Australia next week and will be sorely missed) and a belated birthday celebration for Elsa since very few of us made it to Butlins. Oh, the wine flowed and the conversation careered from diarrhoea to bed-wetting and sex in doorways: all very highbrow stuff.

The nice thing about living in Britain is you can visit the capital and go home and do it all in one day; James and I were back on the train at just gone five. I nearly forgot my laptop and had to run back to the restaurant to get it, prompting me to think that if there's the chance alcohol might be involved in the future, it's probably an event I should leave the mac at home for. This is where plans unravelled.

Originally, we would have been back in Bath at about seven-thirty, and watching Invasion in my house for free. On the train though, we thought 'to hell with sensibility, let's go out!' We cursed eachother for not noticing the subtle hints that we both dropped, hoping the other would say 'let's stay in London and call in sick tomorrow'; and decided to make the most of our stolen night in Bristol. We couldn't finish the wine we bought on the train before we reached the station, so we sat on the platform drinking Shiraz out of plastic cups (classy) then headed into town, laptop safely stowed to prevent further panicked hunting around later that night. The original venue of choice was closed, but as we walked away we noticed that Vibes was open (I'm not a great fan, but we were right outside the door). In we went. What greeted us could not have been anticipated in your wildest dreams.

Swamp is 'the South West's premier alternative shopping experience'. They hire out Vibes once a month and have a fine old time spanking the living daylights out of each other. We arrived just as the 'marketplace' was closing, though our genuine surprise and bit of fast talking meant we were allowed to have a look around despite not meeting the dress code in any way, shape or form. I've never seen anything like it! the things you can buy defy imagination. A kindly fifty-ish lady showed us around 'the dungeon', where various articles of furniture had been set up for testing prior to purchase, and the three of us got into quite a matter-of-fact discussion about the nature of extreme sex. I didn't bat an eyelid when she told us with a totally straight face how she was a dominatrix (a fifty-ish lady, five-foot-nothing-and-a-whisker; she could have been anyone's nan) and what kind of activities she got up to. No offence was taken when James enquired as to whether she was a professional: the man as much as called her a whore, and she just batted it aside without so much as a trace of indignation.

Sadly, we were not well-enough dressed to stay for the evening party (the only rules: no exchange of bodily fluids allowed, and no talking in the dungeon!) but if we wanted to go home and change into something a bit more fitting - leather or a dinner suit were fine; strictly no jeans - we were more than welcome to return! We politely declined and made our way out into the night.

What struck me about the whole thing was the sincerity and openness with which they talked about all this stuff. Of course, why shouldn't they - it's all healthy expression and all that, but it was the weirdest thing in the world: I was FASCINATED. Just when you thought you'd seen it all, a man in the whole gear rocks up and starts chatting away as though he were out shopping on a Saturday afternoon. A man and a transvestite practically throw us out of 'the dungeon' so they can get on with testing out some kind of strap-laden bench. We spend five minutes talking about transvestism (which was quite useful for my novel) and the weirdest excesses of this extreme sex. It was all very enlightening, and so much more fun for being caught off-guard by it too. Who knew I'd be doing that by the end of the first week of the year!

The rest of the evening was spent in various bars having a silly row about something ridiculous, then we schlepped home and made it to bed with minimal fuss. Today I am feeling not so hot (well actually, I'm feeling very hot indeed) and I think I might have damaged my immune system just enough to let in a cold. Hurrah! Another few days of feeling like shit! I should get back to swamp forthwith, I'm plainly some kind of masochist!

Next week: Potentially 'Tales of the Man-Flu', incorporating an insightful review of daytime tv. Hopefully not, and I'll tell you stories of drama workshops, writing classes (which start again this week) and a wonderful weekend in sunny Norwich. So much for the savings plan!

EXTRA! SVEN ATTEMPTS TO TAKE OVER THE INTERNET!
In the spirit of developing my writing and cultivating my creative talents, I have started two new blogs. This ain't no Keats is a chronicle of the poetry I've been writing (seriously, the Wednesday group have created a monster - now I've done one, I can't stop myself: they're pouring out of me like nobody's business), and Work for idle hands showcases the bits and pieces I make from time to time, because I've got TOO much time on my hands!

...contemplating your lot

2006-01-04T19:30:00.000Z

So here we are: 2006! It's always times like this when I remember being eight years old and thinking "where will I be when I'm twenty-something?" The year 2000 seemed so far away in 1987, and yet here we are, six years past it and the world is still turning and pretty much the same. As much as changes stays the same, and the older I get the more I wonder if, for all that goes forward, there isn't the same going in reverse somewhere else. Still, we should look to the future.

In the spirit of not looking back extensively, I thought I would avoid pages and pages of tales from my Christmas and New Year. Obviously there were highlights and not-so-highlights, but that's probably the same as everyone's Christmas. I have noticed that when you ask people how their Christmas was, no one ever says "excellent thanks! Can't wait for the next one!" but rather "Yeah, not bad thanks. All over for another year..." or something of that ilk. I think Christmas is all about the anticipation - Christmas Eve is my favourite day of the season - because by midday on Christmas Day you're bogged down in family politics and exhausted from all the food. I had an excellent time, but families are really hard work sometimes - no wonder we all hit the drink! By Tuesday evening I was SO poisoned through alcohol that I fell asleep in the street, two-hundred yards from James's front door, and took a two-hour snooze at 1am. He was NOT pleased. I paid the price by suffering two days of diarrhoea and vomiting, so I think I am all square with karma.

New Year - often the most overhyped and singularly disappointing day of the year - was spent at Ben and Maria's in Beverley, Yorkshire. It was lovely, not too lairy and not too quiet. Board games, gentle walks into the town for civilised drinks and seeing the New Year in with friends at home and not with a million strangers trying to snog your face off - ideal. The general consensus of everyone in attendance was that we are just getting too old to go out all night every night and party till we drop. It's sad really, but I think it's going to happen to us all one day. As Monkey famously commented all those months ago, "we're not as young as we think we are, you know". Botox all the way, I say! If it sticks out, tuck it in! If it hangs down, pull it up! Vive la plastic surgeon! Crumbs, who saw that tangent coming?!

Well, what ever shall I write about if not the varied antics of the past few weeks? Maybe, given that I have made a resolution to spend far, FAR less on frivolous entertainment and save more for the future, I should scour the past few weeks for things to fill out the blog for the time being. I think not - New Year's resolutions are pie-crust promises at best: never have I made one that lasted past February. Thus, in an effort to head off my inevitable letting-go of these sincere intentions (should I address this apparent dearth of tenacity? I would only do a half-assed job, so why bother?) I have decided to choose things I desperately need to do, and set my deadline for the end of February - clever huh? My New Year's resolutions then, are as follows:

(1) Get a new job. Even if it means doing lots of little jobs that are more creative and use my degree, anything has to be better than rotting in the office for the rest of my life.
(2) Move out of home. I am twenty-six and still live with my parents. Someone shoot me.
(3) Finish something. I'm dreadful at half-doing things, so if I can finish one thing I've started, that will be one thing I do actually finish this year.
(4) Stay under fourteen stone. If I can do it until February, then the hardest part is over. As spring begins, I get more active and naturally lose weight, so it's only two months of eating less and saying 'no' a little more.

I know number four is remarkably vain, but lets face it - that's me. Personally, I don't think it's going to be that hard. If I keep active like have been lately I should end up thinner than ever in no time at all. And it certainly looks like it will be equally as busy this year as last - upcoming events include two weddings (one in France!), a Valentine weekend in Vienna (SOOOOOO exciting!), the classic Ireland vacation (I'm thinking early May, folks) and maybe a couple more if I can talk others into going with me again and again and again; more Am Dram, ongoing volunteering at KTN, weekends at friends around the country; writing, writing, writing and all this doesn't even include resolutions 1 & 2: in short, a COMPLETE overhaul of my life. Now as daunting as all this sounds, I think it's only the same as happened last year! When I look at where I was this time last year compared to this year, all the plans I have for 2006 look like small potatoes:

2005: Straight and miserable.
2006: Bi/gay and happier than ever.

2005: Living with a girlfriend of six years.
2006: Living with my parents; boyfriend of nearly four months.

2005: Working in an office with no idea of what I wanted from life.
2006: Still in the office but desperate to leave and write professionally.

2005: Went to work, came home; went to work, came home; went to work, came home...
2006: Go to work, volunteer for charity work, amateur dramatics, writing classes; weekend breaks in foreign countries, sometimes go home...

2005: Live for the weekend.
2006: Live for the weekend.

Some things will never change.

Next week: The first week of the year: nothing is going to happen!! Except for dinner this weekend in London. Expect an in depth analysis of what promises to be a dull week but a fun Sunday. If there's really nothing happening, I might be forced to review the best bits of 2005. Now I know why they put those shows on telly so often at this time of year...

...being a week late

2005-12-27T09:56:00.000Z

Apologies for the tardiness! Various parties have passed comment but technical difficulties caused severe disruption. I have decided under the circumstances, to post last week's now and write this week's a little later. Since none of you are at work anyway (unless you are a total chump like me) I hope it won't make too much difference. Enjoy!

***

Season’s greetings everyone! Sven Towers has gone properly festive and like children on a sledge we are hurtling our way, faster and faster, accelerating down the hill of Advent inexorably bound for the big day that is Christmas. I LOVE IT!

Inevitably, this time of year the diary gets booked up almost every night. I have found myself eating more food in a week than I would normally eat in a month and that’s even before we hit Christmas Day, when my mother lays on the traditional feast for five thousand: wall to wall eating and drinking, starting with cava at 8am and ending at around 10pm with the left-over roast potatoes and maybe a turkey sandwich or two. All that weight I have lost over the past three months will be back on before the year is out, you mark my words.

This week saw the end of my reign at the Towers as the parents returned from the Caribbean, tanned and ready to rub it in. Whilst we were all freezing our asses off in Blighty, they were lapping up the sunshine and lying on the beach getting waited on hand, foot and finger. I’m not bitter: they had an excellent time and to be honest, although I’m ready to move out at the drop of a hat, it’s nice to have them back. It’s strange being in the house all on my own and it’s a little too big for little old me, though I did do a mean Sunday lunch and managed to survive the fortnight without getting broken into or burning the place down (both real hazards for a ditzy freak like me).

Last week then, saw me drooling over pictures of sun-kissed beaches and far-flung places as Mum and Dad told me tales of helicopter rides and day-trips to Martinique (I have ALWAYS wanted to go there); themed beach parties of an evening and long lazy days lying on the beaches and waving a flag whenever you got thirsty - liquid refreshment was never more than a gesture away. I have decided that all-inclusive is the way forward. I do wonder what it would be like to have December in the sun; I’ve never been out of the country at this time of year, but I’m sure it’s lovely. The other side of that is that it would be winter on my birthday, and that would be cool! A snowfight in July! Hurrah!!

Aside from the holiday tales, I went to the final writing groups of the year - Wednesday morning was a fun-packed reading of poetry composed, works-in-progress presentations, and general ‘show and tell’ efforts. I absolutely LOVE the Wednesday morning group - it’s such a brilliant experience to sit and listen to other people reading stuff they’ve written; you never know what you’re going to listen to and quite often you find yourself hooked on stories you would never have thought of reading, or laughing at things you would never have imagined you’d find funny. The sad thing is that many of the stories started in the Wednesday morning group will never become more than the few pages they are now - I suppose it’s rather like a compost heap of ideas. Thursday afternoon (novel writing group) was actually spent in the Caribbean restaurant over the road having turkey and Guiness punch. Yum yum yum. To my right, a children’s novelist/erotic fiction writer; to my left, a retired teacher writing about murder in the east end of London. You certainly do meet some interesting people. Love it, love it, love it.

And so this brings us on nicely to the weekend. I know that I seem to drivel on about my weekends and very little else, but as James says ‘if you don’t live for the weekend, you live for the week’ and since I spend most of the week at work, there’s no way I’m going to spend my weekend looking forward to that! Oh, I almost forgot about Thursday night!

James’s work’s party started at about 2pm and was a colleagues only bash though I joined them much much later after I had finished the last KTN of the year (hooray!). Having polished off free wine all day, he was always going to be worse for wear but - Man Alive! - I’ve never seen him so drunk since the last time I saw him that drunk. I took the poor soul home when it became clear he was not going to get into any respectable club this side of the Rhine. He’s so funny - I lay in bed for about ten minutes saying nothing just to see how long he would carry on talking to himself (it’s one of my favourite games). I got my comeuppance in the form of a Julie Andrews rendition in my ear. Not entirely undeserved I suppose but, come on! You’re sober, they’re drunk - it’s almost rude not to have a little fun.

Friday night was the final episode of Bleak House. I feel quite sad now it’s over - James and I rather enjoyed saving it till the weekend and then watching both episodes in one go. Still, it’s not the hole left in my life after the end of Desperate Housewives; oh, those were bleak days. Following an early night we actually got out of bed, ran errands and got back to Bath before ten-thirty on Saturday! Miraculous! Up went the tree, and Christmas officially began at the Sven family residence. Permit me one moment to say that this year I am so proud of myself - shopping done and wrapped, cards in the post, and all a week before the main event. Smug face!

Simon turned twenty-seven this week (I know - pensionable age or what?!) and in a sort of ‘inverse surprise party’ arranged secret entertainment for us all. It turned out to be a live band in the Fleece and Firkin in Bristol, doing covers of cheesy hits and general pop/rock stuff: it was EXCELLENT. We were all a bit wary about the event, declaring we would ‘leave if they weren’t very good’ but we really needn’t have worried; if you get the chance to see Doing Time I would recommend you see them. Following that, we hit the Soda bar, which I quite liked for (a) the decor and (b) the cheesy disco - anywhere that lets you dance to Mariah’s All I Want For Christmas is worthy of my business.

On Sunday, James and I chose a tree for his flat and rearranged his front room to fit it in. It’s so cute, I love it. Apart from that, and dinner at my house, we did nothing else all day. It sounds like a terrible waste of a day, but I think when you actually get up on Saturday morning you realise how long a weekend really is - by Sunday afternoon I felt as though I’d had about four days off work. The lazy lifestyle of the bed-bound weekend sounds like a great idea, but I think getting up is the new lying in. I’ll let you know how it works out.

Coming up: Christmas!! Parties, lunches, drinks, music - you name it! A full run down on the festive season will follow, along with my summary of the year! Merry Christmas to you all!!!!!

...incompatible technologies

2005-12-20T09:09:00.000Z

Yes, thanks to the wonders of Mac and Windows and their almost complete imcompatibility this morning, the 1500-word piece I wrote last night remains trapped on th iPod. Tonight (with any luck) the wireless network at home will finally be operational again, so I will post it then. In the meantime, here's a poem I wrote about modern-day Britain for my creative writing group. All comments welcome.

Festive greetings to you all!

The State of the Nation

‘Oh, the sun never sets on the Empire’
my great grandfather used to exclaim,
but our nation has gone to the dogs recently
and I feel that I ought to complain

On behalf of the much-maligned gentry,
(that gentile and refined little bunch);
for the gentlemen Lords of the Manor I speak,
as indeed for the ladies who lunch

I must raise our concerns for Britannia
and the state of her subjects within,
for she once ruled the waves while the world watched in awe,
but today she is living in sin

Britannia now lives in a tower block
in a flat on the twenty-third floor
and she watches her thirty-inch colour tv
then complains to her friends that she’s poor

But she dresses in Gucci and Prada
whilst the rest of us make do with tweed
and she spends all night drinking and laughing with friends
while the rest of us sit home and read.

She’s had more than her fair share of lovers
though they barely remember her name:
she gets out of her mind on Bacardi and coke
and then loses all concept of shame

Yes the country has gone to the dogs
and I know it’s a common lament,
that I can’t walk the streets for the drunkards and yobs
but my taxes are paying their rent.

And Burberry once was a stylish design
till the masses got hold of their stuff.
Now I’ve had to abandon my handbag and shoes
as they’re making me look a bit rough!

Now you may think that I am disdainful
if not just a despicable snob
but I don’t see why we, as the landed elite,
must now go out and find ourselves jobs

We are born to be movers and shakers
and on our backs the Empire was built,
yet the proles treat us all with derision and scorn
and they do it without any guilt!

I can barely afford my own gas bill –
heating nine-hundred rooms isn’t cheap;
yet I’ve sold all my land for affordable homes
and I still have to earn my own keep!

I have opened my gardens to tourists
and they stomp round the manor with glee,
yet the cost of repairing the damage they wreak
is not even recouped by the fee.

Is there nothing to stop this debasement
of the customs we once held so dear;
this descent into egalitarian hell
where the classes will all disappear?

I would start a refined revolution
but for want of a rousing refrain:
‘We have nothing to lose but our country estates,
and in truth there is not much to gain.’

So the next time you’re shopping in Harrods
or you‘re turning up late for a ball,
you are not living life in the blue-blooded style:
you are scum, like the rest of us all.

...Christmas shopping, or "How not to have a quiet weekend in"

2005-12-12T12:25:00.000Z

Season's greetings, one and all! Plenty to report this week so I'll get straight to it and cut out the dithery first paragraph of blah blah blah. I shall commence from where I left you last - that bastion of all things Hi-de-hi: Butlins.

Hurrah for Monday mornings! Well, at least when you know you don't have to go into the office. Being sensible boys James and I had packed up ready to depart the night before so we could have an extra however long in bed: it was most welcome. We headed out onto the open road at about 10.30. The plan was to head home via Kate's house in reigate (Kate is James's sister) since we were in the area (almost). Reigate is fifty miles from Bognor, and we did it in not bad time, despite getting lost en route. At one point we got so desperate we decided that, with the sea was behind us going inland couldn't possibly be wrong. With no other directions, I think that is a perfectly good assumption to make. Two hours later we had a lovely lunch with Kate before heading back down the M4 home at about two-thirty. I managed to get a new SIM card for free (having lost my phone the previous friday) and Kara (my sister) had a spare handset which is actually better than the one I lost (though not as pretty) so really I have managed to get a free upgrade; after a fashion. It's just a pain having lost all the numbers on the old phone - ah well, it's not like I lost a leg, is it?

Tuesday night was a nice quiet one. Kara came round and kept me company for a few hours (the parents are still away) and I had a nice early night which I feel was well deserved. The plan was to take it easy for the rest of the week and have a quiet weekend, since (regular readers will know) I haven't had one of those for...about six months. Yeah, well, that plan lasted all of one day. By Wednesday I was back out socialising - this time it was the Reunion reunion. What started out as a refined dinner party-cum-soiree devolved into a drunk night of vodka and party games. It was great! Thursday morning: not so great - I was minging and subsequently, late for work.

Anyway, the party. Matt (the director) had filmed the play and put it on DVD for us to watch, which was interesting and unnerving at the same time. I know it's a horrendously luvvie thing to say, but I really don't like watching myself back. It's not creepy or weird - I just think I'm shockingly bad. I know that it's only because I know I'm acting and therefore I know what I was thinking and how staged it is - I know what will come next, what I'm about to say and why and how etc - but I am simply not convinced that I'm presenting someone else and that I'm not me. This makes no sense at all, but there it is. That's why I don't like watching myself - I'm my own worst critic and I can't resist slating myself!

Thursday was KTN again and then spent the night at James's, so by Friday I was ready for a nice quiet weekend. I would get all my Christmas shopping done, wrapped and hidden before the parents returned and take it easy for the weekend, and that is pretty much what I did - with James's help - in between the red wine and the champagne. I think James and I are a bad influence on one another - we started with a glass of wine with dinner on Friday, but since it turns out it was our three month anniversary (I thought it was last weekend, but I was wrong) we decided we would have a glass of champagne (thank you parents) and then another and another. Well, you only get days like this once, don't you!? Plans to hit the Christmas market early were swiftly forgotten (as predicted by Katie T) and we managed to finally show our faces in town at about 2.30pm.

Saturday afternoon in Bath. If there were three words to describe Bath city centre on a Saturday afternoon two weeks before Christmas, they would be 'Hell on Earth'. It was manic: I had a lovely time, but when it takes 20 minutes to walk 15 yards because the crush of people is just too much for the narrow lane you are walking down, it becomes slightly ridiculous. Bath has a beautiful Christmas market with lots of little stalls and things which is lovely to walk around and especially festive in the evenings, but it was pandemonium!

The market itself - to digress for a moment - is a contentious issue for residents of the Georgian City. I think it's lovely and the tourist trade must be roaring as you couldn't move for day-trippers and holiday-makers, but there is always a raging battle before it opens (usually starting in mid-October) to ban it or move it or stifle it, largely because Bath is full of retirees with nothing better to do than whinge and moan about how we are destroying this beautiful city and how 'Bath is not the kind of place to hold events' that might be described as 'progressive', or 'fun'. There are, of course, people who rightly think things like this should go ahead, and I say good on you. To the nay-sayers and moaners who, I have no doubt, are sourcing enough aspic to coat the entire city and half the surrounding county, I say 'shame on you'. I could go on about how Bath was literally a 24-hour party town/brothel/warehouse of scandal in it's C18th hey-day, but I will bite my tongue. End of rant.

Now I've lost my thread. Where was I? Oh yes, shopping. Well, suffice to say I've pretty much done it all now - stocking fillers, gifts, the works - all wrapped up and ready to assume their positions under the tree. How's that for organisation, hmmm? Whilst out, we did introduce ourselves to Winter Pimms with brandy which was the drink of choice for our evenings entertainment that night - a festive classic, I'm sure you'll all agree: Seven. James had never seen it (shock, horror, where has he been?) and I thought this was highly irregular until Pippa told me on Sunday she hadn't seen it either. Maybe it's not that uncommon after all. I must just say that James and I had a little chat about my sly digs at him on here the other day, and whilst he doesn't mind at all, he doesn't feel the 'comments' section is a big enough pulpit from which to retaliate. I say 'Go for it, big man!' and encourage everyone to read all the comments, should any be made, once they have finished slogging through this epic installment.

Sunday was a lovely day and, with no parents to do the dinner, it was down to me (aided to the point of absolute dependence by Big J) to lay on the roast. This was a fantastic success, and apparently my roast chicken is second to none. (I don't know why I say 'apparently' - I ate the damn thing too and loved it.) In the tradition of Sunday lunches at Sven Towers, much wine was consumed after which J and I - having been abandoned, once fed, by all those invited - opened another bottle of the bubbly stuff and spent the rest of the evening playing songs and going through my Dad's record collection. I don't know how appreciative the neighbours were when Jeff Wayne's War of the Worlds blared out at 11.30pm, but we had a whale of a time. Again, we paid for it the next morning - going to bed at silly o'clock and getting up for work after drinking like fish is not advised, nor is it pleasurable.

End note:
I promised an update on the iPod situation, and I must smugly declare victory. Not having received a repy, I rang Apple, fully prepared to rip them a new asshole. They immediately capitulated and said they would repair my iPod - in warranty - for free. What I actually got back upon my return from Butlins, was a brand new iPod with another years warranty! Excellent. Almost made up for losing my phone!

Next week: 'Tis the season: I'm sure the tree will go up at Sven Towers this weekend (how many will we get this year?) so I might take some photos. Also, writing classes end this week for Christmas, so I might put out some stuff I wrote this term. And Simon's birthday - much fun to be had by all. Oh, and J and I are off to Vienna in February, but that's by the by. (I'm just quite excited about it!)

...the former cast of Neighbours, Part II

2005-12-07T14:39:00.000Z

The drive to Butlins (for those not in the know, Butlins is the archetypal British Holiday camp) was horrific not for the time - which was actually a respectable two-and-a-half hours - but for the lashing rain and howling winds that made driving massively difficult/borderline hazardous. James and I munched our way through a tub of cocktail sausages, a packet of dried bacon (delicious, though it sounds revolting) and half a bag of sour-cream-and-something flavoured crisps. I used to eat sweets and chocolate on long journeys but I'm not as sweet- as savoury-toothed, and I always felt like a right porker getting out of the car amid a confetti-like flurry of chocolate wrappers.

We arrived safely, managed to get from the car to the room despite gale-forced coastal winds, and checked in without event. The room was basic; James was shocked and I tried to cheer him up with tales of the hostel in Picadilly or the 'crack-den' on the Pride of Bilbao and it worked, after a fashion. After a short rest (James) and unpacking (me) we headed into the 'complex' to meet Elsa and her other guests, and begin the party.

Elsa and Mark and their respective parents were there to meet us. Lots of her friends had houses to buy, or travelling-the-world to save for, and it was just bad luck that it all came on the same weekend, but these things happen and it was unavoidable: those who could not make it were missed. Not to let that put the mockers on a perfectly good weekend away, we got straight on it. We spent hours sat in the bar catching up before raising real concerns along the "Ou est la discotheque?" lines. Once we got that sorted, we shot out and managed to catch the death throes of Katy Hill spinning the decks (she is now a DJ, would you believe!) before an excellent Queen tribute band took to the stage. What else to do but dance?

No. of flaming sambucas finished off: 5 each (?)

On a more sombre note, I lost my phone that night. I made peace with the fact it was gone remarkably quickly (no point in kicking yourself for it, is there?) and thankfully I backed up most numbers on my laptop (though if you would like to send me a text to confirm, especially if you have changed your number in the past six months, I would be very grateful). Ironically, that night we had been discussing life before phones and I might have mentioned that I don't know what I'd do without mine. That question has now been answered, and the response is: 'not a lot'.

No. of minutes spent looking for my phone: 10

Saturday morning dawned and we actually successfully dragged our sorry, hungover asses out of bed and made it in for breakfast at 10am: not bad for getting in at something like three in the morning the night before! One full English later, and we were right as rain. What with only having a bath and no shower in the room, we decided the pool seemed like an excellent idea when Elsa mentioned it, and we all spent hours in the water, playing on the chutes and rides and lying in the jacuzzi - generally, behaving like children.

No of times we got told off by the lifeguards: 2

Saturday night rolled around in due course, and this was to be the highlight of the weekend. The theme of this 18-year-olds-plus weekend was "School reunion", which is essentially an excuse to throw caution to the wind and let the hormones you finally beat into submission in your early twenties take control of you once more, whilst dressing up in attire barely covering the parts of you that have developed since you passed your exams. We obviously threw ourselves at the opportunity, Elsa looking like the sluttiest schoolgirl I have ever seen; James and me going out in our P.E. kit. First stop, Timmy Mallett.

No. times Timmy shouted "Bleugh": Well in excess of 250

Timmy has not changed his act since we were kids. In the eighties, I laughed heartily at 'Mallett's mallett' and Pinky Punky, and though I really enjoyed the show there's something creepy about it at the same time: watching something you loved as a child and realising that actually, it's pretty naff and a little bit patronising. I would think Timmy M was a bit sad if it weren't for the millions he makes doing this show up and down the country. None of this analytical reserve was in evidence however, as Elsa and I learned the Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny routine, nor when we begged to play 'Mallett's mallett'. The Wacaday mouse mat now takes pride of place on my desk. And we got to meet him!

With Mallett finshed it was on to the main bar and stage to await the arrival of the king of Neighbours himself, Jason Donovan. After the Bon Jovi tribute act (good voice, bad accent) was over, we could barely contain ourselves when he strode onto the stage singing 'Any dream will do'. And then it went downhill.

Now don't get me wrong, the man can sing - he was actually very good as a live artist - but he was also very convincing as a bitter and jaded shadow of his former self. He sang the Home and Away theme tune as an irreveratn 'one in the eye' to Neighbours and then went on about how we should all live our lives without judgment and blah blah blah - some ridiculous philosophy about life that we didn't much care for - before singing a couple more hits, sticking a finger up at the crowd and then calling it a night. Of course, he is only taking my advice to that other Neighbours starlet from Part I: "they've paid their money, you can do what you like", but the crowd were quite excited to see JD, so why be nasty? I suppose we will never know what goes through his head before a show, though he feared for his life after it and ran out the back door, and I like to thin kwe had something to do with it.

No. of songs Jason Donvan performed: 4
No. of minutes Jason was on stage: 15

Elsa, desperate to meet Jason, pelted it from the stage-front to the side-door the minute the set was over. We (James, Hannah and myself) all ran with her - celebrity is celebrity, after all. Elsa's cunning ploy was to claim she was Jason's sister. That little story went down like a sack of shit and the more desperate her pleading, nay begging got, the more they resolved to refuse her entry. Not to be stopped, James and I learned the code to the door by watching people going in press the buttons, then, in a quiet moment, we keyed it in and left Elsa to it. Any romanitc notions of racing around backstage desperately pursued by security in a manic hunt to find the 'star' were quashed immediately. From where I stood I could only see her open the door a crack before her face fell, and she barely had time to declare "Oh shit" before it was slammed in her face by her arch-nemesis, the Security Guard Behind The Door. As we drifted away from the scene, I heard Elsa attempt to con the guards.
"Has my brother gone?"
"Yes" came the reply.
"How do you know, I didn't tell you who my brother was..."
Five minutes later, we were all back at the table and the mighty Jason Donovan was nothing but a distant memory. The rest of the night was the usual story: drinks and dancing. I turned around at one point to see James and Elsa on stage being chased by security before diving off into the crowd, and at the end of the night I virtually had to force Elsa out the door as she was THAT drunk and James was insisting on yet another "one more drink". I loved every minute of it though and would do it all again.

Sunday, and after getting to bed at five, James and I decided that getting up at 3pm was not wholly unreasonable. We had a spot of breakfast/lunch and then took a walk down to the pier in Bognor proper. We all met up again at seven and took a walk into the town centre, where we entered a pub quiz and won (hurrah - one out of two isn't bad!). Leaving Butlins does involve a "Deine papieren!" style interrogation and a big, spiky metal gate; I did get a funny feeling of liberty when we walked out. I don't know how long institutionalisation takes to set in, but we had a laugh about it all the same. Looking back on it all these prison references are probably in particularly poor taste, since it emerged through a story too long to fully relate here, that the barman who we all thought was thoroughly lovely had in fact done 18 years for murder. Suffice to say that brought about the end of what had been an amiable enough conversation through embarrassed glances toward the table from all involved. The rest of the night was spent back at Butlins, climbing onto the stage and generally making pests of ourselves

No. of times at least one of us was on a stage: 5

I know I mock Butlins relentlessly for being crass, money-grabbing and tacky - it is in fact all those things - but it shouldn't detract from the fact that I had an excellent weekend and James and I are both happy to have spent it with friends. Granted, there's no way on God's green earth you'll get me inside the compound walls again, but everything's an experience and there are a million-and-one other places to go for the next birthday: some of them might even make Butlins look like a preferable option. And if there are any places that can do that, you can guarantee we'll be the ones to find them!

Next week: I've almost given up hope on hearing anything about this job before Christmas, though I'll let you all know if anything happens. I can confirm there will be tales from the Reunion reunion, Christmas shopping and the resolution to the iPod situation.

...the former cast of Neighbours, Part I

2005-12-06T13:48:00.000Z

Wow, what a busy week! I have been non-stop since last Monday and today, after a knackering weekend at Butlins (more on that in part two) all I want to do today is curl up in a ball and hibernate until June. And I'm getting a cold - I had some lovely greeny-brown bogeys when I blew my nose this morning, and a crusty nostril (you know how it dries in the night and then hurts in the morning when you have to chisel it off your face) so I'm definitely coming down with something: delightful!

Does anyone else wonder what's going on with the weather lately? This week seems to be exceptionally mild (we still have leaves on all the trees here, and lots of them are green too) yet last week we had snow storms and blizzard conditions 20 miles up the road. My mum woke me up to tell me it was snowing (I know, I'm 26!) and I leapt out of bed to check it out - I love the snow so I took some this week's photos that morning. A few days later and they rang me from St Lucia to say they had been sitting on the beach all day, "maybe going in the pool, you know; whatever takes our fancy". Yeah, thanks for that, Dad: there's three inches of snow on the ground here and I just did my arms in salting the drive. He laughed heartily. (Little does he know I've scratched the car...)

So, what with the sub-zero temperatures and contrary weather patterns, I was glad that last Monday was the first night in I don't know how long that I had nothing to do: no play to prepare for, no classes to attend, nothing at all. I filed my nails, did a bit of writing and generally vegged out. I felt it was well deserved. Tuesday night, I took to the streets and went with James and his friends from work to see Natalie Imbruglia at the Carling Academy in Bristol.

I like Natalie Imbruglia though it's not a concert I would have gone and seen under my own initiative (more through my own lack of inertia than anything else). Kate asked us if we wanted to go some time ago - we said yes, of course and then promptly forgot about it - but I'm pleased I went: it was a good show and she can certainly sing live. I think I need to watch more live stuff, but I just never got into the "going to gigs" thing, which is strange as I really enjoy it. I just don't really think about sorting it out myself - I usually wait for someone to suggest something to see and then go with it: I think I'm just lazy.

Anyway, it was a funny sort of a show: she came on looking a bit underdressed if you ask me, though I think it was just an attempt to look more 'rock chick' than 'pretty songstress'. She did well at any rate, but the crowd were positively laconic - I've never seen such a lukewarm reception in my life! I felt for her, singing her heart out and trying to get people to join in (she even went so far as to dare people to clap to the end of a song). She had bussed in loads of people from London as it was her final night of the tour, so I really do wonder what would have happened had they not been there: an monolithic crowd of stone-faced concert goers with disapproving looks for her not being Black Sabbath, no doubt. I say screw 'em, Natalie love! They've paid their £7: you've got their money - do what you like and enjoy it girl! Which is exactly what she did. Well done.

Post-gig drinks (I forgot to mention pre-gig dinner: Pizza Express, yum yum yum) were held in The Pineapple: Kate's first foray into a gay bar and what should we walk in on but the tail-end of a pub quiz!!! I think I could arrange to do one every night and two on a Sunday - I bloody love 'em! Sadly we were way too late to join in, but I took solace in the fact that we were already planning on doing one the following night. We bombed. The Hophouse in Clifton is the hardest pub quiz I have ever known - coming second-to-last was a remarkable feat, especially given the average performance was about 98%! I am making it my solemn mission to win this quiz, if it means I have to spend every Wednesday night between now and Kingdom Come in that place.

Thursday then, and KTN has started for me again, though sneakily - thanks to the Christmas break - I only have to do three of the five weeks in December; thus making this one of the shortest turns I have ever had to do! After that I picked up James and headed home to pack for the weekend of fun that we have all come to know and love: Butlins!! Friday I spent in the office wishing the time away, while James pottered around in my house, doing lovely things like washing my laundry and changing my bedsheets and the like: he really is the best! Come four o'clock I was out the door (the office 'shut' early as it was the works Christmas party that night too - one I had to miss but will tell you all the gossip from later) and by quarter-to-five (though I still contest it was actually closer to half-four, as originally planned) we were on the road and heading toward the windswept south coast and three days in the PoW camp accomodation that qualifies as a holiday resort in Bognor Regis!

In Part Two: An update the top five etc, and a night-by-night breakdown of the fun and frolics, featuring such guest appearances as Timmy Mallett, Jason Donovan and his long-lost sister: my friend Elsa.

...handling unexpected revelations

2005-11-28T10:01:00.000Z

Last night I mentioned to James that I was going to be a bit depressed for a few days although it hasn't hit me yet. Post-production blues are inevitable and I recognise it hasn't fully sunk in yet that we have finished, so like an organised chap I told him to be prepared for it. What will I do with my evenings now? How will I fill my time? What will the reviews be like? Oh, the suspense!

But before the misery of a life without drama begins (as if), I am riding high on the unparalleled success our little show has enjoyed. For those of you I haven't already told, it was one of the most successful amateur dramatic shows in the theatre's history, made all the more exceptional by the fact that it was a brand new play by a brand new playwright. We await the review from Venue with baited breath (the Bath Chronicle was mixed) and if it's good then we might think about putting it on again somewhere else and making ourselves some money. Those of you who missed it this time might still have a chance!

Of course, aside from the hard work and concentration of actually putting on the play, there is a lot of socialising to be done, and my weekly blah blah blah wouldn't be the same without wild tales of drunkeness and partying. Never one to disappoint, here it comes...

Friday (the penultimate night) also saw the audience packed with an army of friends and family to support me, and after the show (about which all were complimentary) we headed off for drinks and adulation, followed by a short trip into town. At this point, I would like to thank everyone who came to the show for making it great; you are all little stars. Moving on, James and I took Elsa into town to show her the delights of the Bath Tap - Bath's 'premiere' gay venue: cue cheesy disco in seedy dark basement. The rest of the night was pretty unremarkable in that it went as planned and we all got shitfaced. It's always great to see Elsa as I love her to death, and we demonstrated the fire/tequila technique to James though he didn't quite get the hang of it: we shall work on that at Butlins. I will say though, that he went berserk on the dancefloor and it did make me laugh - he's great.

Saturday was languid: I whisked the folks off to St. Lucia (my involvement ended at the train station) and hosted Clancy and Nuala back at home for the afternoon, drinking more wine and generally taking it easy. There was an anti-capitalist chap in Sainsbury's barking on about how evil we all were for shopping there, but I think someone shot him so he didn't interrupt our peaceful day. The show went swimmingly, and after another drink in the 'Rose and Crown' (artist's pub of the decade and venue of choice for the cast and crew) we made our way to the aftershow party and alcoholic oblivion.

Hurrah for wine boxes! I set it up on a bookshelf and just kept drinking - propriety forced me to use a glass, though the effect was the same as if I had just put my head under the tap and chugged it down: I was fairly well hammered. James disappeared for hours - I discovered him later groping cast members ("Can I keep him," Carolyn said later, "He's VERY amenable") and dancing like a man possessed. Nuala and Clancy, so far as I can tell, had a good time entertaining various guests in the back room - there was a transitory attendance out back throughout the night. Oh yes, it all went fantastically, with random people telling me how wonderful I was, I was in my element. The night took a somewhat surreal turn though, when I got a mixed critique from a chap in a red puffa jacket.

"You were very very good," he began, "but I could tell you were gay." Hmmmph. Of course, it was a party, and though in truth I was a bit vexed by this, I took it all in my stride and politely accepted the compliment before concluding the conversation. He could tell it wasn't the best thing to have said and subsequent efforts to undo the damage were also politely countenanced. The matter eventually dropped. Five minutes later he was back.
"I just wanted to apologise for what I said before. I think the reason I said that is because I might be gay myself."
I was not expecting that! Nuala, the very sole of discretion, promptly pissed her pants and ran from the scene to impart the details to Clancy. James glowered at him before realising that he wasn't hitting on me as much as having some kind of revelation.
"What do you think I should do about it?" he asked. James and I were flabbergasted. Literally dumb-struck. For once (and it is rare) I was completely lost for words.
"Well, just tell everyone" eventually staggered out of our mouths. He looked a little disappointed. "Have you actually done anything with a man?" I enquired. We determined he had 'had relations' (I didn't want specifics so got the euphemisms in early doors) before though nothing more.
"Well, you just have to do it then" was all the advice we could give. When I was coming out, that was all people could say to me and I didn't find it particularly practical as a strategy. I was grateful and heartened by the support, don't get me wrong (my friends have been exceptional with reservation) but when you are thinking about the actual 'how do I do this', 'just get on with it' is not the advice you are looking for. Nevertheless; the view from the other side is quite different: 'Just do it' is really all the advice you can give, as it's the only thing you can do.

The rest of the party went without anything so dramatic, but when I told Jez (fellow cast member and friend of the red puffa jacket) the story his response was surprising. I would just mention that I was not told this little revelation in confidence - anyone in earshot would and did catch it - so I wasn't racked with guilt about telling someone else. Jez, far being shocked or even vindicated ("I always suspected" is a common response) simply stated: "Oh yeah, I know. He's tried to come on to me twice before", then got into a taxi with them all and disappeared into the night, leaving me wondering whether all his friends already know and he's the only one who won't tell them; labouring under the illusion that it's a great big secret. The moral of this story is quite simple: get it done. I don't regret my life so far, but I do rue not telling anyone earlier - things might not have been different and I would certainly have felt better in myself.

Wrapping up the weekend was the get-out at the theatre (for which James and I showed our faces, hoovered and left - scandalously light work if you ask me) and the exchange of numbers and date-setting for dinners and lunches. I am looking forward to hearing 'Aha' live down the phone as Patsie is seeing them in concert this weekend: in return I will ring her as Jason Donovan performs his classics on Saturday. After our token gesture at tidying up, we had a lovely roast at James's parents (it was Kate's birthday this weekend - James missed his own sister's birthday to see my final night!) and then we spent the rest of the day doing as little as possible. Now I'm hoping that the busy festive period will keep my mind off how much I miss the play so that, by the time I realise it's over, I won't miss it any more.

Next week: I had a dream last night that I didn't get the job I am waiting to hear about, so I'm hoping that's not the case (The next floor up was a secret CIA library staffed by transvestites, so I'm not taking it as any kind of sign). Also, Natalie Imbruglia live in concert, and the weekend break of your lives: Butlins in Bognor! Hurrah!!!!!

...oral combat, or "Drinks might fly"

2005-11-21T16:38:00.000Z

Which of these three looks the most likely to start a fight?

Excluding Elsa (the beauty who sneakily crept into the middle photo) if you guessed Mike, you would be wrong. Catalyst though he was, it was actually James and me that started the chain of events that ended with me wearing the best part of half a pint of fizzy, sticky shit; I'm guessing something like vodka-and-lemonade, or some form of childish alcopop. "How did this come about?" I hear you ask in astonishment, "you're so placid!" Well, friends, let me tell you a little story of "Sven gone Wild".

This weekend was a nice quiet affair. As the last weekend before the play (this week, Weds to Sat!) it was nice to have a day off on Saturday to mooch around town with James; doing a spot of shopping, eating in Nando's and generally taking it easy. Followers of my wardrobe will be pleased to learn I bought a new scarf (v nice) and a black jumper to replace the one I stole from Simon, which I will now return to him. We went to watch Harry Potter in the evening - excellent; the best one of the lot in my opinion - and were in bed at a reasonable hour. But we spent the whole day discussing the previous night, and finding out exactly where it went wrong.

"I was just thinking about that bitch...", I comment as we sit on the bus, and not for the first time today; much has been made of it this morning as we got ready to leave, "what a said pair they really are. Fancy just starting on Mike like that. And what a thing to say, in a place like that of all places!"
The previous night Mike, James and I had all been into town and, pulled by some invisible force and against our better judgment, we ended up in the Q/-. Mike was SO drunk he was finding it difficult to stand, and while he lapsed into a waking-coma, James and I were dancing like mad things (cheesy gay disco - need I say more?). All of a sudden, as I returned from the dancefloor/toilet/wherever, I noticed James embroiled in some kind of discussion with a trampy looking slag and her not-unattractive young male friend.

GAY RULE 1:
THE BETTER LOOKING THE OUTSIDE, THE UGLIER THE INSIDE
(Except me and James, of course.)

"They're just a pair of idiots/dicks/insert-expletive-of-choice", James surmises over lunch, tucking into chicken breasts in Nando's, "they'll never find love and they'll both die alone." It's mean but this makes me feel good.
"I don't think they were looking for love, special: they were just looking for a fight", I reply with a mouthful of chicken-burger.
This is probably the case: why go into a gay bar, start talking to a man who is clearly out of his mind on alcohol, and then make fun of him for being gay - which he isn't - then make fun of him for telling you he's not; when it's the truth!? As I approached the imbroglio, perhaps sensing they were out-numbered more than that I was some kind of loose cannon, they gave their parting shots and slinked away; leaving James to try and impart events to me over another drink. Not such a hot idea for Woodsy, but we were too drunk to care about that quite frankly.

GAY RULE 2:
BITCHY GAYS HUNT IN PACKS. OUTNUMBERED = OUTGUNNED

"Wouldn't it be funny if we bumped into them now", suggests James as we trawl the Triangle aimlessly, looking at things we can't afford.
"Not for them", I am thinking, but this witty retort comes to me later and I probably say something lame. I comment on how little time or inclination I have for repeating last night's antics, but I find it hard to get across how neglible I consider their existence since we have, on and off, been talking about them all day. What bothers me most is not that they were horrible, ugly people, but that I was so bolshy when I am usually the one to avoid a full-on confrontation. We conclude that because we were together we felt we could be more adversarial than we might otherwise have been, exacerbated by my absolute indignation that anyone should presume to insult my friends, and James visceral disgust at the behaviour of this toxic pair.

GAY RULE 3:
THE GAY GUY WILL TRY TO BE COOL: THE HAG WILL DO ALL THE TALKING

I have yet to fathom this out, but it's a fact: the woman gets mouthy while the guy stands around watching her go mad; it's nuts. And cowardly. But I digress. At the bar, I swear to God we did some shots - what on Earth we were thinking I have yet to discern - when who should approach but Dastardly and Muttley back for Round Two. I forget how it started, and what precisely was said, but I recall further comments about how unfriendly Mike was ("He's shit-faced, woman, so why don't you leave him alone") and James telling her quite matter-of-factly that they were "vile, horrible, detestable people with ugly personalities", to which they stood agog, blank-faced and stunned.

GAY RULE 4:
"I'M BORED" IS THE STOCK-AND-TRADE RESPONSE WHEN WORDS FAIL YOU

"You and me both..." is the only response I could come up with; it was the truth. "I'm bored" is one of those comments that makes me cross. Mrs Whittaker (my 4th-year primary teacher) used to say that "only boring people get bored", which I think is quite apt in this situation. It's also quite a rude thing to say when someone is talking, and I was vexed that such a jumped-up little prick should imagine that this was all an amusing aside until something better came along. This was over when I said it was over, and not before.
"...so why don't you run along back to your mother and - "
"DON'T YOU TALK ABOUT HIS MOTHER..." and so it begins. The poisonous little witch literally gets IN, MY, FACE, telling me how I don't know how hard he's had it or what he's gone through, and I've got no right to talk about his mother, which, if you analyse the sentence, I wasn't about to do. Any fool knows "Yo momma" is for friends and no one else.

The humanitarian in me is genuinely sorry if he's had a hard time of it, but day-to-day, I really couldn't care less. Trying to impress upon that wailing banshee just how uninterested I was in this story seemed to vex her more - I confess I did quite enjoy standing there while she screamed in my face, calmly repeating that I didn't want to know how hard he's had it, or what he's gone through, and I really don't care, I really don't care, can you hear me? I really don't want to know! At this stage, after she had exhausted herself, the Coward pulled her away from me and as a final desperate act of petulance, she threw her drink on me. Deserved or not, I thought it expressed the immaturity of that couple better than anything I could possibly write. I did feel for James though (who was excellent afterward and handled my sort of stunned bemusement with skill and tact) since I was wearing his jumper.

Shortly after all this we got booted out for Mike being so hammered he literally fell asleep at the bar. I think this was more to do with the bar staff spotting him napping than any foul play on the part of the evil sisters, especially since members of the bar staff made concerted efforts to avoid serving Cora and Clarice throughout the night. I can only presume that this is neither the first nor last time this reprehensible pair will have done this kind of thing; and wonder what else they do for sport: pick the wings of flies? Drown kittens in sacks? Wax bikini-lines for Satan? Whatever it is, I can deal with the slight guilt I feel at having made such a scene by talking about it with friends and a boyfriend and my family who love me. They will spend the rest of their lives doing it alone.

Next week: THE PLAY IS FINALLY HERE! And of course, the after-show party to boot. Hopefully with pictures too! Looking forward to seeing those who can make it for post-performance drinks!

...clearing a room without saying a word

2005-11-14T12:19:00.000Z

Is that the distant sound of sleigh-bells I hear? Why yes; with November 5th safely out of the way, my self-imposed moratorium on all things festive is lifted and we are free to celebrate the countdown to Christmas: 41 shopping days to go!!! I must start making my Christmas cards ('Geek!', I hear you cry). It was this morning's frost and the cars driving around with icy windows that made me remember it was actually November (the weather has been exceptionally mild for the time of year) and now I have an excuse to go and buy winter accessories - scarves, gloves, and thicker socks (no hats as they all look terrible on me: I have anecdotal evidence to prove it.)

So, as I stood at the bus stop this morning reading my book (Collins' Good Grammar, a page-turner if ever there was one) I rued the false sense of autumnal security into which I had been lulled - last week I was still going out in just jumpers and this morning I was feeling distinctly chilly. Rather neatly - talking about jumpers - I managed to steal my friend Simon's jumper from him on Saturday afternoon; if he thinks he's getting it back again any time soon, he has another thing coming. Ah, Saturday afternoon: is there a better way to spend it than watching the rugby in the pub? Sadly Ireland got pummelled though not unexpectedly, but England put on an admirable display and won comfortably; the mood in Walkabout was ebullient, the Stella was flowing and all was right in the world. Then came Seamus O'Donnell's.

For those of you not familiar with the delights of poteen, it's a potato-based spirit commonly used as agricultural pesticide or domestic rat poison. To my knowledge it's outlawed in Ireland as it's so strong, and God only knows how it's legal here. Nevertheless, James was mugged into trying it (it is fast becoming a rite of passage for newcomers to our social circle) and, with admirable vim and vigour, opted for a second shot voluntarily. This was ill-advised for two main reasons:

1. We have all tried it before, had one shot and called it a day. The only person who assented to the second shot was Simon. A hard-learned rule of thumb: if Simon is the only one drinking with you, it's going to be a very messy night.

2. We had not eaten anything. Imagine drinking 4 pints of Stella and then two double vodkas on an empty stomach at five in the afternoon.

I feel I should point out that Simon is not a raving alcoholic, and is in fact the only man I know who has sworn off alcohol for Lent and stuck to it. That notwithstanding, he has the drinking capacity of a Russian miner and we still debate today whether or not anyone has actually out-drunk him. I contend 'yes', he insists not. The problem is intractable, but I digress. Following the deadly shots, we finally make our way for some food - I say finally not because we were all ravenous or desperate to eat, but because it was long overdue given the alcohol consumption. Wagamama's it was, and thoroughly yummy it was too.

The first signs of severe drunkeness came from James, though I do not pretend I was not also heinously mashed. Sauce of oriental origin is Fairy's nightmare and James piled it into his lap with gusto before even having a mouthful. The rest of the meal went calmly and it was not until the very end of the meal (thank God) that I was struck down with what can only be described as the Devil's own wind. It was enough to make Lucy gag and more than enough motivation to quite the restaurant with all the speed we could muster. Once started though, it could not be stopped and I apologise if you are eating your lunch, but I'm sure there were areas of Hermanos that actually started melting, the stench was so vile. It was shortly after this that James announced he was going to have to go home as he simply could not drink any more. Being a dutiful boyfriend (and caring about him as well), I went too.

At home, and several DVD music concerts later (I will not link to them; those of you who know James know the concerts of which I speak) and it was time for bed. Not a moment too soon. I had thought about going back out after putting James to bed but honestly, the Stella on the empty stomach had turned me into a walking WMD and it was better that I stay at home and wait for it to pass. Besides, I was already quite drunk enough. As it happens, everyone elses night went from sane to random as they ended up at an animal-themed fancy-dress house-party. Alex declared that he left at half-past midnight, his last sighting of Simon: holding a full bottle of whiskey declaring he 'had more mischief to carry out before he left'. I have visions of some poor fellow sitting on a kitchen floor at 6am having a "downing competition" with that full bottle and thinking heroically that he can win...

In other news, obviously the week was dominated by the play. My boss has just handed me today's paper with an article and photo (obviously I'm on the far right) and now we are actually rehearsing on the stage with real bits of set and costumes and lights it's actually starting to feel like a real play - with only a week to go it's all becoming VERY exciting.

Aside from that, and James's introduction to the wonderful world of home-made margaritas, it's been a fairly ordinary week. I know I have whinged in the past about being soo busy it's not funny, but I have been lamenting the imminent end of the play all weekend. Although it will be nice to have my evenings back, I will have nothing to do with them. I think I will just have to audition for something else, or produce or direct or help backstage, or God forbid, actually write something myself!!

...the Tin Foil Lady

2005-11-07T22:01:00.000Z

Well, after Ben told me that I should avoid shorter, almost daily blogs at all costs and to stick to the weekly format (amongst other positive and genuinely flattering remarks), I have put aside a whole half-an-hour tonight to knock this week's up as quickly as possible before I get down to the serious business of writing my novel (it sounds so exciting, doesn't it! Pretentious twat.) It was another choc-a-block week culminating, as usual, in a jam-packed weekend of non-stop fun and frolics. And why not? There were rehearsals all week, writing classes and work in the daytime, and by the time Friday arrived all I wanted to do was hang out with friends and have as much fun possible in the little time I had.

This weekend, of course, was Bonfire Night (American readers, click here). I love Bonfire Night because it's an excuse to look shocking (windswept is never a good look), and whether you are celebrating the fact that Guy Fawkes was caught or just the fact that he made the attempt at all, everyone is in a relaxed mood and gets together to have a good time then just hang out and spend the night together. It makes you quite pleased to be in Britain, if I may get a shade patriotic for a moment. It's also a great excuse to play around with sparklers and behave like children, and I just love wrapping up warm and going out into the cold - it's like the opening gambit of the festive season!

As usual, I moved into James's come Friday night, and we spent the night in watching Bleak House again - we both love Gillian Anderson a little more than is healthy - then watched Eastenders-on-demand (God love Telewest Teleport) all the while eating a yummy Chinese delivered by the inspired Ringbring. I must say, before I go any further, that James is the most smashing boyfriend in the world. I have, for the past few entries, relentlessly mocked him and told you the worst stories from my experience of him and he has put up with it all with good grace and without complaint: in reality he is simply brilliant. Apart from being kind and witty and clever, he takes excellent care of me ALL the time, cooks for me, runs around after me and is generally amazing. In return, I am domineering, grumbly, bossy and lazy and God only knows why on Earth he puts up with me. I really do feel terribly ungrateful and I know he'll have read this so I just want to say that I really do think you are great.

On to other news then, and my friend and I went house-hunting on Saturday afternoon, looking at a flat in an amazing location but with really tiny bedrooms. Is it always that kind of a trade-off, or is the best flat in the world with enormous rooms right in the centre of Clifton about to drop into our laps? Of course, after that it was into the pub for a drink and a chat - it was a Saturday afternoon after all - and then home to do a spot of work before heading out. Pre-fireworks drinks were hosted by James's friend Mel and her boyfriend, who made a mean Mulled Wine. Several mugfuls of that and it was out into the elements to watch the display, followed by drinks in Stark again (love it in there; they need a website for God's sake!) then a curry in Clifton Tandoori - yum yum yum. After that, we ended up rocking round to Alison, Lisa and Aliya's and watching X-Factor repeats over several glasses of wine. Come the morning, J and I were both feeling pretty shocking, and not without good cause.

Sadly I was forced to return my trainers from last weeks shopping extravaganza: I simply didn't have anything to wear them with. Break my heart as it did, I'm sure they're better off back in the shop than on my credit card. I still kept the cheaper pair and will certainly get more use out of them so it's certainly for the best. James patiently put up with my post-curry toilet runs (no pun intended) and gently ensured I got everything done and got to rehearsals on time. The more I look at it, the more I wonder whether he wasn't actually 'handling me' the whole day - expertly done, since I didn't spot I wasn't doing a Margaret Thatcher on him. Curses! He's good. After a lovely roast dinner, we were both in bed by 9.30 and quite honestly, I think it was thoroughly deserved. The weekend just isn't long enough, you know!

...convincing taxi drivers that your boyfriend isn't that drunk

2005-11-04T12:39:00.000Z

A quick mention about last week's events while I'm on hold at work. Friday night was a nice quiet one with J watching Bleak House and the West Wing on tv - I know it's not exactly party party party but it's nice to do nothing sometimes and of late it's a rare pleasure. Plus the wine went down rather nicely.

Saturday was a mad shopping spree: I bought two pairs of trainers in one go - unheard of! Obviously I also went mad in Hennes and then spent the afternoon in Browns with J having civilised drinks. After that it was the 'Hair no more' experience and then out into town to meet James's friends. Perhaps starting the night at home with G&Ts wasn't the best idea though, as I was wasted by the end. Not as bad as Jim who I had to take home though. He kept trying to kiss me in the taxi and the poor driver who clearly didn't get it (two men kissing? Outrageous!) assumed he was going to throw up all over the show and stopped a couple of times just to be sure. Thankfully he took my word for it that he was going to be fine and we got home without event.

So, the lowdown on the nights events:
1. Company: James's friends are a thoroughly lovely bunch of people who were friendly and chatty and clearly love James very much. And they were awfully nice to me, too.
2. Venues: Stark (formerly Babushka - no link available, disappointingly) was very nice indeed and a repeat visit is most certainly on the cards. Arc Bar was also pretty cool and not typically cheesy club stuff which makes a change. I could certainly spend more time in there, if they'll have us back (James).
3. Drinks: I think I was on the Stella all night, though I remember a shot being drunk at some stage. It was one of those nights where you think you are sober, but in the morning you realise how wrong you were. There are entire conversations of which I have no recollection.

Apropos of nothing, by the way, I promised a review of Wallace & Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit, and here it is: brilliant. I love W&G and the humour is just excellent. I especially liked the Tremors reference, and all the throw-away gags are worth the entrance fee on their own (which was half price thanks to Orange Wednesdays)

Coming soon: (I can't really say next week since I have temporarily abandoned the weekly format) Guy Fawkes night, flat-hunting, and the play (it's all over in just three weeks. I can't believe it!

...quality drama

2005-11-04T09:21:00.000Z

Yes, fans! This is my play!! Book tickets on the number above, or click here for more details. It would be GREAT to see some friendly faces in the audience, and lovely to catch up with you afterwards!

...depilatories

2005-11-02T23:01:00.000Z

How to use
1. With care. This is potent stuff and can melt folicle growth from twenty paces.
2. Get someone else to apply it for you to places you find hard to reach or can't see; you don't want to miss patches.
3. Wear some kind of mask. This is pure ammonia and smells like it.
4. Don't believe the patch test. I tried it on my wrist and was fine, then I got particularly sore when I used it (though no lasting damage resulted).
5. DO NOT leave on longer than required. This stuff burns hair; imagine what it will do to your skin given half a chance.
6. Have a few drinks beforehand. Go on! You know you want to. I did - did me the power of good!
7. Shave anything too long or it'll just be grim and probably not very effective. Imagine the 'matted dog' look. Not good.
8. Rinse throughly. Then do it again. And one more time for luck.
9. Don't get it on the carpet.
10. Don't get it anywhere you want to keep your hair. This may sound obvious, but it's actually quite difficult. I've got no hair on my inner thighs any more!

...blogging in a hurry

2005-11-01T10:26:00.000Z

God in heaven! I'm so busy I just don't have the time to write a great long episode right now. What I will do is filter it in slowly when I get ten minutes throughout the week: this does mean a change to your reading habits I'm afraid (unless you check it daily, in which case it's actually a little reward for your dedication). This week's many entries will include full details of last week once I remember what I did, and last weekend: when Sven met J's friends. A resounding success, I'm told. details to follow.

For now, I will leave you with the letter I sent to Apple this morning, regarding my faulty iPod. Not my finest work, but definitely indicative of the type of letter I have been writing lately. Will people never learn...?

*****

Customer Relations,
Apple Computer International,
Hollyhill Industrial Estate,
Cork,
Republic of Ireland

1 November 2005

Dear Sir or Madam:

Apple iPod Serial Number: JQ*******Q7

I write to express my utter disgust at my recent treatment by your company, and the continuing problems I have experienced with this appliance since I bought it last September (2004) in the Apple Store in New York.

Shortly after buying my iPod, it began to skip tracks – most notably starting every album on track two – and about a month or so later began to freeze with no explanation. I researched the problem on your website and found that the freezing was easily remedied by resetting, which I duly did. At this time, the problem was fairly intermittent and although I was not overly impressed, neither was I especially concerned.

As time passed, the problem worsened: the iPod would freeze several times a day – often to the extent that it would not respond or reset until the battery died or it was reconnected to the dock; skip several tracks on albums or refuse to play certain albums; turn itself off, or refuse to turn on. In short, it was barely worth having and I began to regret spending $399 on it. I resolved to send it for repair when the problem became unbearable in June 2005.

The repair service was fast and efficient, although I discovered upon opening the package that it had been returned to me with little more than a cursory inspection. I was informed that there was no real problem and that the software had loaded correctly first time, thus no further action was warranted. For a time, the problem did appear to have fixed itself: within a month later I was back in familiar territory, resetting my iPod three times on the ten-minute walk to work.

Over the summer I used it less and less, the technical difficulties making it barely worth my while. When I managed to get into the local Apple retailer (Farpoint in Bath) on the final day of my warranty, I was told that the impending expiry should not be a sticking point since I had returned it once and Apple were aware of the problem. Rightly or wrongly, I believed them. In the meantime, I had upgraded my PC to an iBook hoping that the problems might sort themselves out if I were using the same system for everything.

Recently my iPod ceased to function altogether and when it “died” I was finally pushed to the point where I could take no more: I was forced to ring Apple. After a lengthy telephone call with Technical Support I was told that Customer Relations would not authorise a repair as I had waited so long to report the problem after it was returned to me in July. When I asked to speak directly to Customer Relations, I was essentially “fobbed off” under the advice that there could be no discussion on the matter, and told to seek cheaper repairs if I did not want to pay for the Apple Service that had previously failed me. Livid, I went into Farpoint again and demanded something be done. Mr X, the assistant I spoke to, agreed to contact Apple again on my behalf and to attempt to resolve this matter satisfactorily.

One week later and having heard nothing, I called into Farpoint to see how things were going. My hopes that “no news was good news” were dashed when I was told that a telephone call had been made and the same result had been reached, though I was given a glimmer of hope when Dan told me he hadn’t had the opportunity to call again and properly address the situation. Another week’s silence later and my enquiry into the fate of my iPod was met with a rather curt “Apple won’t budge so your iPod is here ready for your collection”. The assistant was unfazed by my concern over the length of time taken and the lack of effort made to keep me informed: had I not contacted them how long would I have had to wait before getting my faulty iPod returned in the same condition I left it there? And what cause is there for me to collect it in any case? It doesn’t work.

Understandably, I am deeply concerned and disappointed with the service I have received, not only by the Apple themselves, but the attitude of your affiliates in Bath; all of this give me serious doubts about the reliability of the Apple products I now own. I am alarmed that your servicing centre did not identify the problems the first time around; had this been successfully spotted I would not be in the situation I now find myself facing. I am concerned that your Customer Relations appear unable to recognise the fact that this is a problem of your own making and, although my delays may have exacerbated it, I could not have control over the errant inner workings of the iPod which have successfully eluded even your own technicians. I am disappointed that I have now spent almost one thousand pounds on Apple products with no real guarantee that they will remain functional beyond the warranty. What certainty do I have that I will not be forced to replace my new iBook thirteen months after I bought it, as it appears I must my iPod? What faith can I have that any servicing carried out by Apple will have actually repaired any future problems?

Had I known I would be required to replace any of my Apple products a year after I bought them, I would not have considered spending my money on them. At present, I would not recommend Apple to anyone: for products intending to enhance and/or simplify your life, I have found the iPod, and perhaps more accurately Apple Customer Service, to be distracting, aggravating and complicated in the extreme.

I look forward to hearing how you intend to address these concerns for myself and other customers like me by return.

Yours faithfully,

Sven

Cc: The Manager, Farpoint Developments Limited, 25, Monmouth Street, Bath, BA1 2AP

...being a crochety old bastard

2005-10-25T21:33:00.000Z

I know I said I would write a cheerful take on the past week to contrast with this week's rant-and-rave about my vicious tongue and it's potent abilities; when viewed together the two were supposed to act like a photograph negative giving you the light and dark of the previous seven days. I will get onto this, but first I just have to comment on being a "grumpy old man in waiting" since some of you have privately expressed this might actually be the case.

Let me state once and for all, and let me be quite clear about it lest there be any confusion: I couldn't give a fig.

Little things wind me up to the point where I actually can enthusiatically rage about them for hours and I really don't mind at all. In fact, I rather enjoy it. Poor James has already had to endure a long-distance car journey with me berating the government (all parties, all levels), lazy people, the state of education, media-dictated legislating, the Bath Spa, pikeys, voter apathy and the general dearth of common vocabulary beyond "fuck" to express an opinion; and we've only been going out six weeks! (He gave as good as he got, to be fair.) In fact, I'm sure I entered into a discussion about the proper use of 'dearth' as opposed to 'paucity' when discussing Thai restaurants in Bristol on the first telephone conversation we ever had. And yet I remain oddly unapologetic.

My heart goes out to those of you who have had to live with me in the past (Monkey - you are actually a saint for putting up with it for so long) and yet I am unrepentant. I'm still at it, and this little invective was designed as an introduction to one final tale that made me lose my tentative grip on placidity again. In fact, this teetering on the brink of raving madness is a state in which I find myself more and more often without even knowing it: has anyone else noticed that there are some things that you just don't want to start talking about when I'm in the room? Is it only now that I am cottoning on to a major personality defect whereby I launch into apoplectic rage about the state of the nation or the provision of free bookmarks in libraries? (Can you get them for love or money? No you cannot.) Am I now, finally, irredeemably, beyond all hope?!

My tale involves the bank and cancelling my gym membership. Yes, I finally did it! I haven't the time to go these days and yet am still losing weight; if that is not the very definiton of a waste of money I really don't know what is. I reassured my mother it wasn't a relapse to my school days of not eating anything at all and promised to eat more at lunch, though without pigging out like Michael Winner at an all-you-can-eat buffet I just don't know how I'm going to manage it. Still, the gym is cancelled; the direct debit stopped, the membership card invalid, and yet what's this? Another £36 makes it's way out of my account. Well, I not having that; I'm straight on the phone to the bank.

The fellow on the phone took me through security and I explained my problem: I've paid for a gym whose membership I have already cancelled. It transpired that my direct debit was in the throes of being moved from one account to another (as I had requested) and my online cancellation a fortnight later had effectively cancelled the old instruction and not the new one. Now, I would have taken this as an explanation and chased the gym for the money had the insolent telephonist not uttered the suicidal phrase: "You shouldn't have moved that direct debit if you were just going to cancel it." Cue the red mist, elevated volume and do-NOT-fuck-with-me tone. I literally imploded.

"Do not tell me what I should and should not do. I didn't ask for your opinion, I told you I wanted you to sort it out! It's all very well telling me what to do after the fact..." Moments later I was speaking to Customer Services and my refund was on it's way. Perhaps he had looked at my notes and seen this was not the first time the bank and I had crossed words. Maybe he realised he had gone one step too far and I was not a man to be messed with. Most likely he just couldn't be bothered putting up with an irate loon like me going off on the other end of the phone; God knows, I'd have done the same.

That's that though, and with any luck this week will be stress-free and no one will come within a nautical mile of my immeasurably short fuse. What has happened to me? I used to be so patient! Think of a happy place, Sven; like James's parents on Saturday afternoon (they are both absolutely lovely, as are their dogs who are just beautiful). Not only did they greet me with open arms and feed me wonderfully, but I was grateful of the opportunity to sit around and do nothing but read the paper and solve the puzzles all afternoon. And James indulged me by taking me to the stationers and letting me roam freely, buying pinking shears and a craft knife in what was actually a very restrained shopping trip.

Or, my cousin's confirmation, which was fun for so many reasons. Was it spending an hour with my fourteen-year-old cousin who I get on with better and better as he gets older? (I was never really very good with young kids.) Or was it remembering why my sister and I were never allowed to sit next to eachother in church? (What is it about serious events that makes us laugh to the point of tears in the moments when everyone else is being really quiet?) Was it the fabulous 'eighties party' buffet afterward in the church hall, and my uncle telling me the best way to get the most food without looking like a greedy bastard? (Don't bother with a plate; just roam around the table casually picking at the food and no one will know how much you have taken.) I don't know which of these I enjoyed more, but I did have to laugh at my Gran bemoaning as she gifted me a new coffee-maker, "I've got one at home, I've given one to your uncle and one at the farm, I've got to get shot of them somehow." I can picture my nan, inundated with Kenwood coffee machines and disappearing under a mountain of white goods. STOP PLAYING THE BINGO, NANNY!

Or, Lucy's party on Friday night. Having to give up one party for another (sorry, Chocolate - I really do need better diary control) was a tough choice but I had a good time nevertheless. Taking James out to meet more of my friends is always fun, and we got to meet Maria unexpectedly, whom I love dearly. Plus we got into the Lizard Lounge for free (God bless you, Mike), and discovered some beautiful foreign beers in The Mall, and met Lucy's boyfriend for the first time (also a very nice chap), and I think I might have won at table football, and even though I left my phone in the taxi at the end of the night, he brought it straight back! Now that restored my faith in mankind.

No. At the risk of sounding slushy and soft, my all time highlight of the week was Sunday afternoon, having tea at my sister's, then working away at James's, getting cooked dinner and generally being waited on like royalty. I really don't know why I complain so much - there are days when I don't even know I'm born.

Next week: How to make a good impression on James's friends (with any luck: after reading this I'm not so sure it's a viable proposition), a review of Wallace and Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit, and most likely a gripe about something that will have pissed me off between now and then. Oh, and I will try really hard to get those uni photos sorted: I promise!

...poison pen letters

2005-10-23T21:54:00.000Z

Evening all! Yes, it's Sunday night, the rain is hammering sown outside my window and I'm watching Swimfan on 4: it's the end of another week and here I am wrapping it up so you can start yours with a smile on your face! Sainthood, here I come. I have decided though - not least for the fact that I simply have too much to write about - that I might try and write it in two shorter halves than one giant long stretch, thus making it easier for you the reader, and me, the writer, to cope with. Also, it gives me time to think about what I'm going to say instead of writing one long train-of-thought style madness, thus reducing comma usage by limiting non-exclusive phrases and ending my dependence on sub-clauses and parentheses (a.k.a. brackets). The writing group is paying off in the punctuation stakes and I revisited my old grammar books this week, inspired by last week's sermons from the mighty St Lynne of Truss. Well, we can but try.

So, what to put in this half of the weekly news? Well, last week was a binary juxtaposition of excellent things and bloody awful things that made my blood boil, so if I start with the shit and then rave about the sugar on Wednesday hopefully it will keep you all entertained. So, here is a list of the dreadful things that happened to me this week:

1. Death of the iPod

After months of trouble, my iPod finally gave up the ghost on Monday morning. Pretty much ever since I bought it I've had trouble with it. When it works, it's the best thing since the last amazing gadget I bought (the digital camera), but when it sticks or skips or resets or freezes and you have to reset it 3 times a day on a bad day, it's not so hot. I sent it off for repair once and they told me it was fine ("the software loaded correctly the first time so we have returned your iPod to you without further investigation"); however, the problems continued and despite my ringing Apple again to say it wasn't fixed, nothing much really happened. The trouble seemed to stop for a while and when the time came to upgrade my pc, I thought a Mac would (a) be a better buy than Windows - I am still convinced it is a 100% improvement on XP - and (b) it might sort out any problems with the iPod since it needs to be re-programmed to use a Mac iTunes. Boy, was I wrong.

On the final day of the warranty I nipped into the local Apple specialist in Bath and explained my situation. They told me not to worry too much about the warranty running out and to sort it out with Apple since the history of uncorrected errors would show I wasn't just making it up. This week (as you all know I've been swamped lately and just didn't have the time to do anything about it before now) the whole thing packed in so I called Apple to report the passing of my toy. They were having none of it. It was out of warranty and because I hadn't sent it back to them again (despite being told not to), they would fix it for me for a fee of £169! For two-thirds of what I originally paid, they would put it back to the way it should have been when I bought it: what an offer! Cue the verbal pasting for iPod technical support.

Not getting anywhere on the telephone, I stormed out of the office and into the Apple specialist again, giving the poor man in the store full vent: he was positively taken aback by the vitriol that I poured on Apple and everyone who worked for them, and also quite disgusted with Apple himself, took my iPod from me saying he would sort it out. I haven't seen it since. I am hoping that no news is good news and it will make it's way back to me fully functional and totally scratch-free too (though just plain working would be a start). Not one to waste a good rage, I drafted my letter of complaint (the first of many this week) and saved it, ready for the worst. I also e-mailed it to a friend who promptly shit their pants at my rage. Woe betide Apple if they fail me now.

Number of people afraid of my wrath: One

2. Admonishment from the boss

It's been a long time coming, but this week I finally did get a rap on the knuckles for not applying myself fully to my job. Though not because I've been wasting a lot of time nor not completing my work on time - my job is NOT a challenge, is totally boring, and I can't wait to get out of it - but rather for not doing a couple of jobs for which there were no deadlines, nor even an active interest in completion from above. Of course, fuelled by the iPod incident, my righteous indignation went into overdrive and I forced myself to walk out without answering back so I could muster my thoughts for a coherent afternoon assault.

I'm all for taking responsibility when you get it wrong, and more often than not I fall on my sword for the boss when he cocks it up, since customer's opinions of the admin staff are not really important when the reputation of the company is at stake: if they thought the bosses were getting it wrong we'd be out of a job by the end of the week. I focussed this into a perfectly scripted expression of "my point of view" and was ready to present it, along with the various other things I do for work for free (mind you, would you pay me for "front-line IT support"?) and supported it with the mother of all mistakes he had somehow managed to make himself and then blame on me, and marched in ready for war. No sooner had the opening salvo been fired though, than he capitulated at once and agreed to my demands - namely, clearer communication and an interest in what I was working on for him - and that was it: victory! I chalk it up to fear at my rage and claim it as my own.

Number of people afraid of my wrath: Two

3. My sister gets the same, for something different

Kara got told off at work this week too, for something else entirely. I won't go into here as it's not my story to tell, but suffice to say it was totally unjustified and when I heard about it, after the week I had endured, I was ready to bash someone else in a letter, even if it wasn't my fight. This week in writing group we had to talk about ourselves as five-year-olds again, and my research was asking my mum and dad what I was like at that age. My mother said I was serious and caring and fiercely protective of my sister, and judging by this week, nothing has changed. Two-and-a-half pages later, I had bashed the various transgressors in my sister's office to within an inch of their professional lives; so much so that now the very owner of the company is coming to discuss the situation with those involved. Including then, the four people at my sister's office, along with James and my parents, the total is racking up.

Number of people afraid of my wrath: Nine

Along with the three complaints I wrote on behalf of clients to various companies, all of whom expressed a desire to remain on my good side, the grand total of persons fearing my written vengeance is twelve. In one week! That's got to be some kind of record, surely? I only hope the nice letters I write make people as happy as the nasty ones make people miserable!

Perhaps this was just one of those weeks where everything happens at once. I used to be so timid but I honestly think it's my job that has turned me into this hardened bastard who won't take 'no' for an answer. Dealing with insurance companies - all of which are lying lazy scheisters (my default opinion) - has turned me into a "grumpy old man in waiting" as my Dad remarked this week. Still, nice things happened this week too, and I will list them for your delectation later in the week!

Still to come: Meeting James's parents, Lucy's party and my cousin's confirmation featuring that old favourite of mine: a party buffet!

...a grammatical goddess

2005-10-19T16:49:00.000Z

Lynne Truss is writing in The Times about manners and politeness this week(links to the articles loving provided below). I am so excited about this I felt it warranted a quick five minutes off work to 'mid-week blog' and tell you all about it (you can read this week's usual blog here.

Anyone who can write a masterpiece like Eats, Shoots and Leaves deserves to be celebrated all over the place, and this is my little tribute to her. Her next book (out 24 October in all good bookshops) Talk to the Hand: The Utter Bloody Rudeness of the World Today or Stay At Home and Bolt the Door will address a topic far closer to my heart than careless punctuation and clarity of expression: civilised behaviour in the twenty-first century. As you must all know, I am one of those old-fashioned fellows when it comes to manners, and ignorant behaviour and a lack of thought are the two things most likely to make me want to run screaming at the perpetrators with a bloody axe and a 'banzai' war-cry.

No one is perfect all the time of course, and I freely admit that even I forget to say "please" every once in a blue moon (though I never forget to express my gratitude, to the point of thanking cashiers for actually taking the money from me in Waitrose), but if everyone could please try to hold the door open for someone else this evening the world will be a much happier place in no time. And if someone does it for you, remember to say "thank you" lest I should force you to spend the rest of your life sleeping with your eyes open...

Dont be so rude: Rudeness is a moral issue and why we should all complain.

Why Ps and Qs count: Social niceties and when to keep your trap shut.

Why do none of us feel shame anymore?: British reserve and the rise of bad language.

...drinking Exhibition

2005-10-17T23:37:00.000Z

Well fans, sorry to be so late again but strangely I actually have to do work now when I go into the office. I tell you: if it carries on like this I will have to seriously think about leaving. In fact, I'm already decided I will be handing in my notice sooner rather than later since I plan to move to Bristol and it's not a chosen career but a means to make money. I can get any old job to do that and I think I'm just too attached to the office because it's reliable and comfortable: I need to get back in touch with my crazy beatnik ways and remember that I'm only filling time till I can make a decent living doing something that I love.

So, a bit of strange week this week really. Almost unnoticed in all the other things that filled my time this week were some key events in my going out with James: his first night out with my friends (excluding the Hen Night with Pippa who loves him - the wedding will be any day now, I'm sure); our first weekend away staying with his sister and her boyfriend; and his first dinner with my family. Now I look back on it that was a shedload of big deals all in one weekend and yet they breezed by as though it were an everyday occurance. That's got to be a good thing, right?

I'm not one to lose a lot of sleep over meeting family of partners - they're only people and you meet new people all the time without anything going horrendously wrong - but I'm only human and usually I give it a little more thought than simply "what shall I wear?". As vital a question as it is, and I can't believe I'm about to say it, it's not the be-all-and-end-all of all things. Still, it was literally all I had time to think about this week, so I just had to throw whatever looked best in a bag and race out the door on Friday morning and hope for the best. This was because all week, what with rehearsals for this, that and the other, not to mention writing groups (including my first proper novel writing session: more on that to follow) and having to go to work, I just couldn't fit it all in my brain. Thursday was fraught to say the least: morning in the office, afternoon at novel-writing, a brief stop at James's for a cup of tea and then off to rehearsals. When I finally got in at ten I had time to eat and then it was off to bed. I had planned to pack that evening but I was just too tired and promptly flaked out, meaning I actually had to get up at 6.30 with the alarm in order to put my stuff together. My idea of Hell is packing on the very day you are leaving the house.

After a dreadful Friday in the office it was straight off to Bristol. Have you noticed how the Friday feeling takes one of two distinct forms? One is the "can't wait for the weekend/Thank God It's Friday" feeling where nothing is too much trouble because it's Friday and all is good in the world: the other seems to be a sort of 'general malaise' where everyone resents the fact it's not the weekend already. Friday is just the final day to be endured and Monday almost abutts it directly, as though the weekend can do nothing to assuage the devastating effects of the week just passed nor the week to follow. This Friday gone was certainly one of the latter. I was jaded by lunchtime and just could not take the time to do nothing on Friday afternoon and enjoy it. Five o'clock rolled around and not a moment too soon. The train was bearable enough and although I let James assume I got the bus to his, I actually got a taxi as I had just. About. Had. Enough. In a strange development in our relationship, I had a key to James's flat as I would be there before he was so I pottered around the place on my own with barely enough time to look in my own bag and see what I had packed for myself let alone have a good old nose around the flat as Mike and Alison alleged, the devils! (Not that I would have done it anyway: if you find something you don't like it's your own fault for looking and you can't ever be angry or upset about it as you've only yourself to blame.) Anyway, the key went back as soon as it had served it's purpose.

Friday we ate out again (hurrah!) and even made our way to the legendary Coronation Tap for a pint (or more accurately two half-pints) of the strongest cider available. I think I built it up to be something extraordinary as both James and I were somewhat disappointed with the real thing. It was flat and warm with the consistency of treacle. We concluded it was like super-strong hot Ribena that had sat on the side for an hour. Not vile, but something you would sooner replace than partake. Nonetheless, it was certainly strong hence the half-pint servings: it's too potent for a whole pint in one go. How do you get around that? Order two halves at once! Why bother having such a silly rule when everyone will get around it so easily? By the time we got to La Rocca I was quite contently merry. Cue the 'Cheeky Vimto': horrendously camp (sorry, Special) but thoroughly enjoyable and quite effective. With all this inside me, the news that my match-making efforts might come to nothing was no great loss, but just as one side declared they had given up, we got news from the other that things might not look so hopeless. By then I had all the inclination but none of the abilities to do anything about it, so I gave up and danced till we left (early). Sleep at three, up at nine. Not good.

Saturday saw us drive all the way to Reigate to stay with James's sister and her boyfriend. They are LOVELY. I was possibly a shade timid what with having had all the cider ('Cider Friday' as Mike and I billed it; I ask you!?) but I think it went well. We saw Blood Brothers in a theatre that seemed more like the leisure centre from The Brittas Empire. Linda Nolan can belt them out but always seems to be standing on one foot as though ready to run from some unseen predator in the wings (perhaps the fellow from Corsham with the ghetto blaster has been stalking her of late?! We shouldn't mock her). That evening we had a mini pub-crawl of Reigate though Nick, Kate's boyfriend, left the pub ten minutes before us as he hurt his leg in a footballing incident and walked with a limp and a crutch - by getting out early he would reach the next bar at the same time as we did. It was a lovely and comical end to a fraught week and I'm glad we went.

Sunday featured an ad hoc Sunday roast at mine where James met Kara and I filled up on potatoes, and all my good intentions - learning my lines, two thousand words more for my novel, a spot of card-making - fell by the wayside when I discovered The West Wing was repeated on More4. That channel will be the end of me, I'm sure of it. And, after all the hype about what I had packed and how I was looking, I forgot to pack any pants! All that trouble and I forgot the basics: isn't that always the way!?

Next Week: Sven goes to war with Apple, an in-depth chat about the novel-writing group and what they think of my crazy novel idea, my cousin's Confirmation AND a weekend in Bournemouth, not to mention the usual mad-cap business that has become my daily life.

...popping pills

2005-10-10T15:35:00.000Z

Apologies abound!! Sorry it's so late this week - the office was remarkably busy and ther was simply no way I could squeeze in the necessary time to fill you all in on my week's antics. And abject apologies for the non-appearance of the 'uni days flashback' mini-blog as promised: I throw myself upon the mercy of the readership and humbly beg forgiveness. I'll do it this week if I get a minute.

So, what has been keeping me so industriously employed this last week, I hear you ask. Let me tell you: I have been ill. Not just ill, but man-sick. In my defence, I did have this bug that was going around (glands up, sickness, sore throat, runs and headache) AND my wisdom teeth made a final break for freedom all at the same time but upon reflection I might have made it seem worse than it really was. Nonetheless, it did afford me two days at home and I got prescription drugs like they were going out of fashion which meant I was high as a kite for most of the week.

Drugs Sven has been taking this week:
Penicillin VK Tablets (phenoxymethylpenicillin). An oldie but a goodie; taking this on an empty stomach actually makes me quite dizzy for about a quarter of an hour. I don't think it should really have that effect, but it's only a five day course so how much damage can possibly be done?
Corsodyl mouth spray (chlorhexadine digluconate). This beauty gets administered directly to the troublesome toothypegs, providing instant relief and comfort to the afflicted area. However, as with so many things good for you, it tastes like lemon rind and petrol which leads me to believe that the "mint" flavour has been supplied by the catering arm of Esso.
Doxycycline Capsules (doxycycline hyclate). This beast is by far the most adventurous of the range, and are used to heal the multitude of mouth ulcers one develops when one is (a) run down and (b) teething. Not only do you have to take them standing up, but you can't lie down for an hour afterward and have to take about two pints of water with them too. Also, you can't take vitamin tablets with them, nor indigestion tablets, so you have to make sure when you do eventually eat that you do it slowly and chew properly. As a final precaution, you must avoid the sun and/or sunlamps. These little monkies are also used for skin conditions though on a much lower dose (25 mg instead of the 100mg I'm on) so although my skin is now beautifully clear and blemish-free, direct sunlight might well do some serious damage. Hurrah!
Neurofen. Does anyone else think these taste quite nice? I can see how people get hooked on them: you feel amazing after a couple of these and since I was single-handedly keeping them in business for a while I thought it best I try to ween myself off them by leaving it an hour longer each time I needed to use them. I can safely say I have kicked the habit now.
Hot Brine. Strictly speaking, this is not a drug (unless I wrote it like this: NaCl & H2O, though I don't think it would fool any of you boffins out there) but it was recommended as a mouthwash by a sadist posing as a medical professional. It tastes like it sounds and stings like buggery (take my word for it).

Wednesday saw the convention of my writing group and a chance to catch up with like-minded literary friends. It's funny how I lose momentum so easily (over the summer I have slacked off so much it's untrue) but one morning with the writing group and I feel enthused again. This week, as a warm up for the new members, we had to write about a handful of buttons we had picked from a giant tin. I know it sounds silly, but people write the most amazing things when they have to - invariably you don't stick to the buttons for long, and wander off into God knows where. Try it: in 5 minutes, start writing about something on your desk and just keep writing; even if you dry up, just keep writing whatever comes out: you'll be surprised at the results! This week's homework is to write something autobiographical so I thought I would just print off a weeks blog and read that out. I was thinking the National Express entry, but if anyone else has another favourite do let me know!

Rehearsals are going well. My character gets less and less like me as we practice. This week, apart from the drugs and smoking I have been throwing people around and pinning them to tables! I've never even been in a fight but I have to yank this fellow off the floor and throw him on the desk (with help - it's not just me) then pin him down and yell in his face: it's all very exciting!!! This week I've had another kind of rehearsal though: my cousin is getting confirmed. For the uninitiated among you: it's a Catholic thing, the general gist of it being you take responsibility for your own faith, your parents having done it for you when you were a baby by getting you baptised. Anyway, you go on special classes as the confirmee and learn all about the Catholic faith, then you have a big mass and ceremony where your sponsor (me) comes along to vouch for your spiritual merit and, after choosing another name (mine was Michael), you get anointed with Holy Oil and call it a night. Interestingly, you can't get married in a Catholic church unless you have been confirmed. Unless you are a non-Catholic marrying a Catholic, in which case you have to go through a series of classes before they let you in the door: it really is a very exclusive club, you know.

As a 'lapsed' Catholic (I suppose that's the right term?) it was quite fun going back to the church where, just eight years ago, I was head altar-boy and gave out communion on a regular basis. Canon Roche once spoke to my mum about the possibility of my becoming a priest (!) which was very flattering, and the more I think about it the nicer it feels. Not that there was ever a chance of it happening, but it's lovely to think that people think you're nice enough to do a job like that. It's not a bad lot either - as a parish priest - in so far as you'll never be homeless, but quite simply, there's no way I'm ever going celibate and more importantly, I have serious doubts about religion and God and the whole kit-and-caboodle so it's probably best I gave that particular career opportunity a wide berth. The current priest I'm sure has no such ideas about me - my cousin and I laughed our way through the rehearsal and my uncle was no stickler for the rules either. The priest is lovely, but he can turn ten minutes of material into a thirty minute diatribe, so much so that I'm sure the 10.30 mass on Sunday was moved to 10am so that everyone could get out in time for lunch; previously the mass lasted 45mins and you were out by the end of The Waltons. In Union Hall (the village my Irish family come from), according to my uncle, it's 20mins! The kids love it: in, pray, out and home before breakfast is over! In our local church, the mass can (and often does) go on to that point where the pews get hard...

Friday night and thankfully my course of drugs had neatly concluded, meaning I could have a few drinks and generally have a good time. We hit The Elbow Room, The Ram and The Lansdown after eating in Nandos. The 'drinking tour' of Bristol seems now to include 'eating out' research now, which I am glad about. If I could afford it I'd go to dinner with friends every day for the rest of my life: I absolutely love it. The rest of the weekend I spent sitting in James's flat under a duvet doing my best nurse impression: yes fans, I think I gave him the lurgy! My nursing technique involves lots of cups of tea and doing the crossword. I'm not sure how effective it is, but the feedback has been positive so it must have some merit. I also managed to get him hooked on Su Doku (the man even tried the Samurai Su Doku - fearless, I tell you!) so the weekend was well spent.

That's it fans! I'm thinking the mini-blog will make and appearance some time after Wednesday since, again, I'm rushed off my feet. I'll start loading the photos while I watch the launch of More 4 this evening. Is anyone else looking forward to it like I am?!

Next Week: More rehearsals, more church, match-making and meeting James's sister - very exciting!!!!!!

...over-eventing

2005-10-02T20:55:00.000Z

One week on and the highlighter thief is still at large. I suppose I should really just let it go: they were stolen anyway. When I left NatWest I stripped the place of pretty much anything that wasn't nailed down (excluding the contents of the safe of course, though given half a chance I would have had a go) and my trips to the stationery cupboard are not strictly "necessary" so I shouldn't really complain when I get stung by my own trick - what goes around, comes around.

I am writing this from the luxury of my bedroom while I watch Miss Congeniality and wait to drop off to sleep: I have spent most of the day in bed again, though I am recovering from some kind of mystery ailment so I think it entirely excusable, plus; there was a lot more incentive to stay IN bed than to get out this morning - watching Alex and my boss run the Bristol Half Marathon was just not tempting enough I'm afraid! We have come to the decision that I have been working myself into the ground - well, when I say 'working' I mean 'everything else but', since I think we have safely established that the office is not where I expend the most energy. This may seem strange having just got back from a four-day jolly in Hungary, but the more I think about it, the more it makes sense.

After the crazy week last week, a wild three nights of pretty much uninterrupted drinking in Budapest coupled and three-days schlepping around the place being typical tourists, what I should have done was spend the day taking it easy and preparing for work the following morning: what I actually did was call James and spend the rest of the day with him meaning I went to work from Bristol on the Tuesday. This means I have to actually get out of bed at 7am instead of the usual alarm-at-6.30-but-rise-at-8 routine, though it also means that Big J makes me marmite-on-toast in bed because he's just lovely like that. The commute was straightforward this time and I was into the office in plenty of time, which makes a change: I haven't seen it with the lights off in months!

Tuesday night was a rehearsal for Reunion, where I discovered that I had missed the point of the whole play the first time I read it and that mine is actually one of the most important roles. Not only do Patsie (fellow key role and love interest) and I open the show, but we close Act I, and have the final scene with the 'big reveal': now I am actually shitting my pants. The director and producer are both very upbeat and complimentary, but I can't help thinking that I'm not quite good enough to pull it off. I know it's only Am Dram and all that, but you can't really think like that: if it's worth doing, it's worth doing properly: I think I'm just worried I'm going to end up letting everyone down since I do often feel they are all better than me. It's early days yet though and I have yet to see everyone else perform in their roles, so maybe I'm just worrying about nothing: I haven't even learned my lines yet! (I should mention that the show is on at The Rondo in Bath from Nov 23 - 26 should anyone like to come and see it - it would be lovely to see some friendly faces in the audience.)

Thursday was the final KTN of the year for me! Really this type of charity work is a pretty good gig - minimal time commitment and it looks good on my CV. Plus it doesn't hurt when you tell people you do charity work - everyone is always interested and it's a nice conversation starter that makes you look good without looking like you are showing off (which, of course, you are). Anyway, as promised, I was stern and ran the show like an army major, though with a kindly heart and total compassion for the reader with a stutter (you couldn't make this stuff up, I tell you!). As much as I enjoy giving my time for a good cause I'm glad it's over for another three months (the rota goes round on a monthly basis) since I get my Thursday nights back - at least for a week or so: rehearsals are going to take them over in no time.

The weekend eventually pulled up on Friday afternoon and not a moment too soon; what with everything going on this past fortnight these two four-day weeks have seemed almost a month long! I had taken a change of clothes and straight when the office shut, we were out the door and off to the shop opening. (I wish I could say it was after a hard days work but it's really not true: Dikra and I had spent about 15 minutes of the day under our desks waiting for someone to walk in to the office so we could either fool them or scare them.) It was all very exciting - there was champagne and designer-wear everywhere, I didn't know where to start. I also met Rudolph Walker (he's the owner's father) but all I said was 'hello, how are you?'. Still, I bought some lovely jeans (15% off on opening night) to go with the lovely shoes I bought earlier in the day from Dune and the world was a wonderful place. Even knocking my champagne over on a £59 jersey didn't dampen my enthusiasm, nor the fact that I was slowly but surely succumbing to my body's fatigue. After the shop it was on to Sub 13, then dinner with Big J at Thai Balcony (my favourite Thai in the whole city) before clubbing it and then home to bed; I was asleep by about 3. I was awake at 8am. I was totally destroyed.

When you are sick, there's nothing quite like sitting in bed watching tv and dozing off throughout the day. I trawled through our old video collection trying to find something to watch: I never realised we had so many Goldie Hawn movies! 5 ended up watching half of Groundhog Day but missed the end as I was asleep. When I woke up, my sister was sitting there, so we watched another film and generally lazed about: I was trying to cram in as much rest as possible so I could go out that night. James picked me up at 7.30 but the night-on-the-town-plan was called off by the time we got back to Bristol, so we got into trackie bums and sweaters and watched more DVDs and I dozed off again. God news for me - I had a pounding head if I'm honest, but we were meant to be meeting his friends and I didn't want to flake out - but probably not the best date he's ever been on: how many people can say their date fell asleep during the film?! He was soo gracious about it though, and even today when I had the worst stomach in history and had to belt it into the toilet about 4 times in the morning, he just made me tea and cooked me dinner and drove me home in the early evening. God bless him. Good job too - I got home to discover there was no hot water in my house today (boiler trouble): could there be anything worse than a man with the runs in a house with no hot water?

So, that's it for this week. There are plenty of things I havn't mentioned but it's probably all the stuff you don't want to hear about for one reason or another and this has gone on long enough anyway. I promised Swifty I'd do a mini-blog this week to reminisce about uni and the Topshop massive, so be sure to check again towards the end of the week for a back-catalogue of Sven's many and varied hair-styles. Failing that, here comes the trailer!

Next Week: The drinking tour of Bristol recommences, as does writing group, and Sven goes back to church!

...Fogaskereku Vasut, Part II

2005-09-28T13:00:00.000Z

Still no sign of the highlighters. I am thinking about sending around an e-mail or just announcing on the call-out that whoever stole them will go directly to Hell if they are not returned. Perhaps I am taking things a mite too far? I think not.

Anyway, Budapest. Andrew rang me after about two hours sleep to say that I had to get out of bed as he would be at my house at 5am. I got out of bed at 4.55am - see, it can be done! - and put the kettle on. I don't care if the world is ending: the day doesn't start without a cup of tea. Thanks to the miracle of my packing philosophy ("too much is never enough"), I had time to spare in the morning to make these things possible.

Instructions for Holiday Packing
[1] About three weeks in advance, think about what you want to take with you. Stop wearing it (or at least make sure it's in your normal rotation so that it will be washed and ironed in time to go). This may mean you spend a fortnight in less than your best attire, but you are saving for a holiday too, so how fancy a place are likely to be going, eh?
[2] Plan your packing time: the week before in this case was mighty busy, so I had a mental time-slot for packing. This time it was far later than normal: the night before was the only gap I had!
[3] Prepare your suitcase a week in advance. Put in things that don't need folding (underwear, shoes, technical equipment like phone-chargers etc). Locate your passport: you know where it is (everyone puts it in a "safe place") but it's always best you know that you know. I have not had a holiday in recent memory without a week's worth of "Where the fuck is my fucking passport" drama, so I speak from bitter experience.
[4] Iron everything that needs it (clothes should be in a pile by now, since step one ensures they are ready to go) then pack it all. I'm sure it was Monkey who suggested the ideal way to pack is to lay out everything you want to take then halve it and pack. I lay it all out and double it, often thinking "Hmm, is there anything nicer than this pair of trousers/t-shirt/socks I could take too".
[5] Take a spare pair of everything: a spare pair of trousers, a pare pair of t-shirts, and double it for underwear. You never know what kind of accidents might befall you before you leave the hotel room.
[6] Obviously, pack any washing kit last since you might need it that morning, and always put your shoes in a bag so you don't get whatever is on the soles on your clothes. And take spare carrier bags too - as many as you can get away with. You can screw up your laundry in them and fit in some shopping for the way back.

So, packed and out the door at 5.15am - it's a miracle. At the airport we met some of Andrew's friends on their way to Newcastle for a Hen Weekend. Mandatory laughing at people's passport photos was completed (thankfully they knew who Nana Mouskouri was, or my joke about Andrew's would have been wasted.) and we were in the air on time, touching down in Budapest at just after 11am local time. The sun was shining and the holiday had begun! (Point of interest: I completed my first 'Killer Su Doku' on the flight - the ones that use maths as well as the normal rules: I am the KING!) Friday we spent wandering around, leisurely having some lunch and drinking. Drink in Budapest is uncommonly cheap so there was really no excuse to refrain from getting on it straight away. By the evening, we were ready for a big night out, and met up with Sophie and her friends for a tour of the Budapest nightlife.

Andrew came to Budapest earlier this year, met Sophie and her friends, and left his watch with her, requiring a return visit to reclaim it. Well, I guess he could have had it posted but where's the fun in that? So anyway, it was nice to have someone who lived there to show us around and avoid getting ripped off left right and centre. The people there are particularly poor by European standards, and I didn't find them particularly friendly either - why would they be; we've not done a great deal for them in the past, I guess - but I did feel a certain chippiness throughout, as though they resented your being in Hungary, and would try to fleece you if they got the chance (horrendous generalisation, I know: some of the locals were quite lovely really). Still, we toured the city's bars ('Soho London' featured some of the worst dancers in Europe, and could be closed by trade descriptions: it is funny how other people view your own country though) getting slowly but surely out of our minds. In a strange aside, as Sophie is studying for the International Baccalaureate at the English School, we were treated to an evening with the Swiss Ambassador's son amongst others. He shops in Primark, too. As revenge for standing idly by whilst Andrew and Sophie swapped saliva, I planned a day of sight-seeing to end all days, starting as early as possible.

Saturday morning and we were out of the hotel by 11am, on a trip around Budapest. Sophie volunteered as guide and took us to the Royal Palace (Buda Castle), Heroes Square, lunch at the Marriot (it's cheaper to eat in hotels than local cafes, strangely) and then bathing at the Szecheny Baths - the oldest and largest bathing complex in the capital. The sights in Budapest are definitely worth seeing, though I would recommend a guide book, as there is no information anywhere at any of the locations. As a result, I know next to nothing about each place since what little there was, was all in Hungarian (closest fraternal language: Mongolian - no chance of winging it). I always feel really bad not knowing the language in other countries, so I really do try to make an effort to learn a little - everyone speaks English, of course, but it's nice to be able to say thank you, or hello at least. I practiced my pronunciation on the trams (the public transport is excellent and SOOO cheap, though we did get fined for fare-dodging: £5.40); I copied the announcements at each stop (Nyul Utca, Szent Janusz Korhaz, Nagyatai Utca...) to try to get the swing of it, much to Andrew's despair; I think he honestly gave up all hope when I asked him if he wanted to know my favourite tram stop. Still, I can say hello, goodbye, yes, no, boy, girl, please and thank-you so it can't be all bad.

Saturday night's fun was champagne-fuelled (£4 a bottle - it's rude not to!) and the final Long Island Iced Tea pushed me right over the edge. Never has a cocktail been soooo strong yet cheap - I didn't see what went in it, but the minute squirt of coke to give it the traditional colour meant it was 99% alcohol, and it tasted it too. I paid for it the next morning - my stomach was all over the show - but I still dragged Andy out to Parlament and then, after a trip round the shops, back to the Baths, where I could quite simply, spend the rest of my life in perfect contentment. I LOVE SPA LIVING! I could spend hours going from warm pool to hot pool to Sauna to freezing plunge pool and round again, with fountains that massage your shoulders and countless attractive people in swimsuits. (I am actually quite glad for the Bath Spa now - I think if it ever opens, I will move in.) We only got out because Andrew got a bit bored and we were both a bit dicky from the night before, or I'd still be in there now! Sunday we had a fairly quiet night and were in bed by half-twelve, since Monday was an early cab ride to the airport then the flight home again (you have to love Easyjet, especially when you sit by the emergency exit and get more leg room), and that was it, all over.

In summary, although I think it was nice to go there and I'm really glad I went (I did have an excellent time) I won't be booking a return flight any time soon. The city is beautiful yet run down at the same time; the people are not particularly welcoming; and I didn't think there was actually THAT much to do. A weekend is quite long enough and like Wendy says, unless you fall in love with a place, the world is just too big for a return visit: there's plenty else out there to see.

Next Week: Date update, Re-union rehearsals, and a works night out at the opening of a new shop in town (champagne all round!)

"I thought 'Why are you punching me in the thigh...?'"

...Fogaskereku Vasut, Part I

2005-09-27T12:15:00.000Z

Well, isn't it just bloody typical: you go on holiday for the weekend and some bastard steals your highlighters! If it weren't for the fact I have a pack of six more stashed in my drawer I'd be hunting the swines down right this minute. As it is, I'll wait till 5pm and then have a quick sweep round the building to track them down. If there's one thing you really don't want to do, it's steal my stationery.

So then fans, what has been happening in Svenderland this past week? Well, I was a busy busy bee what with all the Am Dram and theatre-going, and the charitable work and writing and actually having a job to go to as well, not to mention sunny Budapest. With this in mind, I will divide the week's activities into two entries in an effort to keep it readable. Don't say I never do anything for you.

Monday night I had another mini-date with James: quiet drink, pleasant chat and early night. (We were in Sub 13 and it was dead; downstairs it's like a private little living room so we could snog like teenagers to our hearts content - love it, love it, love it.) I also watched Meet the Fockers (funnier than expected) for free, since Dikra and I have an arrangement at work whereby any film we rent from the library (£1.60 for the week!) we will lend to the other - some call us cheapskates; I prefer the term 'prudent'. I'm coming around to Barbra Streisand too, which perturbs me somewhat. I noticed she's at Number Three in the album chart this week which gives me pause; I shall refrain from buying the CDs for now, and them memory of goddamn Yentl is quite enough to keep me from watching any more of her work for the time being. Still, an admirable performance that entertained me till I was tired enough to drop off to sleep.

Tuesday was the FIRST REHEARSAL for the play I'm in - I won't lie to you: I was quite nervous. I rocked up, not knowing (a) what part I was playing, (b) who anyone else was and (c) what happens in the play, since I hadn't even read it. My part (Barney, for future refernce) is that of a D-List celebrity who presents such nostalgia shows as I Love the 80s, simultaneously treasuring and mocking such things as the Rubik's Cube, or Space Hoppers, or those rubbers that smelled of strawberries. I don't get to do any of that though, as I spend the whole play in a geography classroom at a school re-union smoking and getting out of my face on drugs, and hitting on an old school-friend. None of this is at all like me, (which is why it's called acting) so I will have to get in plenty of practice rolling joints and learning how to smoke since, quite simply, I have NO experience at it whatsoever. If anyone is having a master class between now and the end of November, I'd be very much obliged for some pointers. Aside from that it seemed to go quite well, and although it will be a LOT of work (2 months is not long when it's only two rehearsals a week) I'm really, really looking forward to it.

In a theatrical overload this week, I had tickets to Otherwise Engaged for Wednesday night. It was meant to be me and my mum going (since my Dad didn't really want to go with her) but the most transparent attempt at match-making in history, Mum rang me at work to say she would be working late and why didn't I take James instead. Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I was straight on the blower and a good night was had by all. Richard E Grant, I have to say, is awfully thin with a head that might be considered a shade too big for his body. Nonetheless, it was a superb performance; Anthony Head of Buffy fame also starred, and there were naked breasts on stage which perked the old boy in front up quite noticeably. More post-show snogging was inevitable and highly enjoyable, and then it was home to bed in preparation for another long day.

Thursday was KTN night - another triumphant materpiece of sound engineering for the elderly blind of the area! This weeks was a disaster and I'm sure I'll get a letter saying I should be more controlling of what we actually send out. I think I let the presenters walk all over me last week, choosing when to come in and how much to edit out and such; not to mention the quality of the recording which must have been below par. Still, what can you do? I couldn't be in there till kingdom come getting it perfect and there's only so much one man can take when the readers fluff it time and again. This week is the last week for me though, at least until January, so I shall rule it with a rod of iron and create a new standard in charitable broadcasting. Or, I'll fudge it and run: we shall see. After that it was home to pack (anyone who has ever been away with me for one night knows what an event I can turn this into - my philosophy on holiday packing will be revealed in part II), and despite my best efforts (I was in bed by midnight) I couldn't sleep for excitement about my weekend away. Not such a bad thing one might think, but for the fact I had to be awake at 4.30am.....

...the death of Todd Landers

2005-09-19T12:00:00.000Z

Here we are again - Monday morning and nothing to do with myself. After last week's complaint (thanks for making your feelings known Gemsy) I thought I had better be punctual with this weeks installment, especially since next week's will almost certainly be late as I shall be in Budapest!! I have just realised that means this week is only a four-day week, and next week is the same: I have a little 'glee' in my tummy!

This week has been a week of dates, and all with the same guy too - unheard of! Yes indeed, things went swimmingly on the Monday night date with Big James (as opposed to Little James of last week's tale) so further arrangments were made for Friday, Saturday and Sunday. This is obviously excellent, but it does mean I had to face the various dilemmas of dating all in fairly quick succession.

Dating Grey Area #1: When to meet. I forget that I'm an adult and can do things on a school night. Plus, I seem to have this thing that dating should be done on the weekend - I blame The Rules: ever since I read that dreadful book I have been convinced that one should only meet dates from Friday to Sunday. This is silly though: you either waste one weekend finding a date for the following weekend, or you have to be out Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday night (since you can never accept a date after Wednesday) trying to get someone for the weekend. The Rules is for desperate women and should be banned immediately, but I digress. I met James on Friday and since he lives in Clifton and I was out there on Saturday night, I mentioned to him that if he were around he should call me. As it was he wasn't, but he suggested Monday. I can safely say that Monday is a good night for a first date. Nowhere is too busy, you can sit down and have a proper chat and generally enjoy yourself without all the shenanigins of a Friday night out. And it showed he was keen, which brings me on to...

Dating Grey Area #2: How to seem interested, but casual. How and when do you call to confirm? Should you let them know you will be ten minutes late? Neither of these were a problem on the first date but, since it went well, I was quite excited about Friday night which made me all the more determined not to show it: for me, this is like trying to eat peas with a pitch fork. In the end, I needn't have worried since James rang me on Wednesday to sort it all out as he knew I was busy on Thursday (duly noted: paid attention while I was talking. 10/10).

Dating Grey Area #3: What to wear. This is a dilemma I have practically every day of my life because that's just the type of guy I am. I opted for a t-shirt and trainers on the Monday night date because blatantly, on a Monday night, you don't want to be too overdressed and it's a fairly safe bet they will be thinking the same. Friday night dating however, is a whole different ball game. I always say go dressed up rather than dressed down; if the worst happens and the date is a bust you are ready to go somewhere better and have a good time. Plus it's nice to make an effort. Calamity: he wore jeans and a t-shirt, though we laughed about it and it really didn't matter. He did also spend four days finding and researching Thai restaurants (duly noted: definite effort made to impress. 10/10) since I had said that Thai was one of my favourites (duly noted: still paying attention as I am talking and thinking about it afterwards. Bonus point awarded).

Dating Grey Area #4: What to do? This is less of a grey area than one might think. It may not be the same for everyone but generally dinner is NOT a first date activity. If it goes abysmally you're stuck watching someone you don't like eat - there are worse things in life to be sure, but not many. Thus I have discovered there is an established format for dating that goes: drinks, dinner, whatever. Drinks on the first date is like a fishing trip: you want to see if there's anything in the lake worth having. Dinner is a second date activity, where one can cook-up the fish you caught on date one (God, does anyone else think I am talking bollocks?). After that, if all is going well the following dates should generate themselves. In this case, Friday night dinner turned into Saturday night on the Hen Night and Sunday night hanging out at his place requiring me to get the train into work from there this morning. (I used to think commuting would be fun: I don't any more.)

Dating Grey Area #5: "Modesty Preservation". I am quite simply not qualified to advise on this at all: Date Two is perfectly acceptable.

The Hen Night then, oh what can I say?!? I pretty much spent all of Saturday (a) in bed, or (b) in trackie bottoms making cards for various occasions forthcoming. Pippa and friends, it seemed, spent their day drinking distilled meths from unlabelled bottles. By the time I met up with the Hen Party they were absolutely minced. Good fun, of course, but wasted. Marie (the bride) was bedecked, as is the norm on these occasions, with L-plates and a veil and a bikini made out of sweets. Inspired! The rest of the night was pretty much like any other night out really, though God knows despite my best efforts we all ended up in Cadillacs. I hang my head in shame. SHAME!! Still, it was good fun. I did feel for poor James though, being thrust into this night of drunken ladies for a third date. He took it all with good grace, even when Pippa and I mercilessly mocked his musical taste (duly noted: vast yet particularly concerning CD collection. 0/10), and especially when I stood in the street holding Pippas hair in case she wanted to vomit. (duly noted: friends are drunk beyond all reason and still interested. 10/10). Lessons learned from this night: Perfect strangers (women) are lovely to the bride. Perfect strangers (men) are drawn to the bride like flies around shit. Perfect strangers (Stag Nights) will hit on the bride shamelessly, though I'm sure it's all in the name of fun. As a point of interest for you all, it is possible to get extremely drunk two nights in a row: Tequila and Sambuca will see you quite nicely ruined.

Sunday was my parent's wedding anniversary and I spent most of it in bed; though in a break with tradition, two different beds. I also tried unsuccessfully to complete the Samurai Su Doku in Saturday's Times, but to no avail - I was still working on it on the train this morning. In a worrying development on the 'terrible taste in music' line, Big J's DVD collection plumbs dark new depths. That said, it was fun to watch the most memorable deaths in Neighbours so I feel I shouldn't bite that hand toooo hard. (I'm sure when the full horrors of my CD and DVD collection are revealed I shall eat my words with a vengeance, but for now I'm all for ripping the piss without reprieve.) I also got a part in the Am Dram production and rehearsals start on Tuesday, so I shall have plenty to report for the next few months (not to mention tickets to sell - I'll keep you posted).

The only other event of note this week - and despite all the fantastic things of the week, the absolute highlight - was the Pride & Prejudice Preview Party. This does not begin well: a night in the Jane Austen Centre with my mother and two of her friends from work, eating a cheese-and-biscuit buffet amongst posh snobs and militant Austenites. The free wine made it more amusing and the pre-release preview was worth going to, but the best bit of the whole night was seeing Elsa on screen. She was an extra, and the whole face-shot couldn't have been more than a second or two, but it was the most exciting thing in the world and I was THRILLED. The rest of the film was nothing compared with that brief moment and I don't care if no one else thinks it was as exciting as I'm making out, or that it's the achievement I think it is: I loved it and I'm the most proud of her in the whole world.

Next Week: My God, it's a busy one! Am Dram read-through, theatre tickets, KTN and Budapest: prepare for serial entries!!!

PS: Simon did send me a photo of his moustache but I have to put a rocket under Vodafone before I can get it on PC, so it will appear here as soon as I am able. If anyone wants to sponsor Si for looking like a paedophile and thus help fight testicular cancer, you can do so here.

...owning 'fabulous'

2005-09-12T15:48:00.000Z

Before I begin: bring out your inner geek. And if anyone wants to get really wound up by annoying, arrogant, Neo-Con Americans with misdirected anger, click here. Now that's done, on with the show!

So, this week got off to a strange start with Little James telling me he was going to start seeing someone else. Now, this in itself was neither unexpected nor devastating news - he is only nineteen and I really didn't expect much to come of it - but it's always a bit disappointing to hear. Anyway, there seemed to be a lot of trouble made about wanting to remain friends, although subsequent efforts at this have been laden with "new boyfriend" references as though I am a predatory bunny-boiler on the hunt for any window in. As amusing as it is, it's just not the case. Trying to be friends with people after any kind of affair is always going to be a weird one - in this case not so much, as it was fairly short-lived and low-key - but if you can walk the line between oversharing (no one wants to know about the other party's sex-life) and poor manners (diving into shop doorways to avoid the ex is just plain rude and an insult to their intelligence) then I'm sure everyone can get on with their lives with the minimum of fuss.

Moving on, and Tuesday and Wednesday passed uneventfully. I managed to almost finish the short story I was writing, and saw Liccy's name pop up on the titles of 'Holby City' with Robin's surname as a surprise for him - all very good fun. Thursday rolled around again and I headed off to do my charitable work and record the news for the blind. The Keynsham Talking Newspaper for the Blind (no link is available I'm afraid) meets once a week on Thursday evening to record the local news to send around to the visually impaired of the area and is a wholly worthwhile organisation. But it does make me laugh every week. Not in an evil way, but the characters you meet are just one of a kind, every one of them.

Firstly, I am by far and away the youngest person in the organistaion; the next youngest being in her late-thirties. Secondly, I'm only the technician and not a 'reader', so I sit at the mixing desk (it's so cute and dinky, I could just eat it all up) and control the microphones. This is worthy of mention since anyone who has heard me talk might think I am well-spoken; in comparison to these volunteers I am a dyed-in-the-wool farmer. They are a lovely, lovely people but they are all phenomenally posh and I have no doubt, absolutely swimming in cash. Were it not for the fact that we are still using tapes to record onto (I was shocked - when I explained that "Personally, I don't even use CDs anymore" they were all quite taken aback) the resulting recording could be used as an example of the plummiest British accent for any American film-of-the-week star. As it is, the sound quality is pretty shocking but there are no plans to start using CDs as I suggested, since "you'd be surprised how many old people (it is mainly the 'older set' who listen to it) don't actually own a CD player". I might be all podcasts and downloads, but I hadn't thought that Phyllis and Hugo might not be quite up to my speed. I did question the idea behind telling the visually impaired the 'lighting-up times' though...

Friday night: date night! A last minute arrangement with a guy from the internet (met in a public place: no danger of him trying to kill me or steal my kidneys). I think internet dating is a strange arrangement but I'll go into that another time; I think I need to further investigate the genre before passing judgment. Anyhow, of I trot to meet this guy when no sooner have I arrived than the local sub-station explodes and all the power goes out: an omen, methinks? Eventually the power returns, and though only intermittently, it's long enough for me to get a few JDs down and take the edge of this guy's constant moaning!! Even my near-infinite patience was exhausted after forty-five minutes of "Oh, I was bullied at school for being fat/gay/boring" and "I hate my job but I've got no ambition and I think I'll still be there when I'm 50". I really tried to get him to talk about the interesting things in his life and sell himself on the benefits of his personality, but when I said "Don't be so hard on yourself; I'm sure you've done some intersting stuff" and he said "Well, I did go to a sex club in Paris...", I had just about had enough. The people sat next to us eventually started talking to us and in my desperation, I determined NEVER TO LET THEM GO. And therein begins a whole new story...

The two girls sat next to us claimed to be lesbian lovers (though it turned out they weren't in the end: I was like "Funny, we played that game last time I was in here, too") and in an effort to get away from my date (not that bad a person, just way too hard on himself) I clung onto them like a limpet. Then, in strolls their gay male friend, who was (a) quite good looking and (b)far more interesting. A few more JDs and things were looking up, and although I had to leave at 12pm to get up for shopping with Pippa in the morning, I made sure I took his number and now I have a date with him tonight (Monday)!! Not only that, but the barman recognised me out of the blue, so I have another number to call in the week (not to mention a nice line in the free JD glasses they were giving away on Friday night). So, in summary and despite it being an early night, I went on one date and came out with two more!! Now all I have to do is call the first guy and tell him it's not going to happen (he was trying for a dinner date but I was decidedly non-committal) and Bob's in the house! Next weeks blog: how to let people down in a friendly, yet forthright manner.

Saturday: shopping. When I say it was 'on a budget', I mean we had a pre-determined amount to spend. My amount was £5: Pippa's was about one-hundred times that. Finding an outfit for a wedding is always a challenge; even more so when you roll into town at 11.30 but don't start actually shopping until 1.30 (everyone has to eat, man!). Still, we managed to find an exquisite dress and it was good fun sitting in the poshest shops in Bath getting served as though you actually had money to spend - I could live the high life vicariously through Pippa and get quite used to it!! We did encounter the classic problem though: simply not finding any shoes to match the Prada ones tried on with the dress; we had to buy some make-up to lift our spirits. I love Pippa so much: she's the most fun I've had in town for ages!! And not only for that, but the matter-of-fact statement-of-the-week regarding the up-coming Hen Night this weekend: "Of course we'll be fabulous, Sveny. You and I are always fabulous: it's our birthright."

Saturday night was dinner and dancing in Bristol: Andrew was trying to hit on a girl he works with (excellent taste, that boy; she was remarkably attractive) after dinner at Wagamama's. No results for him that night, but I'm sure we haven't heard the end of it yet. Aliya got hit on by the most tenacious pikey I have ever had to shield a woman from, and then his chirpy yet pug-faced female companion tried it on with me! I think I was probably quite rude about her afterwards, but come on: look at me, look at her. How did she think that story would end?!

I spent most of Sunday in bed (yet again - it's becoming a theme) and dragged myself out in time for Sunday lunch and then an audition for an Am Dram production of a new play written by a local playwright. Apparently I did "a good reading" which is always nice to hear, but even if I don't get a part, I'm still going to hang around like an unpaid bill and do whatever they like (the writer is also involved in the production: do you see where I'm going now?!). Still, I hope I do get the part: not every week is as exciting as this last one, and I have pages to fill!!!

Next week: Date update, Pride & Prejudice Preview Party (how camp?!), and an inside glimpse at the wonderful world of Hen Nights!!!

PS: For shame on the good point/bad point thing (except Tash of course - go to the top of the class). How will I ever complete the online dating agency form and then tell you all about it afterwards? You're robbing yourselves!!!!

...the correct wearing of tank-tops

2005-09-06T11:00:00.000Z

Sorry this is a little later than planned everyone - yesterday was actually quite a busy day for me and by the time I got round to writing this it was far too late and there were things I wanted to watch on telly, so I thought "Sod you all, you can wait till tomorrow". Still, I'm here now.

Last week was a bit of a mixed bag really: lots going on but nothing really to report. I did cash in my PMT vouchers though and spent much of the week in an awful mood though the cause of this has yet to be determined. So, where to start, where to start? Well, the weather has been beautful this week, so I have been taking full advantage and sitting in the garden after work, beavering away at this and that and generally making myself busy, though I don't seem to have got very far when I look back at it, mainly because most of my evenings were all taken up with other things.

Tuesday night I met David Dixon, a friend from school with whom I was re-united this July, to discuss joining the Liberal Democrat party and "had I thought about running for the council". Now, he's not the first to suggest this to me but the last guy who mooted the idea was a Conservative, so I'm assuming it's my charm, wit and tenacity that make me council material, rather than any political idealism. Anyway, we spent a couple of hours talking about the pros and cons of the Lib Dems and the council and what it involves and everything, and it sounds like a pretty worthwhile cause. My only reservation is joining a political party. I don't think I'm alone in saying that choosing who to vote for is a challenge-and-a-half, so thinking about becoming a member of a party is almost impossible. Add to that the fact I am an horrendous procrastinator and committment-phobe and you have a case of paralysing indecision. At any rate, we left it with me thinking about it and that is really as far as it has gone.

Wednesday, and in complete contrast to the previous day, we had the best thunderstorm I have seen in a while passing right over our house, striking things at the end of our garden and generally being very exciting. As though timed to perfection, it ended quite nicely when I went into the cinema so I didn't miss any of the drama whilst watching the 40-year-old virgin for free!! It's actually quite a funny film: I was expecting typical cheesy crap and it is to a certain extent, but it's also very amusing in places, and the main guy (David Brent from the American version of "The Office") is far better than I had imagined he would be.

Thursday was the return of the KTN (Keynsham Talking Newspaper for the Blind). This is a charity thing I do for one month out of every three or four, recording the local news for distribution amongst the visually impaired older people of the area. It's a worthwhile thing to do, but it makes me laugh every week and I could go on for pages and pages about it, but I think I'll save it for a quieter week. Friday night I spent in watching 'Mona Lisa Smile' (passable but overhyped), and that brings us nicely to Saturday night - lately I have found myself living for the weekend.

The original plan was to attend a charity gig in 'The Full Moon' in order to raise money for orphanages in Ghana; we would see a few bands, have a few drinks then mosey on into Bristol. So we met at 6pm in the Bay Horse (6.50pm if your name was Simon), which is another bar we can safely delete from the "future visits" list: the beer garden is literally on the main road and the traffic is HEAVY. For the record: I'm not the sturdiest drinker at the best of times, so starting drinking at six is a bad idea all round. Anyway, we rock up to the gig - which we promptly discover is cancelled - and decide instead to have a drink in 'The Eclipse' which not only reeks of stale beer and sweat, but is also host to the entire Bristolian/Polish society watching the football and generally being rowdy. We drank up and left (after a game of pool or two).

The rest of the evening is actually something of a blur, since by the time we met Alex, twenty minutes late, I was on pint seven and feeling it. I have recollections of seeing Lucy in a sailors outfit, and I know for sure that I did get my 'gay night', but beyond that the venues are something of a mystery - I think we went to the Elephant, and it was a bit of a dive, then Vibes and the perrenial favourite, the Q/-, and that's pretty much all I know. I do remember being severely disappointed at the general gay scene (it's so cliquee it's untrue: I hereby declare war on anti-social gays). I also recall getting a mammouth pizza and then missing our stop on the bus home as Simon fell asleep; the bus driver pretty much slung us off so we had to walk for twenty minutes to get home, munching on my fat old pizza all the way. Oh, and now I remember it: I stopped a guy wearing a tank top in the street and talked at him for about 10 minutes before being dragged off by Mike and Si, only to bump into the same guy in the Q/-! Never question my gaydar again: tank tops = homos.

Back to the story, and getting in at 3am is not so bad, but when you get up at ten and realise you were drinking solidly for eight hours you suddenly don't feel so hot. Thanks to Mr & Mrs C for not waking me up despite the fact I passed out on their sofa in all my clothes again! As it was, Sunday was a total write-off, as they so often are these days, and the only constructive thing I managed to achieve was copying Andrew's CDs into iTunes. That said, I seem to have shaken my vile temperament now, so perhaps it was all for the best after all.

Next week: Ends of affairs, the total run down on the KTN, and Pippa and I hit the shops on a budget. And I'll try and sling in some photos too. Actually, while I think about it, you could all do me a favour - I have to write a profile about myself for this thing I'm doing, and I'm crap at it. E-mail me a couple of words about me (one nice, one constructive criticism?) or stick it on a comment (I'm not fussed who sees it) and I will be your friend forever! Cheers m'dears!!

...the white side

2005-08-26T12:30:00.000Z

Yes friends, the time has come. So long shitty Windows XP, hello Tiger OS X!!!! Mmmm, rub your hands together with glee/envy: Sveny has an iBook. I could expound the virtues for pages and pages, but suffice to say I love it more than is healthy. To mark the occasion I thought I would give the blog a new look and I even posted my lovely mug on my profile so you get all the excitement of looking at me whilst you read about my exploits, successful and catastrophic, from weeks previous! I really am too good to you all!

So, I am sat here writing this in the garden, under the parasol with a cup of tea and marmite-on-toast on a beautifully sunny Sunday morning, living the dream. (Well, as close to the dream as possible while still living at home and putting off doing any proper writing by drafting and re-drafting this pointless gossip column.) Doing this so early on though, I haven't really had time to reflect on the weeks events (or lack thereof) and surmise something life changing and profound to impart to my lovely readers. Bear with me and I'll try to find a theme by the end.

This week has actually been quite quiet: I have spent my evenings writing away and generally finding ways to avoid going to the gym. I seriously considered cancelling my membership but then I came across the photos of me looking bloated and chunky from my last few months in Winchester (before I lost all the weight again) and it has forced me to go back. Has anyone else noticed that it is almost impossible to get back into the swing of the gym after a break? I find it the most gruelling task in the world. Still, I have sworn to myself that I will go on Monday. Since it's a Bank Holiday I can go in a bit earlier and get it over and done with before I get the kite out in the afternoon and hopefully I will back in the habit before long. The lengths we go to in order to look good, honestly. Speaking of which, I was discussing my 'Carrie Bradshaw' plan with my friend James on Saturday (the plan is to ensure I am never photographed in the same shirt twice from now on in case it appears on the blog making me appear wardrobe-impaired); we came to the conclusion that I am actually quite vain. You live and learn.

The mission to visit every bar in Bristol continues unabated: Saturday night was the turn of the Mandrake Club. Some of my older (pre-Sven) friends will remember the Mandrake for the fantastic birthday party we held there in what, 1998? And we haven't been back since. That party, as an aside, featured the best invitations for any party I have ever co-hosted: Alex, Mike, John, Greg and I held it jointly and Greg and I doctored the Spice Girls with our faces - genius! The night was similarly entertaining with various people getting off with a random guest (allegedly there was some kind of queue?) who had tagged along with, let us say a 'thickly set' friend of mine, who decided to wear leather trousers of all things. I have a vague recollection of us all being booted out early that night - any ideas anyone? Anyway, I digress. The Mandrake Club has not changed at all in the seven years since we last lent it our patronage. It is a dingy club full of the chavs and pikeys, and we all agreed to strike it from the list of suitable venues for future outings. We did go to some lovely bars though, like Bed, The River and even Bar Room Bar, which looks gaudy and horrible but was actually very nice indeed. My efforts to sort out everyone's love-lives took a nose dive fairly early on but I will not be defeated: everyone will have someone by Christmas or my name isn't Sven/Paul/Big D.

Despite what was, upon reflection, quite a successful trip around town, we were still in the pizza shop at 1am - a whole hour before the pubs shut. I put this down to none of us having had anything to eat before we went out, but thinking back to last week we must have looked a sorry sight - the three of us wasted and unable to finsh our drinks before leaving early. I also think that drinking cider was probably something of a mistake. That said, we did do the full market-range and didn't have to repeat a drink till we got to the Mandrake. In fact, the nicest cider was in The River: organic no less, and 6.5% to boot. It might even replace Magners(UK)/Bulmers(Eire) as the number one cider in the world which is praise indeed. I think I will have to try it again next weekend and assess the comparable attributes. Watch this space.

In related news, the promised Bank Holiday drinking session this afternoon has been cancelled. If I'm going to Budapest in three weeks, I think I can forgo a Sunday night in Bath and save the cash for the holiday (this maturity thing is beginning to scare me!). Instead, I will rock down to James's and rip off his iTunes. This has turned out to be quite an effective way of doubling my music library of late. I was a bit worried about it after the first attempt at mass file-transfers eviscerated Robin's hard drive (not quite the birthday present I had planned), but subsequent attempts have yielded fantastic results. Geek-speak: using your iPod as a USB mass storage device, rather like a giant memory stick, you can upload all your music files in their folders rather than mp3s and then download them later into your own iTunes. This is blatant copyright infringement if not out-and-out theft by the way, and I must say that I do not condone this behaviour in any way. (I have just noticed the irony in my telling Pippa how I pay for everything I download through iTunes rather than getting free copies from a file-sharing arrangement, whilst copying all of Elsa's CDs into my iTunes for free! Sometimes I just open my mouth and God only knows what's going to come out.)

Well, that's it for this week. Somehow I have bimbled through a quiet week and still written eleven hundred words. I'm sure most of it's drivel, but well done for sticking with it! Be brave, leave me a comment! Oh, and I must just say 'hello' to Jane Bassett - Vicky told me you were very complimentary about my ramblings, so I just wanted to say thanks; hope this week's hasn't changed your mind.

Next week: Charity work, a pre-release film screening, and a discussion on the merits of joining the Lib Dems. (My life is actually quite interesting after all: this little trailer is as much for me as it is for you!)

...Oil of Ulay, twice a day

2005-08-22T10:49:00.000Z

Hello one and all!

After Andrew told me last week's update was "boring" and that I should "make it up" if I didn't have anything to say, I spent a few days thinking of what stories I could tell that would make it a bit more interesting: "I met the Queen for lunch", "I'm an international drug smuggler on the run from the Colombian mafia", or "I went to the moon for a long weekend and Elvis is living there now"; none of them seemed to have the ring of credibility about them. As it was, I was needn't have worried, because Friday night changed my life.

Mike's birthday was this weekend so we all rolled out to celebrate, with guest appearances from Ben (in town for his MOT) and even Daren and his delightful girlfriend whose name escapes me (MIA since Christmas when I bumped into him in Hennes and he talked me out of buying two yellow belts: "one is enough for any man"). Lads night out indeed! Not only were we treated to watching the delectable barmaid in the Old Fish Market (soo hot), but we also saw Simon lose miserably and humiliatingly at computerised bowling in O'Neills. We all laughed, hard.

Choosing where to go on a night out is always a bit of a muddle with my friends: we all have our own ideas of the best night out and fairly wide-ranging tastes in music, and although we do usually manage to accomodate everyone and have an excellent night, no one ever wants to take responsibility for suggesting somewhere the others might not like. It's true guys - it's not a bad thing, but it does take twenty minutes to decide sometimes. I blame myself. Anyway, eventually it was decided to head to the Bierkeller since a good night had been had by all last week, and the rest of us hadn't been for a while (I was at home in bed, if you recall). The Bierkeller, for those of you not familiar with Bristol nightlife, is, well; it's a grungy, rocky sort of a place: the antithesis of The Works if you like, and not at all cheesy. When we all rocked up to the door in our shirts and shoes the bouncer asked with incredulity if we knew what night it was. Maybe Simon and Mike knew - the rest of us had no idea - but we were men and we weren't about to be shown up by the doorstaff: of course we knew. It was (~reads door-flier quickly~) Metal Punk Night. Oh Lordy.

Pippa said to me when we were out in Devizes that "if Sven doesn't like it, it must be bad". Now, this could mean one of three things: [a] I am easily pleased, [b] I have really bad taste and things that would generally bore other people interest and amuse me, or [c] I have a good time most of the time since I'm a happy-go-lucky kind of a chap and "it's not the place: it's the people" that make it fun. Working on the assumption that it's [c] (I like to think it's [c], but it's probably a combination of [a] and [b] in the real world outside my brain), Metal Punk Night did not perturb me, and I've dragged them to enough cheesy nights and gay bars I must owe them. I was ready for a fun night with limited dancing and more drinking than usual: for every drink you bought, you got a free shot, so you can imagine the carnage. I was not prepared for feeling like my Dad: we were the oldest people there. By far.

It's hard to describe the feeling you get when you realise you are not twenty-one anymore, but if you have ever had it you will know what I'm talking about. It used to be that one could identify (and mock) the people desperately holding onto their youth, dressed incorrectly and drinking Campari and soda (stuck in the past) or WKD (trying to be cool). To realise that you are that person is a new experience and one I am not keen to relive. The average age could only have been about nineteen and they were all dressed the part (of course: they knew what night it was, curse them!!). I was dressed in my usual Friday night attire but I might as well have had a Fruit of the Loom t-shirt and moleskin jeans on, I felt that ancient. Also, I can't deny it, I had no idea what the music was! I recognised about three tunes - all of them charting right now - and a Bon Jovi classic, and that was it. Urbandictionary.com has taught me that it was all "emo" but even that just makes me feel older: I don't even know the language the kids are using these days! I began to scour my friends faces for obvious signs of ageing - how would we know we were getting older? We all see each other all the time! We might think we look twenty-one but we're closer to thirty than we care to admit and no one would tell us we looked old! How long before we too were chugging our way through the blue WKDs in trendy bars too polite to refuse us entry for being past it?! I began to decend into a panic spiral and it was only then that God/fate/co-incidence stepped in and gave me a much needed wake up call by slapping me where it hurts: in the shoes.

Whilst in the toilet this perfectly amiable chap walked in seemingly in control of his faculties. Fate had it that we could not avoid a conversation of sorts and he was quite chatty without being creepy, given the location. I went to the toilet and just as I was finishing a gut-wrenching groan announced the arrival of the midnight train from Chunderville in the cubicle next door. "Poor chap", I thought, until I realised his train had jumped the track and was running all over the platform. Deftly avoiding the wave of bile and mandatory carrots in an effort to spare my footwear, I escaped the cubicle only to see the luckless fellow rolling on the floor and covered in sick, unable to stand, with his friends desperatley dragging him to his feet. I thought back to the number of times I have been that guy (more than I care, or am physically able to remember) and thanked my lucky stars I had grown out of it. And that was it: a revelation! I was grateful for being older!! All that panic about it, and I was actually glad not to be so young after all! I skipped out of the toilet and out into the light - I'm twenty-six and I love it!!

I told my dad all about it the next day and he just laughed at me. Now I realise what they were saying all the time. When I was younger I didn't think anyone knew anything about anything, and that I was going through it all for the first time, but now I look back on it, my parents were absolutely right about almost everything: you just have to live it to see it. I wondered what I was doing now that I would reflect upon with the same kind of hindsight, but I guess I shall have to do it first to know: my dad called it "maturity" and for the first time I think I quite like the idea.

Well, perhaps. In moderation.

Next week: more dating news, how to plan your Bank Holiday drinking and Sveny buys an iBook!

...taking it easy

2005-08-13T22:02:00.000Z

Hello, hello, hello. It's Sunday evening and I thought now was as good a time as any to update since it means you can all read this on Monday morning and I can get on with usual Monday morning stuff. Currently Big Brother's Big Waste Of My Time is the most interesting thing on telly while I wait for Alien III to start - you know you're flogging a dead horse when someone who wrote their dissertation on Big Brother I ("Is Naturalism a euphemism for Voyeurism in contemporary performance?") can't be bothered to watch it. I did want Eugene to win though - curse you Anthony with your silly goatee. Honestly.

So, aside from that, and in comparison to last week, this week has been really quite sedate: I even stayed in on Friday night!!! Up till then, I took my packed lunch to work every day (packed lunches really get me down. It's silly, I know, but it's true), and I spent no money all week from Monday to Friday, with the exception of Thursday night. I had originally planned to stay in but my sister convinced me to come to a party, and despite the original plan to go home at closing being abandoned in favour of late-night opening, I still only spent £20 which I think is pretty good. Well done me!

Friday night, after working through my hangover (when I say working, I mean looking at my screen and doing not much else) I thought an early night was in order and was in bed at 9.30pm, watching American Beauty on DVD with a glass of milk and a bag of doritos. I was asleep by 9.45. When I came around the end-credits were just starting, and being in a post-snooze daze, I just lay there listening to the music (Because covered by Elliot Smith) until it turned itself off. I don't know if anyone else gets moments like this - perhaps because your brain is empty from sleeping or maybe you just feel better for the rest - where you wake up and something really lovely is on (I'm sure it's a terrible cover - all you Beatles purists out there can breathe again.) and you just lie there with your eyes shut feeling like life is great and could quite happily stay like that forever. Time always seems to go much slower in moments like that too, as though the whole world has stopped to let you have your moment. I love it.

Saturday morning and I was up before 10am - this really is most unlike me of late (am I having some kind of mid-life crisis; a revisiting of my student ways, slowly going off the rails till I wind up burning myself out totally? Meh, who knows?). After shopping at Sainsbury's and doing the crossword/Su Doku in the Times, I packed up my shit and headed off to Winchester!! Yes indeed, sunny old Winchester - spiritual home of my student self and actual home of several good friends of mine. Since leaving uni (and indeed moving back to Bath) I thank God that I went to uni as I have so many lovely friends all over the country that I get to spend time with them all and see parts of the country I would otherwise have no cause to visit. Plus, it keeps me busy which is always nice. Aaaanyway, I had a great night in The Gaolhouse and O'Neills (as you can probably tell from the photos) and this morning woke up feeling not to great before coming back to Bath and spending the day sorting out my bank statements and other low-energy jobs. I need to plan more exciting things to occupy my Sundays...

Before I go, did anyone else watch Lost on Wednesday night? I am (a) hooked and (b) intrigued. Like Pippa said, it's like the perfect patch for the gaping hole Desperate Housewives has left in my life. There's so much good stuff on 4 these days - Six Feet Under starts on E4 this week so I just don't know what I'm going to do about Britney's Redneck Roots on C4. Perhaps staying in is the new going out after all.

...alarming co-incidences

2005-08-11T13:30:00.000Z

Just a mid-week update to tell you all a funny story that I thought I wouldn't mention but have decided I should (since this is meant to be the place where I store all the drama, why not?).

As regular readers will attest, I have not had much dating luck of late, what with the crazy northerner, the Spaniard and, more recently, the Chef of Death. Still, last week had a distinctly bohemian feel to it so I thought "why not?" when I got hit on by two different guys on two different nights in two different places - and who wouldn't be flattered? As it was, when I arrived at the home of the second guy I was like, "This looks familiar": they were only bloody HOUSEMATES!!! (I know I sound like a biblical whore, but I'm really very well behaved). Anyway, what are the chances of that!? If anyone has a worse story, I'd be thrilled (and relieved) to hear it!

Aside from that, by popular demand you can finally view the photos from the various events at which I have had a camera (click here if you're lazy, or go to the blog in question, where I have added the necessary links).

Over and out.

...a total lack of will-power

2005-08-08T15:27:00.000Z

Where to start, where to start? What a busy week I have had! Last week was one of those weeks where everything happens at once and before you know it you're out every night and your monthly entertainment budget is gone by the weekend. But I shouldn't complain: I'm sure that weeks like this are there to make up for the ones where nothing happens so when they close the book on my life I'll net out at a nice average.

Monday then, started out with the best intentions for the week: took a packed lunch, spent £0 all day and went to the gym in the evening to do my new work-out programme. With the zeal of a convert I didn't miss a single rep, used the full weights on everything and went to bed feeling energised and generally great; I woke up on Tuesday morning feeling like a pensioner. All the muscles I had hurt, and it was a real effort to move anything so my day at the office was spent getting my arms used to being in the "typing position", and trying not to breathe too hard. That night I spent a pleasant evening in a darkened room taking things easy: we went to see Charlie and the Chocolate Factory at the cinema. For those of you who have not seen it yet, I recommend it. Although there are some schmaltzy bits and it goes somewhat off-piste towards the end, Johnny Depp is excellent and the humour is great: taking the piss out of little kids? What's not to love?! (Also, permit me to mention the best birthday gift ever: I got Al a Magic Garden which I think is an inspired choice for a chap with an environmental science degree. Oh, wait and see what I have in store for you, Woodsy!!). So far then, so good.

Wednesday night and it started to go downhill. I was fooled into going on a date with this Canadian/Malaysian guy who has been pestering me for weeks; after mistakenly replying to a text from him I was then obliged to meet him, resulting in a total train-wreck of a date. I know that people often blame the other party if a date goes badly, but I would take responsibility if I thought I had been the dullard - as it is I think I'm quite good at first dates since those of you who you know me know I'll talk to anyone about anything and don't mind looking a pillock to boot.

Aaaaanyway, firstly, this guy had NOTHING to say for himself. He's a chef and it turns out, has NO social life whatsoever (he says he works too hard, I say 'whatever'). So no conversation about what he does for fun (though he likes "The Sims" on the PS2 - woo hoo, slow down fun boy!!) and he only really listens to Classical Music so after a few minutes discussing that he pretty much ran dry. Then he said to me "you look really really REALLY tired" (gee thanks), "or really drunk"! Well, I quickly pointed out that I was driving and only on coke but it didn't stop there, oooooh no! After another 20 minutes of me blathering on about anything and everything (giving him ample time to ask any questions or make any kind of effort to talk at all - it wasn't just me droning on) we finally reach a 'pregnant pause' and, after an awkward silence, he decides to tell me that "You're really shy, find something to talk about"!!!!!! Well, the night ended pretty promptly after that and he's going to Canada for six weeks after that and I hoped that my curt ending of the evening would be enough of a signal but no, it was not to be. The next day I got a text telling me that "I had a really good time last night; we should do it again." Not likely, pal! What date was he on? If you're at home alone at 10.15 after a date, I think you can safely say it's been a wash-out. Suffice to say I did not respond.

Thursday day I spent at work, by this time all my good intentions from Monday had evaporated and I was buying my lunch every day and browsing in Waterstones (which is code for buying books and CDs). At five to five I got the e-mail I had waited for all day, declaring that yes, we would indeed be meeting in town for drinks with Greg, an old friend currently residing in Australia, and to be ready for eight. I planned a nice quiet evenings drinking before trotting home early-ish and being in bed at a reasonable hour: we actually clung on till after closing time and I was on the San Miguel so I was a little the worse for wear by the end of it. Still, much fun was had by all till the ravages of something I ate took hold in the middle of the night and kept me up for the rest of it through the medium of uncontrollable bowel movements, most of which struck just after I had climbed back into bed. Delightful! By the time Friday morning arrived I was sick as a dog and twice as tired, forcing me to take the day off and lie at home with my Qantas blindfold on (lifesaver, Kara - it's been SO useful) trying to make up for the lack of sleep from the night before. Why is it that diarrhoea always comes at night and is gone by mid-morning so all you feel is tired and hungry?

Still, not to be put off, I was in attendance at Al's birthday drinks which were thoroughly enjoyable, and spent a pleasant Saturday doing Su Doku and the crossword and generally not much else. I went to take the kite out but as soon as I did the wind dropped so I ended up spending a few hours at Kara's watching Friends on DVD instead; time well spent if you ask me. Saturday evening's fun was another night out in Bath with Greg and David, joined this time by Bonny and Nadine, both of whom I have not seen for AGES! I love catching up with old friends and what I had planned as a quiet and early night turned out to be a "stay out till everything shuts" night again. It was worth every minute though and there are photos to follow once Greg e-mails them to me (though I will look (a) tired and (b) pale in all of them: you have been warned).

So, as smashing as this all sounds, there is always a price to pay, and here it comes: firstly, on Saturday night I met a guy who had a spare ticket to the Red Bull Air Race (after we failed to get any for ourselves) and said I could come along. I was so excited as I thought that would be a great story to tell - "Day out with strangers at air event" - but I said I would have to give it a miss as I was planning on sailing with Al and looking forward to it very much. When Sunday morning finally showed it's face after such a busy week though, I was so run down I had to give the sailing a miss too and lie in bed till 4pm recovering. I was crushed: had I stuck to my plan I could have been out on the sea in the beautiful sunshine having a whale of a time, or watching the death-defying aeronautics of stunt-pilots racing it out over Longleat with a bunch of (not unattractive) strangers. As it was, my inability to say 'no' left me at home with a dicky tummy watching Star Trek movies on DVD in my room, before turning in at a child's bedtime in order to be fit for the office on Monday. A lesson learned the hard way: stick to the plan - the original ending is usually the best.

...sight-seeing by night.

2005-08-01T12:06:00.000Z

Post-birthday blues! If the seven days leading up to my birthday are the build-up then the seven days following are like the worst come-down of all time. Everyone is lamenting the passing of the "weekend to end all weekends", and I am the mourner-in-chief: I saw some milk in the fridge at work the other day that went off on 29 July, and then I realised it really was all over for another year. Basket case.

So, work was boring as usual, though a colleague had twins this week which was a highlight for the office. I always wanted a twin but by the time I realised I wanted one it was too late, what with already being born and all: them's the breaks, I guess. Anyway, that was all the news from the Mon-Fri world so I was really beginning to freak about what I was going to write this week. Inspiration came with an invite to join Pippa at a thirtieth birthday party for someone she works with and then a night out in...Devizes! Yes fans, the party capital of West Wiltshire indeed; I was looking forward to it immensely. Not heeding my own advice though, I went out and got absolutely slaughtered in Bristol on the Friday night since (my old friend) Maria was in town, meaning I spent the night in Devizes trying to get drunk but failing abysmally.

Devizes Sports Club then: the venue for the thirtieth birthday (joint sixtieth with her mother which was sweet). What can I say - it was like every cheesy party you've ever been to and I loved it. Cheesy disco and cheesy dj, cheesy lighting effects and cheesy treats on cocktail sticks. Not having eaten since lunch time Friday save for toast at Al's and then some more at home, I was famished and hit the buffet as hard and fast as etiquette allowed. I LOVE party food and the sausage rolls and mini pizza slices went down a treat. Pippa was minced by ten o'clock and we left at ten-thirty for "The Crown" - oh, my, God.

At first, I wondered where the hell we were going. From the outside, it looks like a tiny country pub and I seriously questioned just what kind of night this was going to be, but it was actually built by the designers of the Tardis. Indoors, the pub is surprisingly large and has the interior design effect that every "trendy" bar had circa 1998 - lots of orange and green walls and a pitch-black dancefloor with those lasers that write things and draw shapes on the walls: I'm sure we all know the look. The music was some kind of 'house' arrangement, and in the ultimate display of laziness and technology gone mad, you could actually text the dj your requests. (Oh, while I think about requests: Elsa, on Friday night I asked for a Whitney hit in the Lizard Lounge and got turned down!!! The conversation went like this: [Me] "Could I have Whitney Houston, 'I'm your baby tonight?' " [DJ] "No. It's shit. In sixteen years of dj-ing no one has ever asked for that and I won't be playing it tonight." The cheek!)

Any road: the Crown. The only late-night bar in Devizes, the level of dress was enhanced significantly when the entire reception of a wedding rolled in in their best attire. Whilst it wouldn't be my choice of venue for a post-nuptial party, it wasn't my party so who am I to judge? It certainly took the edge off the Fred Perry assault and the cheap-white-from-New-Look brigade. (Never, never, never in a place you know there will be UV lighting ladies - have some standards, for God's sake!) Pippa managed to chat up an old flame and I was left trying to look busy for a while till we decided enough was enough and hit the road. Or rather, the canal.

The Caen Hill Flight may look beautiful by day (it's famous the world over), but at one in the morning it's an eerie place to be and no mistake. Why we thought that twenty minutes was too long to wait for a taxi but two hours was time well invested on a canalside walk home I have yet to fathom: it was spooksville. The horror-film mist and pitch dark failed to freak me out and the prospect of being gutted like a fish by a canal-dwelling serial killer couldn't stop us either, but walking with Pippa, who it turns out has some kind of phobia about all things maritime, was enough to put the shits into anyone: by the time we got back to hers I was as jumpy as she was. The moral of this story is quite simply this: be patient. Wait for the taxi!!!!!

Sunday I spent doing fuck all and it's back to work in the morning. That's all this week's news: sorry if it's been a bit dull. Excitement guaranteed next week, as (unless Al won a ticket to the Red Bull Air race) it's my first sailing lesson!! Look out mariners - here I come!!!! (Oo-er!)

...cirrhosis of the liver, or "How to write off your kidneys": Part III

2005-07-27T22:18:00.000Z

My birthday!!!!! My head was so bad I actually needed paracetemol, which is unusual for me really. Still, they did the trick and kept me going after checking out in the morning and all through Primark (two t-shirts for £9:unbelievable!!). Everyone was on the road by two o'clock and somehow we managed to get lost on the way home. This is not a surprise for the seasoned traveller when Elsa is in the car: every road-trip is an adventure (who else could hold up Princess Anne when their car exploded?) but I thought this one was foolproof - M6, M5, M4 and home. But no!! There are two M6s and we didn't spot the toll road goes around Birmingham before we got on it, thus adding about and hour to our journey. What joy! Oh well, it did mean we could fit in Whitney's "Greatest Hits" and everyone was too tired to object.

By the time we got home I was exhausted but, unlike Alex and Mike who could go home and take it easy or Pippa and Elsa who had a nap on my bed, I was downstairs having a family party. I love my family and was very pleased to see them but was the poorest host in history as I could I barely keep my eyes open! I did get a new kite from my parents, an FCUK cardi from my sister and loads of cash though, so I broke even on the whole weekend just about. Family party over, and with everyone fully refreshed, we hit the sunny streets of Bristol for one last night of party fun. I was propping my eyes open with matchsticks until Mike's genius idea to buy me a random rack of disgusting vodkas: the chilli one woke me right up, and I spent a few minutes in the toilet contemplating the lining of my stomach exiting through my mouth before deciding it was safe to go back down.

The Queens Shilling (Q/-) stays open till 1am on a Sunday night and we had wisely booked Monday off so we were there to the bitter end: it was the most chilled out yet fun night I have had in years. Mandatory shots were drunk and we took over the "stage" for the night, dancing away like fools. Alex snogged Pippa. Elsa got the dj to announce my birthday then claimed it wasn't her in an attempt to make me think it was some guy I was chatting up (no snogging - was he impervious to my charms?). This was a highly successful tactic as I was sucked in completely but the night ended tongue-free nonetheless. Also, we managed to get hold of a glasses-and-penis-for-a-nose set from somewhere and took some photos that I really can't show on here as kids might see them (I'll risk the one of Alex and hope I only get a slap on the wrist if anyone spots it). View all the photos in my super online album.

As an amusing aside, and not having learned our lesson after the 'Pedro' incident, we spotted an office which had left a window open, and after trying to shut the window we thought it would be hilarious to chuck the penis from the glasses-and-penis-for-a-nose in the window and, in pushing the window back up to commit this act of hilarity, we set off the alarms. Stunned into action we sprinted and, seconds later, were stopped by the police who investigated, believed we were only trying to be helpful (penis details left out, of course) and let us go. Still, who else can say they tried to kidnap someone and got caught for breaking and entering all in their birthday weekend?!?

Monday was the perfect end to a crazy weekend with a lot of time spent in bed, then a gentle spot of exercise as Elsa, Alex and I took the kite and my boomerang up to the park for a test flight. Sadly, the wind wasn't playing, but we managed to get them both flying, though one wouldn't stay up and the other wouldn't come back; I think I need more practice. After all that excitement it was all I could manage to blog up 'Part I' and get myself into bed. All over for another year and, with a heavy heart, back to the office in the morning...

(I'd just like to say a great big thank you to Elsa, Pippa, Al, Mike, Ben, Liccy, HM, Monkey, my parents, sister and family for making this weekend what it was, and everyone else for your lovely birthday wishes and phone-calls. I love you all.)

("Quit your jibber jabber")

...cirrhosis of the liver, or "How to write off your kidneys": Part II

2005-07-26T23:39:00.000Z

So, last news was that we (Elsa, Pippa, Mike, Alex, Ben and me) were all hanging after a Friday night out in Manchester. Poor Ben did the honourable thing and got up at 8am to put money on the car-parking for us all; we just lay in bed and let him go about our business. What smashing friends we are! Eventually we could put it off no more: we all had to get out of bed. You always think you're bad lying down: vertical is a whole different ball game. Still, we had shopping to do so we soldiered on and by twelve o'clock, we were...back in the bar.

The plan was to meet Pippa's friend, Tristea, at 1.30pm then have some lunch and hit the shops. Since we were at Canal Street early, we thought a drink might pass the time which it did. Four hours later we were still on Canal Street and still making our way through the day fuelled by alcohol alone. By the time we did actually make it into a shop a couple of us, myself included, were a little worse the wear - not really drunk; more that stage where you know you've had a drink, and you feel pretty good about it. My plan to buy a new pair of jeans and a shirt went by the wayside and I left empty-handed to meet the others at the train station. Three hours later, and with three more guests, we were back on Canal Street and ravenously hungry. More by luck than judgment (foolishly, we didn't book anywhere for dinner on Canal Street on a Saturday night. Idiots!) we got a lovely table in Via Fossa (best gay bar in the UK 2004) and I tucked into a GREAT BIG JUICY STEAK!!! And I was sat on a throne at the head of the table: birthday boy indeed!!!

After the lovely rendition of happy birthday and a very nice slice of chocolate cake, we hit the streets, and the drinks. What an experience!! I have never seen so many transvestites in one place! Naturally some were more convincing than others, but the effort made was astounding. I have nothing but respect for the hours it must take and the sheer guts to get out and do it. Not so respected is the keyboard player downstairs at Taurus: it was "Ross from Friends" at his worst and the pretentious crowd were no challenge to stereotypes either. Still, we had a laugh. Elsa bought me a lovely tiara which did the rounds, of course, and in general the night was spent in reckless abandon. Notice must be drawn to the incredible bitchiness in Churchills - apparently the toilets were slick with the bile and vitriol poured on the rest of the clientele - and the unbelievable strength of the poppers used on the dancefloor in Via Fossa to which we returned for the end of the night: all of us had to leave the floor with headaches after a few minutes, though we returned later when the lure of more aftershock became to great to resist.

The evening ended nicely enough. In what is becoming something of a habit, I engaged in two minutes of conversation with a guy outside the bar and promptly got off with him. Little did I know that my friends were standing ten feet away desperately trying to photograph it (it's the first time they've seen me snog a man so I can forgive the borderline sexual depravity) but I must be doing something right as this is the third time in recent history I've only had to open my mouth to have someone's tongue down my throat - if only I knew what it was I could bottle it (unless it's just beer-goggles in which case I think someone beat me to that idea). More than likely it's just gay men being easy, though that still doesn't explain that girl at Liccy's party (unless she was a man as well ~dun dun dunnnn~). Anyway, I digress. The rest of the night passed uneventfully, except for the "Sven kissed a boy" sing song (thanks for that, HM) and a late night kebab stop and game of pool (?! - I can't play at the best of times so what the hell I thought I was doing trying to win pissed out of my face with Monkey on my team as well God only knows). All in all a great night, leading up to another terrific hangover the following morning, and the dawn of my actual birthday!!!!!

See all the photos!!

...cirrhosis of the liver, or "How to write off your kidneys": Part I

2005-07-25T20:38:00.000Z

Good evening all! The event of the year has been and gone and attempts summarise it all in a witty and concise fashion whilst it is all fresh in my mind are doomed, so this week's entry will be split into three episodes: stick it out if you can! Despite my post-party fatigue (I am keeping myself awake with an industrial-sized bucket of flying saucers and an IV drip of PG) here is the first installment of the events of my 26th birthday weekend...

The week leading up to my birthday is always the least eventful of my year. A wild rhino raging around the office in a polka-dot bikini would not be worthy of mention if it happened in those forgettable seven days, and this year was no exception. By the time Friday arrived I could barely contain myself. The half-day I spent at work was, without doubt, the least productive of my administrative career and I sprinted out of the office as fast as I could possibly manage as early and as I could reasonably arrange: 11.55am.

The journey up was over in a flash; you never notice that it took four hours on the way up because you're so excited it just flies by. (Secretly, Father Time has stored that missing three-and-a-half hours in a special cupboard somewhere, and will stick it on the return journey so it will feel as though you've been on the road your whole life.) Tips for entertaining friends on long car journeys include Su Doku, setting your iPod to shuffle and having a 'song intros' quiz (boys, 50: girls, 42), and the "Mr.T in your pocket" key-ring. I also recommend finishing the Harry Potter book before anyone spoils the ending by announcing who dies and how, and never letting the girls ride in the front when there is any kind of showtune compilation CD within a ten mile radius.

Our first night in Manchester was as random as it was drunken. With no idea where to go or what to do we simply bimbled from bar to bar, knocking the drinks back as though there were a danger they might run out at any moment. Nine pints (Stella) and countless shots (Aftershock, Tequila, Sambuca) later everyone was feeling pretty friendly and the cheesy club we ended up in was the perfect tonic for the twenty minutes I spent perched on a river-lock wondering whether I was actually going to throw up or not. (It is a rule that the birthday boy must be so drunk they will vomit, but miraculously I robbed them of such glory.)

Despite all the fun that evening, by far the most remarkable event was the attempted kidnap of another guest at the hostel we were staying in. Here follows a cautionary tale on the pitfalls of officious activity. Once we got back to the hostel, we headed to the lounge to see who else was up and carry on the party: there was only one guy in there and he was fast asleep, though we did clock the bottled moat of alcohol by which he was
surrounded. He must have thought all his Christmases had come at once when he opened his eyes to see Elsa leaning over him gently rousing him and talking about parties, though perhaps not since he was so drunk he actually couldn't speak. Being drunk ourselves, we assumed he was Spanish and promptly christened him Pedro, then took him by the arms to escort him back to his room. We deduced, since he couldn't actually tell us where he was staying, that he was in room 206 based upon the label on his luggage. One floor up, we discovered there was no room 206, and halfway up the next stairs the hit-and-hope plan of finding his room went to pot as he slumped over and simply refused to move.

At this point we had attracted quite a crowd, and decided the best thing to do would be to take him back to our room and sort it out in the morning. This seemed to spur him into action, so much that he managed to speak to us, slur out his name (David) and then race off down the stairs and out of the building. We were left holding his shopping and after a serious discussion about keeping it, we decided to give it back and chased after him, eventually catching him and thrusting his booze-laden carrier bags into his hands. Now, whilst we thought we were being awfully helpful, look at it from his point of view: waking up to a beautiful woman leaning over on top of you before being hoisted into the air by two guys calling you Pedro, dragging you up the stairs announcing you were going to be spending the night with them all; then, as you make a break for it and taste sweet liberty on the street, to have them chasing after you down the stairs and into the road!!! If he weren't so drunk he wouldn't remember it I'd have put money on a call from the police the next morning! As it was, the morning passed quietly and, once we got over the unimaginably bad hangovers, we all prepared to face the day. Tonight was the main party and we had some shopping to do!!

See all the photos!!

...partying solo

2005-07-19T17:05:00.000Z

Well, the irony of a "paperless office" is that when you need to do any work and your printer/scanner crashes, there's no way you can do anything! Here I am with a pile of things to scan on and bunch of letters to print out and I can't do a damn thing about it. Might as well carry on the story where I left off.

Saturday morning arrived and like any decent fellow I got up, got dressed and went straight to Sainsbury's to buy the new Harry Potter. I am now in a race with my fourteen-year-old cousin to finish it: I'm going to kick his ass and no mistake. It's not bad but it's not the best of the lot, though now I have a challenge I'm storming through it and going to sleep far later than is healthy (just one more chapter...). The rest of the day I spent on the hammock in the sun gently crisping and watching the gliders from the RAF Fairford airshow race eachother lazily over our garden.

Seven o'clock finally rolled around and I got dressed and headed into town for the school reunion. Now, I was in two minds about going for various reasons but the heart of the matter is the fact that I really didn't like secondary school very much at all. Geeks did not get an easy time at school and I was certainly one of those; ten years on and I was still worrying about what my schoolfriends thought of me!! Eventually I decided that it wasn't going to stop me from having a good time, and after the original plan to take Elsa as my glamorous date went the way of the pear (it was for the best really) I turned up alone at the venue and made my way up the stairs towards my date with history.

Reunion Survival Tip 1: Go in, be fabulous, (and leave). Pippa and I took this on as our motto for life (not forgetting the inspired "Note to self: always have something interesting behind the bedroom door") and although I didn't plan to leave, the start of it works well in almost every situation (going in and being fabulous at a funeral, or the GUM Clinic, or a prison sentence: not so much).

Upon arrival at the doors, I was greeted by the organisers - thoroughly nice guys who had spent 18 months tracking down as many people from our year as they could find and herding them into one room all on the same night - and the usual comments were made about my height and how different I looked from school; what was I up to now and was I back in Bath etc, and this was to be the norm for the rest of the night.

Reunion Survival Tip 2: You will end up repeating the same story over and over again all night. It will start out as an interesting story for you to tell but over the hours you will edit and summarise ten years of your life in ten words (English/Drama degree; moved home; boring office job; fledgling writer) Don't worry about it - you may be bored of your life by the end, but to everyone else it's a brand new and potentially exciting tale.

At first there were very few people I actually remember spending any time with at school whatsoever, but as I stood there chatting away with some people I had forgotten existed, knocking back double JD and cokes like it were up to me to keep the bar in business, it dawned on me that everyone in the room had actually become an adult, and that my schooldays actually were behind me. Everyone had a story to tell and everyone wanted to hear mine.

Reunion Survival Tip 3: The anthropic principle demands everyone at your party will have done well. Think about the limitations of your data: the type of people who go to these bashes, by and large, are the type of people who would have been nice guys and done well for themselves. Drop-outs who might make you feel amazing will not attend. Similarly, everyone presents the best image and leaves out the dull stuff. Don't think you haven't done as well/as much as some: you have done more than others. Try to remember that the stories are just that, but the people are really the interesting ones. After you get past the benign chatter about who you are and what you are doing, it's like any other party really.

Reunion Survival Tip 4 (I feel bad calling them survival tips; I actually had a really good night) is simply to relax and enjoy yourself. Just because you knew them ten years ago doesn't mean you know them anymore, so it's a great opportunity to remake old friends and generally have a whale of a time. If it all goes disastrously, you can always leave and go back to your real friends who will love you anyway.

As it happens, I learned a lot about myself that night, like how much better looking I am now than I was back then (shallow, vain, the list goes on, but let me have one moment of self-appreciation), how I am 100% more confident (imagine me at 15 going to a party alone, or coming out to anyone, or wearing a shirt with a floral motif); and surprisingly, how I'm actually a Liberal Democrat who thinks he wants to be a Conservative.

In truth, I should have seen this coming: Catholic, bi-sexual, arty type, and a paid up member of 'Liberty'? What was I thinking?!

(Special thanks to Tony, Dave and Paul for the use of the photos.)

...tan lines and telling your parents

2005-07-18T11:53:00.000Z

Monday morning lethargy has gripped me and it's just about all I can do to keep my eyes open, so if this post seems a bit torpid, it's because I'm exhausted. Nonetheless, I write on because that's just the kind of guy I am.

Let me start by saying that the weather has been beautiful and I have taken every opportunity to get out in the sun; subsequently I am turning a great shade of brown, although I do have a killer watch-mark and tan-lines on my arms to be proud of. (I see them less as a shameful display of careless sun-worship and more of a comparative tool to see how brown I really am.) Also, you will be pleased to know, I have had a haircut. Mark (who cuts my hair and deserves my loyalty as the only male hairdresser since I was 17 not to hit on me) was horrified to see how out of control it was and swiftly set me back on the tonsorial straight and narrow. I decided to forgo the manicure as I simply couldn't be arsed.

So, beauty regime aside, last week was eventful for two reasons: the ten-year secondary school re-union, and my coming out to my parents. Followers of the saga will know this was planned, but as it happened it came out more by luck than judgment in the end so, those of you who made need to do it in the future, here's how to tell my parents you are bi:

You may recall the two-dates situation I mentioned last week. Well, date 1 was meant to be on Tuesday night but by some weird twist of fate he called me on Monday, said he was in Bath and did I want to meet him after work. Of course, I should have said no - I looked a fright and was in a foul mood from the office - but I said yes anyway (everyone knows I'm not a fan of The Rules) and we had a nice sort of "picnic date" in the park. The original Tuesday date was subsequently re-arranged to Thursday and all was set. (This did mean I was going on two dates with two different guys on two consecutive nights, but who am I to care?).

Thursday rolls around and I am preparing to go out when my mother, who never goes into town, declares that she will be going out the same night! Bumping into your mother on an ordinary date would be bad enough, but seeing her when you are out on a gay date when she doesn't know you are bi?! Unimaginable horror!! I took it as a sign; when she asked me what I was up to and who I was going out with, I told her quite matter of factly I was "going on a date with a man". After a surprised look and a few moments of "you're not joking, are you" banter, she took it coolly and didn't really seem that bothered; then she told me how she and my Dad had been discussing it for years! All this time trying to hide it from everyone and my own parents were having none of it - what a wasted effort! As if that wasn't enough, Dali (the date) had a crisis at work and we had to postpone it till next week, so I ended up staying in with my Dad after all! Still, it did prompt my Dad to ask what I had been intending to do that night, so we had a repeat performance and that was that: two parents, no messing, job done!

The second date sort of fizzled into the ether (I hate people who don't text back; perhaps more than I hate people who think text is suitable for long conversations) so I rounded up Pippa and Alex and we watched Batman Begins at the IMAX (that's a trippy experience, let me tell you: 2D film but 3D trailers: mind-fuck!) and that was my week. A nice early Friday night and the weekend awaited!!! The re-union loomed on the Saturday night horizon and, being thin, trimmed, rested and tanned, I felt I was just about ready for it...

...dark horses

2005-07-11T11:05:00.000Z

Well, what a week! Live 8, the Olympics, the bombs in London - I nearly cried again when reading the Times on Friday. I really think I ought to stop buying it: I'm turning into some kind of hysterical freak.

Life at Wild Towers last week was a bit something and nothing - one of those weeks you don't really register: it's just a vehicle to get you from one weekend to the next without too much thought. I did achieve my first ever 45 minute stint on the treadmill at the gym (and I have lost half a stone recently which is good!) but I promptly arranged to review my gym programme: now the weight is gone it's time to tone. My plan is to be fit and tanned by my birthday, so I have also spent hours in the sunshine this weekend to that end. Currently I am thinner and red.

The main event last week took place on Saturday: the "writers get together". It actually got overshadowed a bit by Friday night's drinking in Bristol (somehow everyone got ridiculously drunk ridiculously early), my father's birthday on Saturday (a lovely family lunch in the sunny garden), and the fact Pippa and I were going to leave the party early to go out into town. Still, I thought it would be a quiet affair with a bunch of middle-aged literary types getting quietly drunk on a warm summers evening (there were no cravats or beret's in sight, by the way). Lord, was I wrong.

My uncle said this weekend that all the best things in life are either illegal, immoral or fattening: the writer's party was an illustration of this in fairly graphic terms. Whilst it wasn't raucous by any stretch, Pippa and I soon discovered that books should not be judged by their covers. The amiable chit-chat about this, that, and the other soon gave way to confessions of a middle-aged scoundrel as stories of affairs and sex with married men came from the most unlikely sources. We were stunned! It was all we could do to keep our mouths from hanging open like goldfish. Of course we soaked it all up like sponges which got me wondering the next day. The more I think about it, the more I think it's the people my age who have the hang-ups about morality and relationships: perhaps we love the drama. The general vibe from the writers crowd was "don't get excited about it; these things happen", which is the exact opposite of the way I live my life: "do get excited about it: this never happens." Maybe when you have been married for 43 years and then leave your husband, illegality, immorality and potential obesity seem like small potatoes. It's a funny old world.

Anyway, after the party we headed into town, hit a few bars and waited for our friends to arrive. (I always thought it was an horrific generalisation to say that the gay nightlife doesn't get going till after midnight, but if you have ever been to the Q/- at 10.30pm you will find yourself agreeing. Note to self: never go in till the clock strikes twelve.) When they finally made it out after much to-ing and fro-ing and a lot of taxi action, what started out as an ordinary night out turned into a mammoth drinking session till 5am. Tips for surviving a night like this are:

(a) Don't get drunk the night before. It will take twice as long as cost you twice as much to get half as drunk.
(b) Rubbing the sweat off your face onto your friend's face as a greeting is funny. Doing it to their friends is not.
(c) If you pull someone and get their number, save it immediately. Do not lose it and then spend 30 mins guessing at it whilst your friend is the one who has to hang on the phone in case someone answers and it's not who you thought it was.
(d) Always consider the possibility that a police visit might be a joke. They might just be giving your boyfriend a lift home and trying to shit you up by telling you they have been called because of the noise. (Note to Woods: free lifts home in future please.)
(e) Getting to sleep at 5am and getting up at 8am will effectively write off your Sunday. Do not fall asleep in the sun. Do not attempt to help in the kitchen. Do not visit your grandparents: you will only fall asleep on the floor.

Love to Pippa for participating in this weeks events. Notes for your diary this week: the 10-year school reunion, my first manicure, and next week, my twenty-sixth birthday! Manchester, here we come!!!

...water rides

2005-07-05T16:45:00.000Z

Right fans! Here are this weeks antics for you all. Thanks to Monkey and my esteemed Texan friend for their lovely comments - it's very exciting getting your first e-mail saying someone has actually read it (thanks too to Al for his encouraging e-mail - very much appreciated).

This week I had a date!! It was very very bad. The story goes like this: I went out on Monday night into Bath and got talking to this very good looking Spanish guy who seemed fairly normal at the time, thus when a meeting was suggested, I agreed to the only time I had free which was, in fact, Wednesday lunchtime - not ideal, but you take what you can get, don't you? As Wednesday lunchtime rolled around and the date began, he was uncommonly chatty, to the point of me not actually being able to get a word in. Also, he has quite a strong accent and it was fairly hard work following what he was saying, but I stuck in there.

Alas, it was all in vain. Although I did discover he was a model in Spain (photographic proof soon followed) and yes, he was fit as fuck, he was twice and vapid and honestly, a bit of a bore. When I mentioned I had a drama degree, I got twenty minutes of how he loved drama and was going to do this, that and the other and that was when I realised he was a total luvvie. Suffice to say he left the date with a firm indication that there would not be an encore.

Following this disaster, I spent a lovely weekend in London, first at Liccy's where we watched Big Brother and drank wine and ate kebabs (yum yum yum) and then on to Thorpe Park on the Saturday for Emma Blonde's birthday! The "coming out" pressure was assuaged thanks to the fact that Emma Brown had already spilled the beans, so all there was left to do was have a good time! I shant regale you with the highs and lows of the whole day, but the water ride is worthy of mention.

"Tidal Wave" is THE big splash ride of the park - you are guaranteed to come out of it soaked. This was fine and we duly got ourselves drenched, but in order to get out of the ride back to the park, you have to cross a bridge over the "splash zone" which, of course, gets wet. I had been watching this and came to the conclusion that you could stand on the bridge quite safely, as the water hit the roof and ran off and the bridge itself stayed comparatively dry. Bold as brass I stood at the front of the bridge whilst everyone else stood behind cunningly placed screens - my first clue. As the splash formed in front of me , I felt confident I was going to be fine - everyone around me pegged it - clue number 2.

It was only when 60 feet of water was about 6 feet away from me that I realised it was actually going to take me out, by which time it was, quite simply, FAR too late. My face, so I am told, was a picture and I was wiped out and knocked 3 feet from where I was standing by the force, whilst everyone else stood an arms length from me and survived. I did feel a proper fool, but having the fear of God put into me by a wall of water coming at me at unbelievable speed did rather take the edge off the other rides for me, so I looked pretty hard on Nemesis Inferno (except for the shrinking jeans which made getting up the stairs a challenge). My advice to you all is this: look around you! If the ground is soaking and the people are running away from you, chances are you are going to get wet.

The rest of the evening was spent watching some Live8, playing a few games and then finally breaking out the Singstar Karaoke on the PS2 until about 1am (the poor neighbours). The evening was sponsored by Tequila and Lilt - a refreshing beverage which gets you quietly drunk without you really knowing it. I recommend it to you all!

That's it this week really - nothing earth-shattering, although forthcoming attractions include my "writers get-together" this weekend (expect tales of drunkenness from all involved) and next week, the 10 year school re-union! Cripes! It's all go!!!!

...passive aggression

2005-06-29T16:18:00.000Z

The National Express post was quite long enough, so I thought I would save the love-life drama for another installment, and since I'm bored at work and have some time on my hands, now seems as good a time as any.

Thanks to the miracle of text, I have a complete record of the conversation that made me so cross I wanted to spit and then finally made me get over Crazy of OL7 (the names have been changed for obvious reasons - except mine of course, that would just be silly). As a brief history, I met this guy once and we've been getting on well and all the rest of it, but nothing exclusive so he went out and met someone else, I took it badly as I was blatantly rebounding, then I decided to stop being so stupid and get on with my life and that's where we are now.

I warn you there's some fairly slushy stuff and I do seem to have come down with Elsa Syndrome, but speaking as a former lame chick who spent time in Elsa's airing cupboard of friendship I don't think it's such a bad thing: it's nice to be nice. Anyway, I'm not 100% ok with the ethics of putting a conversation such as this on here, but since it's only you who read it (or not) and I would tell you all about it if you were here, I am prepared to take the risk. So, here is how to deal with passive aggressive (and worseningly drunken) gentleman texters (also, take note how it's starts - no one begins a conversation like this):

Crazy of OL7 (21:23): Hope you had a good one. I'll catch you later. Just got in myself

Sven (21:25): Cool - dating or parents? I've had a mare of a day but it was still a wicked weekend.

C (21:37): Dating and parents

S (21:40): Ooh, look at you with a proper bf and everything! How did it go? I'm at casualty with my dad :(

C (21:43): Forget my amorous liaisons. He's still here. How's ur dad

S (21:47): Oh he's fine. Gonna get it on tonight then? Why are telling me of all people?

C (21:50): Ok hope ur dads fine. u dont have to be a xxxx though. I thought we were friends

S (22:54): We are friends, I'm just tired and crabby and don't want to know about your other men. I want to get over you and I'm to exhausted to try and hide it.

C (22:04): That's ok. My dad has cancer. Just found out. Never mind get on with your life. People here will take care of me

S (22.10): Thats awful! You must be heart-broken. Of course if you want to talk about it I'm here for you but that's a low thing to do to a friend - tell them something like that and then dump them.

C (22:15): So when you need a friend where are they. I can't talk now

S (22:21): Your friends or mine? I'm confused. If you really want to talk then let me know and I'll listen.

C (22:34): This isn't a dear john. Manuel is here. But I thought you'd understand my anguish. That was short sighted of me

S (22: 35): Shut up and listen to me. You and me is a matter for another day. Right now you need to think about this. I'll be your friend and listen to whatever you want if that's what you want, but I won't feel guilty for being nice or feel bad for caring. Tell me what you want from me.

C (22:42): Nows not a good time to talk

*******

C (23:50): How r u X

S (23:51): Confused and thinking about you. How are you?

C (23:54): Thanx thinkin of u 2 X X

S (23:55): So how are you doing?

C (23:58): im sorry

S (00:00): You should be. I know this is awful news and you're not yourself so I'll let you off, but you were really mean.

C (00:04): Sorry 4 being so stupid I jst need sum time on my own

S (00:05): Perhaps I ought to leave you alone for a while. I'm off to bed but we'll sort this out in the morning

C (00:06): yeah ok Gd night x x

S (00:09): Get some rest - everything is better in the morning. Good night x

C (00:18): Ok jst wanted a friend x

S (00:20): Then you've come to the right man, but right now I'm off to bedfordshire. See you in dreamland x

C (00:38): Ok will spk 2 Manuel bout it

S (00:43): Using this to make me jealous is SO not cool. I really am asleep now. Good night

C (00:50): ok gd night

C (00:53): [missed call to Sven]