Sleeplessness

The baby’s not even born yet and I’m suffering sleepless nights!

For well over a fortnight now I’ve been waking up around 5am and just lying there, absolutely exhausted but nevertheless wide-eyed and awake and as far from sleep as it’s possible to get. The cumulative effect is that I am now practically a zombie (though hopefully with less offensive BO) and have the ability to fudge up the most basic of physical actions. Weirdly my thought processes don’t seem to be diminished one iota but then, if you’re already at rock bottom, there is no where else left to fall.

Anyway there are number of external factors which are no doubt exacerbating this state of sleeplessness: my neighbour is a postman and leaves the house around 5.30am every morning and seems unable to do so without stomping down his stairs and slamming the door like Marsha’s enigmatic daughter from Spaced. I’m not yet in a position to confirm or deny that he wears the same stripy stockings as well. My boy is also waking up pre-5.30am and as quiet as he tries to be there’s a vast difference between a 6 year old’s idea of quiet and quiet per se. Anyone with kids will know what I mean.

But in all honesty I think I’m just waking up early due to internal factors. When Karen and I lost the baby last year the experience was pretty horrific and although it turned out that Karen was perfectly safe I nevertheless went through the classic “pacing of the hospital corridors at 4.0am” while Karen was carted off to the operating theatre and for 90 minutes I had no idea what the hell was going on. Since then my love of hospitals and all things medical – always pretty ropey at the best of times – has waned rather drastically to the point I get hives at the mere thought of us having to undergo yet another hospital experience.

And of course, now that the date for the caesarean has been set the clock is ticking and so are my facial muscles.

I know, I know, it’ll all be fine.

But I worry.

Nigella Espresso

Baptitious kitchen chatelaine, Nigella Lawson, kicked off her new “good food fast” cookery TV series last night – “Nigella Express” and not, as I’d hoped, “Nigella Espresso”. Hmm. It seems that my idea for a raunchy bedroom-based dessert focused TV pilot has been turned down flat by the bosses of Channel 4... I can’t understand why. I mean if they’re happy to invest money in Gillian McKeith intimately examining other people’s poo why not fling a few tenners my way to buy a spatula and an industrial barrel of whipped cream?

Anyway, gripes aside, it was good to see the dusky voiced one back on the telly and doing her damnedest to insist that her plainly glamorous life is anything but and is, in fact, as humdrum as that of the rest of us. Hmm. I don’t think so Nigella. My entire family could live in your walk-in pantry and never have to go to the supermarket again. Ever.

But I think that’s part of Nigella’s appeal. The slightly embarrassed and guilty glamour-puss seductress coupled with the “oh I’m so dowdy really” yummy-mummy modesty. That and the cow-eyed looks over the garlic grater and the coquettish lip moistening as she manhandles the biggest sweet potato I’ve ever seen in my life. No wonder Nigella has one of the biggest male fan bases of all the TV chefs.

Apparently she’s horrified by accusations that she deliberately sexes up her cooking performances but I’m sure she’s also clever enough to not mess with a schtick that plainly works. Besides which the sensual element definitely adds an essential layer to the recipes and is an integral part of the Nigella ethos – whether it’s there deliberately or not. Nigella is all about pleasure: the pleasure of food and the pleasure of life. And it would be a sad individual indeed who objected to that.

The main thing though (as has been pointed out by a reader of this blog, Lucy) Nigella is smokin’ hot. At 47 she’s looking damn good. If that’s what big puddings do for you then I’ll take double helpings please.

Talking of which, last night saw Nigella tenderizing a couple of pork chops with a rolling pin. The way she moved was, ahem, mesmerizing to say the least.

Anthony Worrall Thompson – though he could easily emulate the upper body motion – would not have had quite the same effect...

Set Dates And Done Deals

Karen saw the hospital consultant this morning and – fingers and toes crossed – we’ve been given a date for the caesarean that Karen has requested to bring young Thomas Arthur into the world.

October 9th has been booked into the diaries of all concerned – about 5 days before the official due so hopefully Karen won’t pop early (her words) and ruin the best laid plans of mice and men.

We have to go for a final scan on September 17th and then it’s just a case of waiting and trying to arrange the logistics so that practical matters run smoothly. It’ll be a first if they do!

Other news: Ben starts his new school tomorrow and in about 45 minutes time Karen and I are off to see our bank manager to reschedule a loan which should free up enough cash to render our current mortgage worries unnecessary...

Like I said: fingers and toes...

Gnashers

I’m nursing a sore mouth this morning.

A trip to the dentist yesterday resulted in my pearly-yellows undergoing the orthodontic rigours of the “scrape and polish”. Geez. It sounds like some sort of underworld slang for the kind of service offered by a very down-at-heel (i.e. no heels at all) prostitute who operates from behind the back of a burger van on a Saturday night.

Urgh. Hold the mayo.

Sorry, that was spectacularly uncalled for but pain has a rather souring effect on my funny bone. And no, that was not a euphemism...

Dr Hassan, my dentist, is very thorough and God bless her, she scraped, hacked and polished at my choppers until my gums bled. Literally. And four hours later they were still bleeding.

In fact I spent much of yesterday with the taste of blood constantly in my mouth. It was like permanently having a McDonald’s hamburger rolling and slopping over my molars. Or something reconstituted and burger shaped bought from a burger van that operates on a Saturday night.

Not pleasant.

The worst thing about the “scrape and polish”, as any “scrape and polish” customer will tell you, is not so much the pain (the level of which was really quite surprising – either that or I’m just a complete wuss) but the noise. Everybody winces at the sound of chalk being scraped down a blackboard... but imagine that very same noise being situated right inside your mouth, inside your very head, with the added discomfort of pressure being applied with pin-prick precision along various points of your aching jaws.

My feet were literally curling inside my boots while Dr Hassan carried out her work.

Most discomforting of all was the welding mask that Dr Hassan wore while she set about sand-blasting my teeth to Hollywood-esque perfection. I half expected to find a cow-bar welded to my lower lip when I finally got out of the chair.

Expect to see me racing over rugged terrain and through mountainous foothills the next time a Freelander advert hits your TV screen. I’ll be the one in the background bouncing Aberdeen Angus off my chin and crashing unscathed through wooden farm fences...

Movements

Rumours abound this week that Dominatrix of Dieting, Gillian McKeith has been dropped from Channel 4 like a lead jockstrap. Apparently her Third Reich tactics and blitzkrieg nutritional regime have appalled even the most iron stomached of Channel 4’s TV executives who are now of the opinion that Ms McKeith is simply just too cruel and needlessly harsh in her patented weight loss techniques to be allowed onto the nation’s tellies.

About time too. I can hear Gillian’s shrivelled bones circling the S-bend of television world even as I type.

Not that I’m taking credit, you understand, but this here blog has thrown a couple of good slaggings her way in the past; notably here, here and here...

And now for a movement of a different sort: I actually heard from Mr Chauffeur man yesterday. A very polite and respectful email promising to get payment to me ASAP. I was pleasantly gobsmacked.

About time too yet again.

Though I’m very aware that it might be wise not to count this particular chicken until it’s hatched...

Heroes

Over the last few weeks the BBC's new super series Heroes has impinged rather pleasantly and gently on my psyche – and Karen’s too. Sure there’s been hype about it but, to me at least, it’s felt restrained and controlled. None of the unhinged hysteria that normally accompanies the “next big thing”.

It’s weird discovering which of the characters appeals most to friends and family – it’s like they’re some sort of astrological archetype. Ah, you were born in the year of the Hiro. You have a strong desire to stop the merry-go-round and get off. You like things to be arranged nicely in the nick of time.

Hiro Nakamura certainly possesses Karen’s hero ability of choice and I can definitely see the advantage of being able to stop time and space around you. The possibilities would be endless. You would be able to do anything. Take a few hours sleep whenever you felt like it – nobody would know. Enjoy the countryside and then return to your workstation with no-one none the wiser. For some reason it feels quite a grown up, logical, well thought out choice and fair play to Karen for leaning in that direction.

For my part I must confess to liking the (perhaps traditional) ability of Nathan Petrelli – the power of self propelled flight. I’m aware that I’m imposing some sort of hierarchy on the heroes’ superpowers but the power of flight – or rather the desire for it – seems to have a more day-dreamy, childish appeal; it feels less grown up than being able to manipulate space-time. We all have dreams of flying and most of us at some point secretly wonder how it would feel to be able to fly. Stopping the space time continuum seems very sciencey by comparison. I guess I’m saying I’m more of a dreamer than someone who has a desire to meddle with the metaphysics of the universe.

Like I said: astrological archetypes. I was obviously born in the year of the flying pig. Or the cloud cuckoo.

I do however have a sneaky admiration for the “power” (if you can call it that) of Niki Sanders. Although having a super-strong and totally ruthless alter ego seems quite sinister and disturbing on the face of it I can see the advantage of being able to switch to a more calculating, fearless, Machiavellian mode of behaviour when circumstances demand it. My God, I could use some of that right now in my dealings with my little clique of nefarious web clients. I guess my sneaky admiration has its root in the simple fact that I’m not particularly ruthless or confident in my dealings with other people – for all I may come over all bolshi and strident on this blog.

It would be nice to be able to kick ass occasionally.

So. All this begs the question: which superhero are you and why?

Grasping The Nettles

I’ve made a last ditch attempt to get the money I’m owed from Mr Chauffeur Man. His web site has been live for nearly two months now and I still haven’t seen a penny of the £500 that I invoiced him for. On the advice of my friend, Tris, I’ve kept things nice and polite and given him 2 weeks to settle. More than reasonable I think.

However, given that I only ever hear from him when he’s got a complaint or a gripe and then have to put up with an arsey and offensive tone of voice for the duration of the call it’s taken a surprising amount of willpower for me to open up this one line of communication. If truth be known I want this person out of my life ASAP and then never to hear from them again.

But first though I want to be paid! Karen starts her maternity leave on Friday and our belts are going to be cinched damn tight. I just can’t afford to write off £500!

If he doesn’t pay then for the first time ever I think I’m going to have to play hardball and threaten to pull his site. I’ve joked about doing such things in the past (on this here blog) but to really do it feels quite scary. Crossing the Rubicon, I guess. Once I do that then things will get nasty and possibly end up at the small claims court. I’d much rather things were concluded with a modicum of goodwill on both sides.

Onto other matters... and a nettle of a different sort...

What do you do when you discover that one of your regular clients (effectively your bread and butter earner) is plagiarizing other web sites left, right and centre to add content to their own? I’ve had my suspicions for a while but now a little bit of internet research has provided proof... news items nicked word for word from other web sites; technical queries and advice lifted verbatim from an on-line technical advice forum and then pasted as coming from the mouth of one of their own “leading technical experts”... (a man who has trouble with a hot water kettle), fictional awards presented by themselves to themselves in a desperate bid to look legitimate...

It would be almost laughable if it wasn’t so horribly crass.

Thankfully most of this content bypasses me and goes straight into their on-line web magazine which is hosted and engineered by another company but I’m sure this company would not be happy to learn that they are a party, no matter how unwittingly, to intellectual theft.

The question is: what do I do? Do I broach the subject with my clients? Inform this other third party company of what is going on?

I’d effectively be putting my clients out of business.

Or do I just continue to keep my head down and my nose clean as much as I can?

War Of The Roses

Kenilworth Castle

With immaculate timing Karen and I both came down with a 24 hour stomach bug over the Bank Holiday weekend but despite this set-back determinedly set about enjoying ourselves. Karen is now heavily pregnant – 33/34 weeks – and our options for getting out and about are becoming more and more limited so it’s a case of doing what we can when we can.

As Kenilworth Castle was holding a mini War Of The Roses re-enactment event we decided to mooch along and have a gander. We all love Kenilworth – more so than Warwick though the latter is certainly one of the grandest castles in the UK. The trouble with Warwick, I find, is that Tussauds’ have eviscerated the entire place of atmosphere and have stuffed in its stead a money-spinning circus of hi-tech mechanics and theme park quackery. Kenilworth for the most part is a well-preserved ruin and as such retains so much romance and atmosphere that it’s a joy to walk around its walls and battlements just as they are and to let your mind drift back to what once might have occurred there. The boy certainly loves it and always takes a sword along to fight imaginary foes.

Yesterday however the foes were very real. Whatever re-enactment society were performing the honours (I know, I should have endeavoured to find out) certainly threw themselves into their respective roles with gusto and we had fantastic views as the Lancastrians and the Yorkists laid into each other with pike, sword and bill. Volleys of blunt tipped arrows also added to the overall melee though the boy seemed quite disappointed that we weren’t seeing any real bloodshed. However, his usual testosterone fuelled lust for fighting soon quailed when we suggested that he was welcome to engage some of the fully armoured warriors down on the battle field...!

Wise decision. They were an impressive bunch. The women were all magnificently buxom and the men were all mightily bearded.

In fact, Karen and I were consistently mistaken for being two of their number...

"Who spilt my mead?!"

The newly restored Gate House.

Show Me The Money

Yesterday my oldest friend, Tris, popped up to Leamington for a quick whistle-stop visit and we managed to take time out from our glamorous weekend routines to grab a quick coffee in town.

Tris and I have known each other since we were 7 or 8 years old, more or less, so it’s fair to say that nobody knows me as well as Tris – not counting Karen that is; I do think that to really know someone you have to live with them.

Anyway, we had a lot of catching up to do and amid the domestic tale telling I filled Tris in on my current web design business woes – Mr Chauffeur Man still hasn’t coughed up the £500 he owes me. Tris was very complimentary about the chauffeur site – something I very much needed to hear after last week’s attacks by Mr Anonymous / Mr Web Designer – and also revealed that if the site had been designed and built by the company he works for in London they would have charged a cool £30,000 for it!

My jaw dropped open so fast I think I dislocated it and left a permanent notch in the table.

I must point out that Tris works for Saatchi & Saatchi so he’s quoting S&S prices. But even so…

I’m beginning to wonder if maybe, just maybe, I’m selling myself a little bit short…

Geeks?

Yesterday, terminal work boredom was relieved somewhat by a lovely email from my gorgeous wifey, Karen. Knowing I have a slight penchant for breakfast TV cleavage queen, Lorraine Kelly, Karen had supplied a link to a feature on MSN Entertainment about “Geek Chic”.

The feature, although not particularly in-depth, called us all to celebrate the oddballs and misfits of the celebrity world – the stars that we are “afraid to admit [we] fancy”. On the face of it this seems a great idea. Anything that bounces people out of the size zero hero-worship that taints modern society has got to be a good thing, right?

And yes, having scanned through the list of misfit celebrities there are plenty that can be termed geeks and misfits: David Gest, Louis Theroux, Jade Goody... I could go on.

But there are plenty on the list that I think are not geeks or misfits at all. They just don’t adhere to the stick-thin ethos of the media and fashion world. Lorraine Kelly, Fern Britton, Kirstie Allsopp – all highly attractive women (in my opinion) and eminently fanciable. Hubba hubba, etc.

So why does bucking the size zero trend automatically label you a geek? Or even a misfit? Why should I be ashamed to say that I think Lorraine Kelly or Kirstie Allsopp are attractive women? There are countless men (and women) out there who’d be glad to tickle Lorraine Kelly’s fancy on the GMTV sofa or give Kirstie Allsopp a quick look at their basement extension in the privacy of their own home... and they’d be damn proud to brag about it too.

And then it got me thinking about the rest of the list and at what point my opinion diverges from that of the author. Are David Gest, Louis Theroux and Jade Goody geeks just because I don’t fancy them? Or because the person who wrote the feature doesn’t? I mean I don’t fancy Catherine Zeta Jones or Keira Knightley either but does that make them geeks too?

If someone is attractive then they are attractive. End of story. There’s no shame in admitting this. And everybody is attractive to somebody. So who has the right to label somebody else a misfit?

If I get my kicks ogling Supernanny, Jo Frost or moist muffin maker, Nigella Lawson, shaking the bejasus out of a bawling brat or a homemade cocktail, so what? I like what I like. And that doesn't make anybody a misfit or even a non-misfit.

Wow. I actually started this entry with the intention of waxing lyrical about the impressiveness of Kirstie Allsopp’s commodious bosom and her rapier-like high heels but seem to have ascended instead into the higher realm of social comment...

Geez. Does this make me a geek?

Take The Back Rhodes

We’ve been watching a lot of cookery programmes at the moment as we’ve noticed that the boy is fascinated by them. Karen and I both love cooking ourselves so it’s no hardship to immerse ourselves in a spot of Nigella or Gordon every now and then.

One particular show that we’ve been watching has been UKTV Food’s "Rhodes Across India" which features celebrity chef, Gary Rhodes, hobnobbing around India sampling the wares of various street vendors and top Indian chefs.

The food, I admit, looks amazing but Karen and I are constantly irritated by Gary Rhodes’ arrogant and domineering attitude. He might dress it up under a jovial, easy going, I’m-your-best-mate-I-am manner but his condescension towards everyone he meets is plain.

What annoys me most is that he constantly meddles with the recipes that he’s been privy to. It’s like he can’t resist improving them or applying the smarmy Gary Rhodes stamp to them. On one episode we watched recently you could see the Indian chef visibly gritting his teeth in the background as Gary Rhodes totally trashed the simplicity of the original dish and pointlessly westernized it.

The point is: I’m watching this programme to see dishes and food prepared the Indian way. I want to see how the actual street vendors do it – how they prepare recipes that have been passed down to them through countless generations - and I object strongly to every single ingredient and measurement having to be passed through the crass dictatorial filter that is Mr Rhodes!

I don’t want to see Gary Rhodes’ take on Indian food. I just want to see the Indian food as it is!

Whether he realizes it or not, Gary’s attitude brands him a thief rather than a respectful explorer. And that leaves a very bad taste in my mouth.

The British Raj, it seems, is alive and cooking...

Planet Steve

I feel a little bit calmer after the histrionics of the weekend though the whole thing has left a bad taste in my mouth. I’m not sure why it got to me so much. Usually I snarl back and then let it go; move on... but I felt quite poisoned by ‘Saturday’s event’.

I’m sure a lot of it is due to high stress levels at the moment – Karen’s pregnancy is totally exhausting her, I’m under extra pressure at work due to the extended clean-up operation after the flood, I’m still receiving hassles but no money from my horrible web site clients, a shedload of money/mortgage worries, broken sleep... gah! All of it has conspired to make me hyper sensitive and all too easily knocked off my feet by the slightest motion. Planet Steve feels in danger of shattering like a cut glass goblet at any moment. One high C and crash tinkle tinkle smash.

I guess I need to focus on the positive though. Karen is beginning her maternity leave at the end of August – so barely 2 weeks to go and she can rest properly. Her bosses have also been very understanding and supportive which has been a great help. I’ll be a lot happier knowing that she’s resting at home next month I must admit rather than flogging herself at work to the point of collapse. Work and pregnancy are plainly not a great combination for her!

As for my horrible client. Well... it’s been a steep upward curve. It’s taught me a lot about what not to do and who not to work for. Most of all it’s taught me to never ever doubt my gut instincts. Most of all it’s taught me that money should never be the deciding factor in anything. There’s very little I can do now to the site – the last hurdle is just getting the money out of the client and then I can shut my doors on the whole situation for good. I can’t effing wait.

The comments of Mr Anonymous have had one positive effect: they’ve made me review the work I produce and made me decide to be a lot more careful about how I pitch it and who I pitch it to in future. I can’t compete with the big boys and I think it’s important I acknowledge that to myself and to future clients. The people I want to deal with want something modest and affordable – not huge, corporate looking, data collecting web site behemoths. There’s a niche in the market for what I can offer and as long as my clients are happy with what I produce I don’t see that anybody else need throw their opinion into the mix.

Mortgage worries.... Geez. Don’t we all have them? After a good discussion about it all with Karen over the weekend I’m going to shop around and speak to a few banks. See if I can reschedule some loan repayments to free up some income – enough to ensure we have a decent safety margin should interest rates leap up another notch (which seems likely). Where to start is beyond me though. I find the world of finance and banking something of a turn-off and as a consequence my knowledge of such things is minimal.

So, things might still be a bit overcast on Planet Steve but I’m going to do my damnedest to encourage clear, blue skies and green horizons... if I can’t do that then I shall at the very least invest in some decent wellies.

Attacked

I must admit to feeling quite upset this morning.

God knows we all receive negative comments every now and then and most of the time I hope that when they come my way I take them on the chin when they're deserved and give as good as I get when I think they're not.

This morning, however, I awoke to some comments on my blog which felt like personal attacks. I didn't publish them as they were from the ever misanthropic anonymous: although one did have the startling nom de plume "a web designer" it was fairly obvious they were all from the same person.

Basically the web sites I design are "bad" and my writing it seems isn't up to much cop either. It seems also that I'm not funny, though in brackets Mr Anon was keen to point out that I myself obviously think that I am.

I'm still wondering if I made the right decision by not publishing them - maybe I should have let you all read them too? As it was I decided to stick to my guns: no anonymous posts get published on my blog. Plus I didn't want to resurrect the upset they engendered in me every time I re-read them. I don't need that kind of crap in my life... so click. They're gone.

Part of me suspects they were a personal attack from someone who knows me. Part of me wonders if maybe I'm just hoping that's true so that it in someway invalidates what they said.

Anyway, a healthy stint in the garden - lawn mowing and the like - has righted my keel a little more now but that cloud of upset remains over me.

Maybe my web sites are bad? Certainly I acknowledge that they cannot compete with stuff you'd have designed for you by a huge company: I work alone and my knowledge base is therefore tiny in comparison. However, this is reflected in the prices I charge and I believe they are more than fair. Whatever, once the price has been agreed between me and the client that is the end of it. I deserve to get paid when the work is done. And I believe I have a perfect right to complain when this doesn't happen (the insinuation was that I had no right to the complaints detailed in the previous post).

And maybe my writing is bad too? That's a difficult one to answer. I can after all only write as I do. And I'm glad (arrogant maybe) to say that I've had far more people offer praise than criticism - though the latter I am always hungry for when it is constructive and helpful. Comments that I am "lame" and "not funny" aren't really helpful at the end of day. That's a subjective response. Sure you're entitled to feel that way Mr Anon but rather than leave a snide comment about it why don't you take your reading abilities elsewhere?

Ultimately Mr Anon, I wonder what the point of your comments were. To cause upset? To make yourself feel superior for a moment or two? Hey I can sympathise. I'm sure I'm guilty of such things myself some of the time. We all are.

Just don't do it on my blog. This is a forum for me to expunge my dirt. Not yours. And I believe that here I can write whatever the hell I like...

Terms And Conditions

Some of you may remember my rant a few weeks back about how a couple of clients from my web design business were cheesing me off so much I was going to give them two month’s notice before I withdrew my services... Well, I’m in the last stages of extracting myself from their irritating business embrace and they are STILL driving me up the flaming wall. I’m actually very close to the point of telling them to P off completely and to just cut my losses. However, the single fact that they owe me over £500 in unpaid fees is a difficult one to walk away from - especially when money is so tight at the moment (interest rates screwing up the mortgage, etc).

And so the business relationship limps on for a few more painful weeks. And all the while my stress levels and blood pressure continue to rise.

In a bid to massage myself back into a state of relaxation and carefree bonhomie I’ve decided to compile some terms and conditions for dealings with future clients. Actually it was Karen’s idea and after the experiences of this year I think it’s a good one.

Anyway, the T’s & C’s below aren’t actually the official ones that will be used by my business, Brighter Web Design, but they are the ones that I shall be referring to mentally whenever I meet with new clients...

Terms And Conditions

1) You will not take 5 months to get your business material to me and then complain that the web site isn’t moving fast enough.

2) You will not ring me up late on a Sunday evening or pre 7 am on a Monday morning and expect me to drop everything just to put something new on-line for you because you have some “important clients” viewing the site today.

3) You will not change your mind constantly about web content and then insinuate that it is me messing you around.

4) You will not submit material composed by yourself or a colleague and once it is on-line then complain that it misrepresents you or makes you look unprofessional. Point of note: only you make you look unprofessional.

5) You will not withhold payment for 2 months once the site is live and generating business for you and insinuate that you are not getting value for money, especially when your £500 web site would have cost you £2000 on the High Street. Until you pay for it, the site is not yours.

6) You will not have the cheek to try and charge me money for putting my name as a link on a web site that I have designed (and you have not paid for) and insinuate that I am taking you for a ride or acting unprofessionally. Such copyright acknowledgments are industry standards and to my knowledge are not chargeable! There is such a thing as business courtesy. Please familiarise yourself with it.

7) You will not deny me the right to refer to the site on my own on-line portfolio with the insulting excuse that it makes your site look bad and your “multi national, multi billionaire clients” wouldn’t be interested in hiring me anyway. My on-line portfolio is not for your clients; it’s for MINE. If you don’t want your clients to know that you’re a cheapskate who paid for a cut price web site that’s your problem. Or I’m happy to charge you triple.

8) I do not respond well to bullshit, self inflating hyperbole and vague promises of how good/professional you are. Show me the money or shove off.

9) I am web designer. I do not sort out problems with your PC/palm pilot.

10) If I don’t like you, I’m not working for you. Period.


Oooh. I feel better already.

A Poetic Interlude

It’s been a long while since I’ve posted any poetry on this blog but blog buddy Janete has reminded me that actually, getting poetry “out there” into the big wide world is a good thing and to be encouraged.

So, to change the pace somewhat, here is a small offering from my extensive back catalogue of angst and metaphor.


Sheffield, December 2003

In hoar wind trees lag dirty:
white filings pinch northward as iron
but grow grey and blunt
in the furnace slump of the factories.

The air sounds detonated –
the lung aftershock pressing down, pursed
and cursive, a spent
cartridge. The streets are baptized in it and

limed with the sign of the cross.
Trams belch black looking shoppers like grapeshot
but none hit their mark.
Fag ends blow red grit across department store windows,

the displays lost behind
a welding shower of tracer bullets.
The pavements bolt beneath
the rapid cannon fire of pork shops and pound shops

and job shops.

Christmas growls and sprints once from the rubble
to be dourly gunned down by the masses.

Birthday Boy

Yesterday saw yours truly hit the ripe old age of 38.

Yes. I know. You’re all reeling in shock. “38!” I hear you cry. “But how can that be when your writing is always so youthful and (what’s the word you kids use?) rad?”

Well, it’s time to come clean. I’m a 69 boy and proud of it.

Erm. Let me rephrase that. I was born in the year 1969 and am proud of it. I’m proud to have cut my teeth (quite literally) in the space age. I’m old enough to remember black and white TV that closed down for the night at 12 o’clock. I can recall glam rock, punk, New Wave, Shoe-gazing and grunge long before they all stepped up to the plate yet again in the 21st Century. I can remember Penny Chews and Rhubarb & Custard sweets. I chortled at Hong Kong Phooey and Top Cat. I guffawed at Rentaghost and Chorlton & The Wheelies. I fancied Daphne from Scooby-doo. And Cheryl Ladd from Charlie’s Angels.

And 30 odd years later nothing much has changed.

Well. Apart from the fact that my hair is turning grey and I become a grumpy old git when I hear what passes for music on the radio these days. Bah humbug. Who told that Calvin Harris chappie he could sing, eh?

Anyway, I had a terrific day – Karen and I both had the day off work and she treated me to a fabulous Thai meal in Stratford. I was also showered in gifts – the most notable being a beautiful 7.1 Megapixel camera which knocks the spots of my old one by miles. I was also overwhelmed to find the Life On Mars and Rome box sets among my birthday bounty along with Hot Fuzz and The Last King Of Scotland. I have some terrific viewing ahead of me. Karen’s done me proud (erm, let me rephrase that... er, oh yeah; I’ve done that joke, haven’t I?).

Karen also treated me to various stylish articles of clothing and a couple of survival handbooks by the god of nettle-tea and mushroom sticking plasters himself, Ray Mears. The accoutrements to my life are complete.

Global warming can bring it on.

I’m ready for it.

Another Excerpt

I seem to recall promising to post another excerpt from my novel a short while ago. A "short while" that has stretched into rather a long one due to flooding problems at work and my recent holiday in Cornwall!

Anyway, here for your delectation and serrated critical faculties - finally - is an excerpt from Chapter 9...

Book 101: Excerpt.

Apologies for posting it as a Word doc download but 9 times out of 10 I post to my blog from work (shhhh!) and I'd never get this excerpt passed the sensors if it was posted as html.

As always, thank you to all those who take the trouble to read it, it's much appreciated.

Shameless Plug

In an example of totally shameless plugging I hearby present an excerpt from the current home page of my personal web site, Pocketropolis:

So there I am walking along the main shopping thoroughfare of my own home town when suddenly the crowds part like some sort of Biblical miracle (the parting of the chav sea) and with an awful demonic whirr a shape both diabolical and familiar approaches my terrified form at a speed which must surely induce immediate suffocation in its rider. Amid the red and chrome glint of this monstrous beast I perceive a weapon of perverse shape and engineering aimed inexplicably at my quivering heart. I have a split second to dive out of the way and with the adrenalin still pounding in my ears I hit the carpet of the Pound Shop to my left as this pavement behemoth trundles blindly passed without even a by-your-leave or a thank you. As I pick myself up and wander dazedly back out into the sunlight I watch as other poor pedestrians are likewise terrorized by this path hog. Not content with owning a mobility scooter built like a Chieftain Tank, it’s driver has also seen fit to attach a pair of crutches to it in such a way that the vehicle is now equipped with a pair of state-of-the-art lances. I strongly suspect that this scooter also had full mine laying capacity and side mounted scud missile launchers beneath the seat but due to the speed of its acceleration I really can’t say for certain...The rest of the article can be read via Pocketropolis.co.uk.

Thank you for your kind attention.

Holy Mackerel

First day back at work today and God has it been hard. Picking up the threads of flooded basements, blocked lavatories and recalcitrant contractors. How could I ever have coped with being away from it all?

Cornwall now seems but a dream but one which I have made several escapist dips into over the last few hours. For all I’m totally un-enamoured with being back at work everybody has been telling me how well and how relaxed I look. Plainly Cornwall has done me good. Sadly its boosting effects will no doubt have worn off by the time Friday arrives. I can feel the rising tide of mediocrity lapping at my boot heels even now.

Talking of tides and such... the last day of the holiday Karen, Ben and I went mackerel fishing from Penzance. Karen had been mackerel fishing before and I’d done some night fishing in The Maldives some years ago so we were both well up for it and thought the experience would be a good one for Ben.

The experience certainly started well enough. We headed into Penzance and managed a lovely late afternoon meal at a lovely little café that was proudly advertising the fact that the BBC had named it as one of their food heroes for the area. Good for the BBC. I stuck to omelette not wanting to risk a chilli con carne on the high seas while Karen plumped for the crab salad. Ben, ever the galloping gourmet, went for the chicken dinosaur shapes. Not even Gordon Ramsay could have dissuaded him.

Anyway, such culinary fare took on a slightly sour note once we were at sea in waters that I’m sure your average sailor would merely describe as “a mite choppy”. For us it was a deal more alarming – especially when, the engine stopped in readiness for us to cast our lines forth, the boat was constantly being rocked at 45 degree angles, port to starboard and back again... up and down, up and down.

As the song goes: Huey, up she rises! Huey, up she rises!

Or something like that.

Never having been one who’s ever suffered from any form of travel or motion sickness I was absolutely fine – though I caught not a damn thing; not a single bite. Ben’s chicken shapes however started a deep sea diving expedition about an hour into the fishing time and disappeared overboard with much gurgling and splashing. About half an hour after this Karen’s crab salad also made an escape bid and headed back to the ocean in a much reconstituted form.

Such chumming of the waters may have been what kept the mackerel away. Personally I was juat glad that it didn’t encourage the much reported Great White shark that was stalking the Cornish coast at the time to head in our direction while we were at sea.

Anyway once Ben had recovered some of his colouring the Cap’n good naturedly asked him if he’d like to come mackerel fishing again...

To which Ben told him with frank 6 year old politeness that he “really didn’t think he should...”

That’s my boy.

Landlubber and proud of it.

I'm Back

Marazion

Forgive the lack of words - I'm absolutely shattered today. We arrived back from Cornwall yesterday evening and are now beginning the slightly depressing process of resuming normal life again. Still, at least I don't have to return to work until Tuesday which is a much needed consolation at the moment.

Cornwall was wonderful. Given the amount of rain we've had recently Karen and I were dead chuffed to find we'd picked the one week this summer where we had sunshine practically every day. We even got sunburnt; something I didn't expect to happen this year in the UK!

Anyway, I'm too tired/lazy to give a full account of our holiday so suffice it to say that a good time was had by all and we took in some amazing places including Prussia Cove, St Michael's Mount, Portreath, Perranporth, The Eden Project, a seal sanctuary and The Cornish Cider Farm. Karen got some much needed R&R and the boy and I got some much needed outdoors activity. I have to admit it was nice to be completely away from the PC for a week.

Below are a few pics freshly downloaded from the ol' digital. Hope all has been well while I've been away.

Marazion from St. Michael's Mount

Hell's Mouth

Prussia Cove

Summer Hols

See that man on that Cornish beach?

Tomorrow that's going to be me, that is.

In the meantime a warm farewell to all my blog buddies - I shall return to blog world in a week or so and catch up on all your opinions and events (unless I'm sad enough to find a cyber cafe in Penzance before then)...

Adieu!

Blockages

What type of person wilfully blocks a toilet?

I really need to know. It’s something I’ve never done myself or even, for that matter, ever had the urge to do and yet frequently in the course of my day-job I come face-to-face with bizarrely blocked toilets on a frighteningly regular occurrence.

It’s like there’s some sort of club or secret society that I’m patently not a member of.

Most of the time the troublesome blockage is caused by a beer can or a rolled up copy of Heat magazine. You’d think that top shelf magazines would be the obstruction of choice but, no, these rarely make an appearance in my experience. Miles and miles of scrunched up loo paper feature quite a lot too but this is plainly the work of amateurs or bored school children – so much so it’s barely worth commenting on. It takes a dedicated expert to do the job (pardon the pun) properly. Because let’s face it: a beer can or a rolled up copy of Hello Magazine requires a fair bit of planning and effort to see it securely installed. Such blockages are the by-products of finesse and a certain amount of personal refinement. They’re out of the ordinary and the items chosen to perform the snarl-up usually have the flavour of social or political comment about them. It’s sculptural graffiti. 3-D satire.

The most bizarre blockage that I can recall (and I recall it only because it was so bizarre – I don’t particularly catalogue these lavatorial events) was a loo that I encountered at the end of Dover pier. Somebody had shoved a whole, unused loo roll down the toilet. Then, not content with this ironic swipe at the Andrex ideal, they had then dropped a “log” of nuclear-submarine-like proportions straight down the central tube of the loo roll thus spearing it not unlike a big blue fish in a barrel. Hoop-la indeed.

I have to say that I was both incredibly impressed and disgusted with this singular feat of precision bombing.

But the same question still remains: what type of person chooses to do this? Who in their right mind decides that today is the day they are going to block a public convenience?

Am I failing society by not blocking a toilet myself? Am I missing an essential life skill? Or am I just lacking in ambition?

Oh well. Bombs away!

Wet Rot

Apologies for the lack of blog action over the last few days – I’ve barely had time to drink a cup of tea let alone tinker with the English language in an entertaining manner.

On Saturday the River Leam burst its banks and, at ground level at least, came within 3 foot of the Art Gallery where I work in dear old Leamington Spa. Hence Saturday lunchtime I was called in to work to help install flood barriers, put out sandbags and remove every valuable painting from the walls so that they could all be stored somewhere safe.

Unfortunately, despite all these precautions, the water managed to get in through the foundations of the building and our under floor store – directly beneath the main Gallery – filled up with over 5ft of smelly, river water.

Hence, yesterday – which was actually my wedding anniversary – I had to go in again as most other staff are away on holiday this time of year to help with the clean up operation. I had originally booked the day off so Karen and I could go out for a meal but it seems the restaurant we’d planned to patronize had also been flooded! As it was Karen was very understanding and we decided to postpone our day out together until today.

So yesterday saw me (begrudgingly) slaving away at work instead of stuffing myself silly with top nosh and gazing adoringly into my wife’s eyes. Not the celebration of 2 years of marriage that we’d planned.

Still, the clean up operation is now underway. Pumps are in place to empty the flooded store and engineers are primed to strip down the boilers as our boiler room also ended up under 4 ft of water.

At the end of the day, compared to other areas of the country, we got off very lightly which is a very sobering thought indeed.

As for me. Top nosh beckons today. And Karen and I are concentrating on getting ourselves through to the weekend – Saturday will see us heading off the Marazion for a week’s well deserved holiday!

I can't wait.

Ug

I saw an amazing news item on the TV yesterday evening.

It seems that the new up-and-coming sport of choice for those with more money than brain cells is Cage Fighting.

Basically two muscle pimped meatheads are locked into a caged circular arena where, using whatever martial arts techniques they have at their disposal – boxing, kick boxing, karate, judo, finger-painting – they attempt to knock seven shades of custard out of each other. The last man standing (not necessarily with both legs attached) is proclaimed the winner.

It’s brutal. It’s blood thirsty. It’s barbaric.

And tickets for a recent bout of this event at Wembley went for £500 a go.

From what I can see it’s basically no-rules-barred fist fighting. One tiny step away from a fully fledged gladiatorial contest.

The audience were grotesque. Rich men in Saville Row suits and women in catwalk originals baying for blood and a good maiming. If these are the “in people” I’m happy to be counted out.

A spokesman for the sport attempted to justify it by painting it in a much nobler light.

It’s not just about the violence, he said. It’s about the various disciplines involved and the positive mental attitude.

Oh well. That makes it all alright then.

As soon as I have tracked this man down I’m going to break into his house, terrorize his family and steal all of his possessions.

I know it sounds like a callous and violent criminal act but please respect the immense discipline involved in carrying out this endeavour and the tremendous positive mental attitude I’m having to adopt in order to get myself through it.

Last of the noble savages, me.

I’ll be selling tickets to this event on eBay. £500 a shot if anybody’s interested?

Tightus Pullover

I’m very aware that not many of my readers appear to watch the BBC’s Rome so I am possibly heading for a comments desert on this one but I just can’t resist writing about it.

Quite why more people are not watching this show is frankly beyond me. It is definitely the best thing on TV at the moment and Karen and I are already in mourning that the BBC and HBO have no plans to fund a third series. They must be mad, though – as with Life On Mars – I can respect their integrity in quitting while they’re ahead.

Last night was a huge, sumptuously cooked steak of a show.

Mark Anthony enthralled with Cleopatra knowingly commits political suicide by refusing to admit his Roman wife sent to see him by Octavian Caesar. It is of course precisely what Octavian wants: an unmistakable premise for war. In one ingenious move Anthony has been forced to betray both Rome and the goodwill of the Roman people. The end is nigh.

Lucius Vorenus knows that war is coming but declines the chance to escape it. He knows he no longer has anything left to lose and is too stiff-necked to do anything to change it anyway. He knows this also and accepts it. The end, again, is nigh.

And Pullo!

Well, for me, Titus Pullo stole the entire show. A breath taking performance by Ray Stevenson clearly illustrates that beyond the beefcake thuggery and gory sword work, Stevenson is clearly an actor of the highest calibre.

As his second wife Gaia lies bleeding to death after saving his life she makes a deathbed confession: it was she that poisoned his first wife, Eirene, killing both her and their unborn baby. What could Pullo do but blankly strangle the last remaining drops of life out of her and then dump her body in what appeared to be a cesspool. It sounds callous and over the top but you had to see it. It was handled so well I’m still full of admiration the morning after. The wash of emotions that swept over Pullo’s face was amazing.

Steak?

Rare indeed.

Grumbles

I’m feeling very out of sorts today. Too much stress and pressure being the major contributors.

I seem to have landed myself and my web design business with a couple of real a-hole clients. I won’t go into detail other than to say they are some of the most ignorant, feckless, arrogant, down-right rude people I have ever had to deal with.

I’m now at the stage where I’ve decided that the extra money their work generates just isn’t worth the hassle and trauma that inevitably comes with it. The whole idea of working for myself was to get away from working for idiots.

Anyway, though I could potentially be committing financial suicide (well, not quite – I still have my day job) I’ve decided to give these troublesome clients 2 month’s notice before I withdraw my services. I need and want to spend more time with my family – especially Karen who’s undergoing a very exhausting pregnancy.

The loss of earnings will be painful. But already I feel so much happier in myself, it’s unbelievable.

I’m counting down the days already.

Princely Sums

News that Prince has “given away” his new album, Planet Earth, free with a UK National newspaper this morning has created quite a stir in both the press and the music industry.

Although I can applaud the apparent sense of largesse behind the move – “giving music back to the fans” – I nevertheless agree with those who think that the strategy is ill conceived and ill thought out.

I’m sure much of Prince’s real motivation is a huge desire to cheese-off all those music industry bigwigs and fat cats who have leeched off him and other artists over the years, hampered his creativity and degraded the art form by dunging it about with the cursed accoutrements of business and commerce. I can well sympathise.

Except that it’s not the fat cats who’ll suffer from the eventual disappearance of the high street music store that this move seems to herald. It’s the shop workers, the stock buyers and all those ordinary people who work in the industry who’ll suffer the most. And these people have usually got into this line of work precisely because they are music fans. The very fans in fact that Prince wishes to lavish his generosity upon.

It’s fine for Prince. He evidently doesn’t need the money. He’s also big-egoed enough to cold-shoulder the inevitable “his album was so bad he had to give it away” jibes that will inevitably follow his recent bout of munificence.

But speaking as someone who’s brother-in-law has recently lost their job – without any kind of payment or compensation whatsoever – due to the collapse of the Fopp record store chain I agree with those who think that Prince’s album give-away is just a mighty kick in the teeth for those who have contributed to Prince’s material success over the past 4 decades.

If Prince wanted to show off his benevolence then why not give all the proceeds of the album sales to charity? Doesn’t it make better sense to make money for a good cause than to make no money whatsoever?

Preventing some company bigwig from buying yet another timeshare in the Algarve is one thing. Taking food of the table of an ordinary bloke in the high street is something else entirely.

Planet Earth?

Sigh, you’re damn right it is.

Phoenix Nights

Karen and I took the boy to see Harry Potter And The Order Of The Phoenix last night. Well. That’s not strictly accurate. We took the boy along with us to cover the fact that it was we who both wanted to go.

I absolutely love the Harry Potter films though I’m probably one of the few people in the UK not to have read any of the books and I don’t, in truth, intend to until the film franchise is fully completed.

That might sound odd coming from a confirmed bibliophile but I actually have a deep reverence for the cinema. You’re never going to hear me complaining that a movie adaptation of a book is inaccurate or has “left out the best bits”. I don’t expect or want to see a movie that is just a slavish rendition of a novel. Both are entirely separate art forms and should function according to the rules and demands of their own separate disciplines.

Put plainly, a movie is never going to be a novel and a novel is never going to be a movie. And neither should they be. I’m quite happy for directors to run a bit with an idea and change it, reshape it, prune it, mould it… sculpt it into something new. For those that want the novel… well, there you go. It’s there. But the film must be accepted as a thing entire and integral to itself.

For that reason I was one of the few people among my friends who loved V For Vendetta. I also loved the last Harry Potter film, The Goblet Of Fire and found people’s comments about “this has been left out” and “there was so much more in the novel” really tiresome. To enjoy a film adaptation properly you almost have to forget the novel. Give the film a fresh start and a fair go. Hence, I have chosen not to read the novels. There’s too much hype around them. I’m sure they’re excellent and I shall enjoy reading them a few years down the line. In the meantime I’m enjoying the films immensely.

Talking of which, The Order Of The Phoenix, continues the gradual darkening and greying up of the main character’s moral outlook started with The Prisoner of Azkaban. This is a good thing. The world is not a simple black and white place and the politicising of the Harry Potter world is a good thing. It adds more depth to both the characters and the plot.

Daniel Radcliffe (Harry), Emma Watson (Hermione) and particularly Rupert Grint (Ron) have very much upped their game in the acting stakes and their performances are a joy to watch. They work well together and their (obviously) real life camaraderie spills over onto the screen in abundance and adds a good deal of warmth to the macabre goings-on. My only complaint is that Hermione’s dancing eyebrows – much controlled in the previous film – are now wildly river dancing in every scene and are very, very distracting! Other than that her performance as Hermione is superlative and the slow burning attraction between her and Ron is just charming.

Ron for me is the real star: though Daniel’s Harry has now beefed up both physically as well as emotionally and has developed a very real, very strong screen presence, Ron’s comic timing is absolutely flawless and his delivery so natural that you are utterly convinced by him. He does however look like he’s just stepped out of the 1960’s music scene. I could easily see him in the Rolling Stones or The Small Faces. Lazy Sunday afternoon’s anyone?

It was also good to see Michael Gambon, Maggie Smith, Alan Rickman, Richard Griffiths, Gary Oldman and Ralph Fiennes reprising their roles although a fair few of them are looking decidedly creakier than in previous outings. I just hope the older ones are still alive when they to get to the seventh and final film. They’re totally free to cark it after that point obviously. Richard Griffiths as always looked particularly grotesque as Harry’s guardian, Vernon Dursley, but Karen and I were alarmed at how ill he looked. I suspect it was not all make-up and gloy which is rather worrying. Gary Oldman is superb as Sirius Black and there’s a very real warmth between him and Daniel’s Harry that benefits the film immensely.

Some of the new characters are notably excellent too – Evanna Lynch as Luna Lovegood was fantastic and, as expected, Imelda Staunton was untouchable as the torturing Dolores Umbridge. She was like an unhinged version of Her Maj The Queen.

My favourite though is still John Isaacs as Lucius Malfoy. His tightly controlled cruelty and superiority is always delicious to watch. His sneers drip acid and his voice is like a serrated knife coated in honey.

I could go on for hours but I will spare you all that. Suffice to say the film is excellent. Unlike The Goblet Of Fire though there’s not such a sense of crescendo towards the end. Instead the pace and tension are wound tighter and tighter as the film proceeds to its conclusion and there is no true sense of release. It feels like it’s part one of a two-part story almost. There’s unfinished business. Threats are left hanging. Promises are left to keep. None of this is a criticism. Real life isn’t about tidy, happy endings and I like the fact that the Harry Potter story doesn’t always take the safe kiddie option of nice, neatly packaged conclusions where all the loose ends are tied up. This is a dangerously adult world; not a kid’s world and there is a surprising amount of gravitas and food for thought in that one, single realization.

The Order Of The Phoenix is immensely satisfying and leaves you thirsting for more. That should be a thumbs up in anybody’s book. Roll on number 6 I say.

How Desperate Are You?

Regular readers of this blog will have noticed that I have an unquenchable predilection for fly-on-the-wall type documentary TV shows – an appetite that I indulge solely so that I can exercise my rabid spleen by giving the participants of these shows a bloody good drubbing.

Hey. A nasty spleen is a happy spleen after all.

But watching “How Clean Is Your House?” last night I had to wonder to myself what kind of person actually chooses to willingly debase themselves on national television by appearing on such a show?

Now I realize that there are people out there – damaged, inept and socially inexpert – who through no fault of their own are unable to live conventional lives and carve out a small pocket of existence for themselves which resembles that of a New York bag-lady. There are even people who just choose not to clean their homes regularly and feel perfectly happy mired up to their hips in their own filth and detritus and develop immune systems that can snuff out the after effects of a neutron bomb.

But generally – either through immense shyness bordering on psychological shutdown or a perfectly normal sized sense of shame – these people would rather run a mile through Irish bog than let a strange person into their homes... let alone a film crew fronted by Scottish frost-pot Aggie MacKenzie and blonde beehived behemoth Kim Woodburn.

Which leads me to conclude that the people who apply to participate on this show are, perhaps, a little bit conniving... a little bit scheming... a little bit manipulative and self publicizing.

I have visions of them scrunching up yet another rejection letter from The Weakest Link or Deal Or No Deal and deciding that, "right, that’s it, I’m off to my local landfill site to collect as much dross, crap and bio-muck as I can; I’ll chuck it around my living room and dining room kitchenette and then give those obsessive compulsive cleaners from How Clean Is Your House? a call... it’s a sure-fire way to get on the telly!"

And bingo – it works. Cos every week there’s yet another sad-sack on my TV screen looking theatrically abashed at the sheer volume of killer ecoli spores that are lurking on their welsh dresser and the amount of faecal contaminates that have been liberally scattered around their DFS sofa suite and within the air tight confines of their tupperware lunch boxes by the malfunctions of a scabby toilet bowl that resembles the north face of the Eiger.

Effing hell. Do these people want to get on the telly that badly?

To the point where they’ll risk their own health and well-being as well as that of their family and friends? Do they even have friends? I mean it’s not something you’d boast about in the pub is it?

"Oh yeah, my mate Kev has been on How Clean Is Your House? - yeah, they had to slash and burn his entire living room apparently, it’s been diagnosed a global biohazard... there’s a five-mile exclusion zone around the whole site... but hey at least he gave Kim Woodburn one.... now she really was mucky..."

Urgh. Shudder.

For God’s sale just buy a mop and some Mister Sheen! I mean how difficult can it be? Isn’t there enough crap on the TV these days without encouraging more...?

Odds Bodkins

Forgive the lack of cohesion on this post today but it amply reflects how my mind is not working. Mid-week fatigue. Ah. Dontcha just love it.

So to catch up and round down:

The pregnancy continues well in itself though it’s triggering Karen’s latent IBS. This means she’s in pain when she eats, in pain if she doesn’t and can’t ever guarantee a good night’s sleep... hence she’s permanently exhausted. Thankfully her bosses have agreed to let her reduce her hours: she no longer has to work Friday’s. This has made the working week a lot more manageable for her.

The novel continues apace: I shall post another excerpt soon. I’m sure you can all contain yourselves in the meantime.

And lastly, I was sent a link to the Simpson’s movie site (http://www.simpsonsmovie.com/main.html). It’s great – you can make your own Simpson’s cartoon character/avatar. Mine is above. Apart from a few minor discrepancies it looks a lot like me. On a bad day. Or even a good one. He’ll be the one miserably reading a poetry book and sipping a double whisky at the back of Moe’s Bar.

Hey dudes, eat my short.

The New Romantics

Cracking episode of Rome last night. Lots of gore, bed-based naughtiness and bags of peaches.

A perfect Sunday night-in, in fact.

The whole episode was great fun.

In one fabulous scene weaselly politician Cicero felt the sharp point of a blade expertly wielded by Titus Pullo. Straight in through the shoulder blade, all the way down to the heart. Cue much fountaining of blood. However, I doubt anybody was ever bumped off in such a polite and deferential fashion. “Do you mind if I take some of these peaches? Be nice for the wife...” What could Cicero do but be magnanimous. It’s not like he’d be having much of an appetite later.

There was more gore towards the end. Poor Brutus got turned into a human colander after the allied forces of Mark Anthony and Octavian Caesar wiped the Greek desert with him during the battle of Philippi. I had to feel sorry for Brutus. He was like a public school boy who just couldn’t quite live up to his mother’s or indeed anybody’s expectations. Bloody awful name too. What was his mother thinking? Like Butch or He-Man, it doesn’t leave much room for poetry or origami. Susan would have been far more fitting.

The best bit of last night’s episode for me though was Agrippa finally getting to grips with Octavia, Octavian Caesar’s tasty little sister. Although I think it was more a case of she got to grips with him.

I had to smile at Agrippa’s sense of style. What do you do if you want to impressively woo and romance a daughter of one of the most powerful houses in Rome?

Answer: you rent a room in a gaudy whorehouse and shag her senseless for three hours solid before donning leather armour and going off to battle. I guess in those days the use of such places for this kind of “romantic” activity was the norm. Kind of the equivalent to a cheap hotel off the M5. A convenient passion pad inside which one may plough the odd wild oat in whatever passing furrow pleases you... and Agrippa seemed intent on planting a whole vineyard.

The choice of location was not a great compliment to Octavia though. But then again she’s not averse to a bit of rough. Having got blatted on dope and attending an orgy last week (though Agrippa hoiked her away before things got properly started) she’s hardly a shrinking violet.

She’s more like a Venus Fly-trap.

No wonder Agrippa had such a big smile on his face.

Anybody care for a grape?

Cat Scan

News that Catherine Tate is to be the next “permanent” Doctor Who companion has been causing a fair bit of furore in both the UK national press and the Bloggosphere.

The general response has been a resounding, “Oi, Russell T. Davis – NO!” though whether Russell, Doctor Who’s head writer/writer in charge (or whatever he wants to call himself), will actually listen is a matter of some debate.

I suspect he won’t which leaves us with the worrying prospect of Catherine Tate appearing in all 13 episodes of season 4.

A number of Doctor Who stalwarts have already voiced their concerns most eloquently – TimeWarden being once of them – and it’s not my intention to repeat what has already been said but nevertheless I feel the need to cast my hat into the ring.

I don’t hate Catherine Tate in the slightest. I love her comedy shows and think her a competent actress. I’ll even admit to finding something very attractive about her though she always seems intent on taking a bad photograph. (Karen and I are convinced she has issues regarding her looks but that’s a subject for another post...)

What I didn’t like was the character that Catherine played in last year’s Christmas special, The Runaway Bride. “Donna Noble” was just too shrewish and too fish-wifey to be an effective long-term companion. She grated. She jarred. She was a one-trick pony. Does the Doctor really need a stereotypical, constantly nagging female companion on his travels?

What next? Bernard Manning style mother-in-law jokes?

The trouble with Donna Noble is that her creator has confused volume with depth. The character is irritatingly two-tone and two-dimensional to say the least. And that’s hardly fair on Catherine Tate’s abilities.

But maybe I’m being unfair. Maybe a fantastic back story is even now being composed? Maybe scintillating scripts are even now being prepared and salivated over by Russell T and his crew?

The trouble is I suspect that Russell T has utterly no sense of quality control. He was swooning over the season 3 finale last Saturday for example and, to be frank, “Last Of The Timelords” was complete and utter cack. Ineffably risible.

It doesn’t bode well for the fourth season at all.

The problem is I can see Catherine Tate being turned into a convenient scapegoat and I think – if all does go belly up (though hopefully it’ll remain paws down) – the real blame will actually lie elsewhere...

But is Russell T Davis bovered?

The Wind In The Willows

Yesterday I experienced what can only be described as an anti-Wind-In-The-Willows moment. A dark tale from the river bank if you will. Kenneth Grahame’s story turned on its head and somewhat gothed up.

Imagine the scene.

The lush and verdant river bank that borders one side of the building where I work stretches indolently in the early July monsoon. Within its frond rich confines all manner of river animals frolic and play.

But one is missing.

Where is Ratty? Ratty is missing. Can he be found?

Oh yes. Look, there he is! Lying dead and bloated right outside the area of my workplace that is used to host high-powered dinner parties and corporate events.

Oh dear.

That’s not very good. That’s not very good at all.

And thus I enter the story armed with a cheap shovel and scoop up his suppurating little corpse and toss it unceremoniously into the river. Squish-whoosh-splash. Goodbye Ratty.

Given the juiciness of Ratty’s cadaver and the fact that various components were wont to separate as I manoeuvred him onto the shovel I’d say he’d met his end quite some time ago. So quite how he found his way onto such a prominent part of the building’s footprint is beyond me because he certainly wasn’t there the day before.

I can only assume that Mole and Badger had been disturbed whilst in the process of dragging him elsewhere – perhaps to offer his remains to the river themselves or to inter him somewhere appropriate like the hallowed grounds of Toad Hall – and had dumped his carcass rashly on the forecourt of my workplace.

Or, more darkly, perhaps they were attempting to disguise a heinous crime by getting me to dispose of the body for them? Perhaps Mole and Badger had done Ratty over to get their hands on his boat? Was there some sort of sick love triangle taking place, the ins-and-outs of which really don’t bear thinking about?

Or had the weasels taken Ratty out in a drive-by shooting?

Or had Toad himself finally lost the plot and wiped out the residents of the river bank with a uranium rich dirty bomb?

I guess we’ll just never know.

Oh well. All is peaceful on the river bank once again now.

Sleep well, children. Sleep well.

Hi Jack

Forgive the lack of recent posts – I’ve been up to my eyeballs in work (still finishing off the chauffeur car web site as well as holding down my day job) plus Karen and I also spent Saturday visiting her mother in Cookham. Unfortunately a “nice day visiting granny” tends to be a case of walking on eggshells because she’s so cantankerous and foul tempered. It’s not my intention to go into detail about it here as it wouldn’t be fair but suffice to say she suffers from a genetic illness whose symptoms and treatment only augment her natural disposition to be argumentative.

Hence Karen, the boy and I spent the entire day treading gingerly and bracing ourselves for explosions of irrational belligerence and unjustified antagonism. We all survived but the upshot is we all ended up feeling totally exhausted and wiped out. And it takes us all several days to recover. It’s like having your life momentarily taken over by a bad vibe.

Which is a shame because “visiting granny” should never be like that and Karen and I both feel that the boy misses out by not having a traditional, warm, ever-patient granny to indulge him.

Ho hum. But what can we do? Sigh.

Onto other things. The weekend was redeemed a little for Karen and I by an excellent episode of Jekyll. Nesbitt’s portrayal of both Dr. Jackman/Jekyll and Billy/Mr Hyde gets better and better. The pacing of the episode was first class and beautifully plotted to keep the build up of tension at excruciating levels. Expectations were constantly created, played around with and undercut. It created a relentless pressure-cooker effect and gave me stomach cramps. But hey – maybe I’d just overeaten?

Best of all Benjamin (alias Paterson Joseph) got gorily dispatched about three quarters of the way through. A quick flick of a knife and he’s spewing claret from the second mouth that Mr Hyde has opened up halfway down his throat. Nice. Anything that permanently halts that fake American grin is fine by me.

Nesbitt’s Hyde teeters just on the right side of comic, i.e. blackly humorous but not ridiculous. His grin reminds me of the shark from Finding Nemo which is probably an odd reference point to make but what the hell. There is something likable about Hyde. You want him to win. But you also want Dr Jackman to survive too. With the two being mutually exclusive it’s going to be an interesting final three episodes.

Talking of which... the BBC programming schedule throws a spanner into the works yet again. Jekyll has built itself up to fever pitch, the momentum has been primed and teased to perfection by Steven Moffat’s writing... and the BBC pull the episode of Jekyll next week in favour of the Live Earth music concert. And everything deflates... pzzzzzzzsssst!

Yeah yeah. I’m sure it’s for a good cause. Saving planet earth and all that.

But I hate having my expectations hijacked. It makes me very angry, daddy. Very angry indeed...