fummokurlifeaway

Eyebrow exercise today!

2007-01-14T16:38:00.000Z

Eyebrow exercises to eliminate the dangers of developing fat, flabby foreheads.
A great way of making facial expressions that touch more emotionally charged and interesting. Can also be used as a substitute for having any real emotion or personality, by way of a being a subtle distraction away from such deficiencies.

In no time at all you will be capable of a whole range of eyebrow related non-verbal forms of communication with people. Could result in new relationships, and maybe even change your whole life!

So remember, get your eyebrow exerciser today! It will change your world.

Cheap plug.

2006-11-25T12:22:00.000Z

Basically just a quick plug for a website. Bit cheeky I know but what the hell?
http://bedfordpubguide.co.uk

Make up your own title.

2006-11-12T00:03:00.000Z

I haven’t written anything in this Blogspot thing in ages and ages, this is partly due to a bit of a lack of spare time as of late. That and a reluctance to turn it into a diary, which is what I appear to be doing by writing this entry, I could just stop, but now that my fingers have begun typing away, I feel somewhat compelled to carry on tipping and tapping along on the keyboard. I am tempted to change the subject in mid-stream though, so will just have to see what happens. I am at some point going to write things about driving, through in a few random quotes from various places which have made me laugh and still bring a smile to my face when I think about them. Also things about working within an office, maybe something about telephones and definitely something about leaving messages on those comment board things that you get in myspace and bebo etc. This brings me to my next point, about the fact that I’ve joined the myspace world. God what a geek I am. Not only do I have a blogspot but also a myspace. Worse still, a bebo account as well. What on earth is a bebo anyway? Seems like a low budget myspace to me. Although I could be wrong. (Don’t want to get sued).

The world keeps on going, although this might all just be an elaborate illusion. Sorry that got slightly Matrix like for a second. I was just thinking back to a programme on radio 4 called Genius, where a bloke thought it would be good to have virtual reality for chickens, so that battery chickens would be happier, therefore lay better quality eggs.

Writing emails at work really bugs me. I have to be concise, and informative and not apologise, and be cold and dispassionate. Where’s the fun in that?

My hair is dropping out at a rate that is truly intimidating. I’m already considering shopping around for wigs.

I’m tempted to make this entry into a sort of trailer entry for future entries, which I may, or may not ever get around to writing. I still haven’t decided.
I haven’t written any lengthy emails to anyone in ages either. I really haven’t typed anything much lately, no wonder my typing skills are getting even worse then they were before. This certainly doesn’t help considering I use a computer all day at work. Oh the joy of that.

The weeks are going faster and faster, I’m getting older which is rather the opposite of what I had intended for myself. Well it certainly isn’t what I wished to have happened ever since turning 21. But in retrospect I may have been a bit on the optimistic side when thinking that I might actually get younger. But then you’ve gotta dream!

Wigs are not as scary a thing as I once thought them to be. Well that is to say I think I could wear a wig on occasion. Not sure what the occasion would be but still. Then there’s the whole thing about merkins, which I believe are supposed to be pubic wigs. Which begs the question of what on earth is the necessity to have a pubic wig? Surely less is generally considered to be more in that particular area generally speaking? But enough of that sort of talk. I’ll try and drag this entry back out of the gutter.

Sport is just depressing at the minute. Not actually playing, rather more supporting. Not sure what or where the compulsion to support a team comes from, but do at times wish that I didn’t posses it. The phrase “lost again!” is always something which never looses its sharpness in cutting deep into my heart whenever hear it in connection with a team which I follow, no matter how many times I hear it.

Well now I’ve got all of that off my chest I’m half tempted just to delete this load of nonsense. But nah, I’ll do the customary spell check on Word, save, and then pate it in as the latest entry. And so it all goes on.

Just a general statement to help you though life.

2006-07-17T18:01:00.000+01:00

A frozen pizza makes for a rubbish ice cube subtitute.
A cooked pizza however is even worse.

"Lobster!"

2006-05-14T22:24:00.000+01:00

You realise that something is wrong with an evening out when you start contemplating that going up to someone and saying “Do you want a lobster?” would be a good idea. You realise that things are severely wrong with the evening however when you actually do ask someone if they want a lobster. What is even worse then this is when accompanied with the boredom and tedium which has driven you to such acts of random questioning is the effect of the amount of alcohol that you have been consuming, that you were largely only doing so in such a rapid and excessive manner in order for your brain to at least feel as if it has escaped from the people whom you are surrounded by. The result of consuming such copious amounts of beer in this whilst in this frame of mind, is that instead of going up to somebody and asking the question “Do you want a lobster?” what you actually end up doing is just blurting out the word “Lobster!?” overly loudly, raise an eyebrow in a quizzical manner, shrug your shoulders, as if to suggest that you don’t know what’s going on either, then turn around and walk away in a speeded up stumbling motion, trying desperately hard not to hit any walls which may be in the way, or indeed the floor.
It should be noted that a certain amount of caution should be made when selecting somebody to ask such an important question as this. It should also be noted that having the presence of mind to be capable of summoning up such a sensible character trait as caution, and being in the sort of mindset to ask somebody any lobster related question late in an evening (where the consumption of the animal is not an issue), could be said to be rather mutually exclusive.

Calender from 2003. Nostalgic rubbish basically.

2006-05-11T15:28:00.000+01:00

I have been trying to go through and clear up a few papers, and in doing so I have come across a calendar from 2003, which I very loosely used as a sort of diary thing of the main events of the year, so I thought that instead of doing something constructive, like carrying on shifting through a ton of pieces of paper that are no longer any use to anyone, I would write up the events as I put them down on the calendar in blog form, as a sort of sad piece of nostalgia, just in case I ever loose the calendar. Although this wont take long as it was either a very uneventful year, or I just couldn’t be bothered to write all that much into it.

January.
1st Wed: Music in Pilgrims (v.strange). gd start 2 year.

February.
2nd Sun: Went out in Dunstable of all places.
3rd Mon: Go To Arran.
5th Wed: snowie Arran!!!!!
6th Thu: Come back from Scotland.
25th Tue: Nic’s Alt night.
26th Wed: Sofa day at Nic’s.
27th Thu: back here again.

March.
4th Tue: Preston for night. Si’s 21st! (become a bouncer)
14th Fri: Plymouth (leave for)
Geo trip
17th Mon: (last ever!) v. sad
18th Tue: come back from Plymouth.

April.
15th Tue: 21 today! Horray (I think).

May.
Did nothing happen this month?
(prob not)!

June.
24th Tue: Hatfield
25th Wed: Dancin in kitchen etc.etc.etc.
26th Thu: Back from Nic’s.

July.
13th Sun: Nic’s Birthday!!!
14th Mon: Going to Arran again! Yay! (3rd time).
16th Wed: Steak BBQ on rocks wit sunset +swimming!!!
17th Thu: Roast dinner! In youth hostel!
18th Fri: Back home again!

August.
Formed 1st Band (kind of)
“Fummok”. –what can I say? – temp name prob.
(name decided in September)
Not that really matters.

September.
Would have graduated sometime this month but didn’t. (oh dear)
Oh well.
22nd Mon: Sign back in uni for 4th time!!! Yikes
24th Wed: Off to sunny Bangor Wales! To see Tim.
26th Fri: Brought 1st Bass Guitar!!!
28th Sun: Back yet again.

October.
Another month of very little activities (I blame Tesco).
Very sober month. T total almost.

November.
1st Sat: Last ever official Saturday working at Tesco(after over 2 years !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!) Yah!
14th Fri: Fabric in London 4 “t” night over at Si’s
18th Tue: 1st official day of “new” shift! (hopefully good thing).
21st Fri: Going to Sheffield to visit Jenny and Ceri!!!!
22nd Sat: England win Rugby world cup!!! Nearly have heart attack. + attempt at pub crawl.
23rd Sun: Christingle service- v. funny!
24th Mon: Back to Bedford to recover from excess laughing.

December.31st Wed: Went to Bear etc. Wearing bow tie +lived!

Irritations cont:

2006-05-11T15:27:00.000+01:00

10. My tenth irritant is made even more pronounced within my mind due to the fact that it affectively negates the very first one made. It has become more and more apparent that the people that use the toilets at work are so fucking stupid and pathetic that they probably actually do require a step by step guide as to how to use ever single part of the facilities. I have come to this conclusion, due to the fact that what I had previously thought of as being the incredibly simple and basic task of flushing a toilet after use is beyond the mental capabilities of some of the people that use them.

That extra 10p. And possibly plagiarising mixed in, just for fun.

2006-04-29T00:20:00.000+01:00

Firstly I ought to point out that I am a bit apprehensive about posting this, as I think that I might be plagiarising, or partly plagiarising. This I feel particularly bad about as I was once at a party when a girl started regaling upon an amusing observation that she had “been thinking about for a while” about a fly having a heart attack. The details are fairly unimportant; however I instantly knew that she was just re-telling something said by Harry Hill, from one of his shows. Nobody else in hearing range knew this, or at least everyone else reacted with such hilarity that it must have been the first time in which they had heard this anecdote. I, on the other hand, was left sitting there, itching to blurt out that none of what she was saying were her own original thoughts, and expose her for the fraud that she was! I didn’t, if only because she was the sister of the bloke who’s birthday it was, and I was in there house, and didn’t really know anyone all that well, and had been getting a bit drunk on their booze, so thought it might have been a bit of a social faux-pas to call the girl in question a “cheating unimaginative plagiarising bitch”. But boy, how I’ve bitched about her to almost everyone I know ever since.
And it is for this reason, that I don’t want to appear to be a complete hypocrite in repeating something that I’ve heard someone else saying, but just forgot that I had, and think that it’s something that I’ve thought up on my own. As I don’t exactly have many original ideas (if any) this is a very likely occurrence. Especially with the following blog instalment.

One thing which has been going through my mind a fair amount of late is the question of, why is it that people (myself very much included within this), aren’t really concerned for instance, about paying 30p or so more for a pint in one pub then another, simply because they happen to be in that pub at the time, but when it comes to texting, if the text runs slightly long, and would mean sending two texts in one, the same people will spend ages struggling to condense the message down in order to squeeze it into the 160 character limit, just so they don’t have to pay 10p more. 10p! The phone that they’re probably using costs over £100, but they try as hard as they can to save that 10p, even if it’s an important message to a loved one, or at the very least someone that they are friends with.

Quick reminder.

2006-04-21T18:27:00.000+01:00

A quick reminder to myself. Don’t play “Cardiac arrest” by Madness, when my relative with angina is within earshot.

Irritations

2006-04-19T00:25:00.000+01:00

I have decided as I have been severely lacking in new blog spots of late, to write a series detailing various random things in life that irritate. Annoy and generally speaking wind me up. I shall try and only write a maximum of one work related irritant at any one occasion, otherwise it will just become one long whinge about supermarket employment. Saying this, the first one will be connected to work, or at least the workplace:

1. Upon the wall of the staff toilets is fixed a sign labelled “Helpful hints for hand hygiene”. This lists in six steps exactly how you are supposed to wash your hands after having gone to the toilet, with step four being further sub-divided into six parts, addressing the specific technique to use when applying the soap. This notification makes my list, if only for the shear extreme level of patronising used by whoever decided that it was necessary to put it on the wall. The youngest people that work there are 16, and so surely even with a below average intelligence, be capable of washing their hands probably.

2. Thinking up a witty retort to an insult received, an hour too late to use it.

3. Even more irritating, is thinking up a witty retort to an insult received, five minutes too late to use it.

4. Numerous adverts on the television. I would list which ones, and condemn them all individually, but in doing so, I would inadvertently be highlighting them and therefore helping to advertise them myself, thus helping these evil peddlers of crap to carry on, whereas I would sooner see them burn! So they shall remain anonymous. They know who they are.

5. Having to talk to someone that has such bad breath that even if able to withhold from breathing in via your nose, you can still actually taste the vileness that’s emanating from their mouth. Perhaps not so much irritating as just plain disgusting, but thought it was still worth a mention.

6. People that get served ahead of me at the bar in pubs, even though they blatantly know that they got there after I did, but still don’t make any attempt to make this point known to the barman.

7. Not being able to “go” whilst stood at a crowded urinal. Not only annoying, but also hugely embarrassing.

8. Forgetting what it is was about to say to someone, the moment before actually saying it.

9. Being irritated by stupid irrelevant and meaningless irritations. Knowing that something has no real importance within the scope of my life, or within the world, and yet still finding myself being annoyed by it, is highly irritating to me.

Am I dreaming, or is this reality?

2006-01-14T18:20:00.001Z

Recently there have been three incidents to which I can not ascertain 100% as to whether or not they actually really did happen, or if they were actually just dreams.
The first of these happened, (or so I thought) on New years eve, when I thought that I had had a conversation with one of my friends, although as it turned out he was in a different part of the country all together and so I couldn’t have done. This incident I simply attributed to having drank rather heavily that night. A mixture of red wine and blue vodka was perhaps not the best idea that I’ve ever had.
The second incident was that I could have sworn that someone had told me that the light in my kettle no longer worked. I know that this is hardly the most exciting or significant thing that can happen in the course of a day, however it was such a clear memory, and when upon next using the kettle I discovered that the light worked perfectly well, it greatly unnerved me.
The third thing was a memory of seeing a learner car very aggressively and rather dangerously over-taking another learner car from the same firm. I remember distinctly that it was a highly dangerous, unnecessary and reckless bit of driving and I couldn’t see how the driving instructor had allowed such a thing to occur. Upon thinking back to when I thought I had seen this incident, I realised that on the day that I thought that it must have happened I hadn’t been anywhere near to the street where I believed it had happened, and so my only conclusion is that I must have dreamed it.
One of these things on its own isn’t an overly scary thing, but to have three incidents where something within a dream has become indistinguishable with reality, within the space of two weeks is deeply unsettling. It has made me question myself immensely, and every incident which doesn’t quite ring true as being “real” I have had to search out for some kind of evidence for it actually having happened. This has made a few conversations with people a bit on the peculiar side, as I’m not entirely certain if what I’m telling them in relation to recent events in my life have actually taken place at all.
Oh well, just another sign of impending insanity. Never mind.

100 film mark!

2006-01-14T18:07:00.000Z

Around the beginning of the December of last year, I brought my 100th film on DVD! Not all that big an event in a persons life I have to admit, but I did think that it was the first step towards me becoming a proper film nerd. I’m glad to say that the 100th film was, (well as far as I’m concerned) a very good and respectable film to buy. It was the original 1955 version of the Ladykillers, with Peter Sellers and Alec Guinness, (which is infinitely better then the 2004 remake from the Coen brothers).
It has taken me nearly five years to accumulate my first ton of films, having brought my first in the January of 2001. The first film as I recall was Pleasantville which still remains one of my all time favourite films. There was one drawback in buying this when I did, in that at the time I didn’t have a DVD player to play it on and so had to satisfy myself by just staring at the box for the first two months.
One of the main reason why it has taken me as long as five years to get to my first century, is due to the various restrictions which I have put upon myself, in that I refuse to pay any more then £10 for any individual film, even if it is a special edition (such as the 3 disk versions of “Memento” and “Clerks”), I must also have seen the film before hand, and I refuse to buy off the internet, as there is just too much choice there. The main purpose for these self imposed restrictions, is to ensure that I don’t go on a ridiculously large buying spree and spend several hundred pounds in one go.
My purchasing hasn’t really fitted any real pattern in either the shear quantity of films brought at any one time, nor within the types of film, in terms of their various genres. Although saying this, overall I’d have to say that I have a slight tendency towards buying comedies over anything else. Also I would have to admit that I have perhaps an overly large amount (well an overly large amount for a straight bloke anyway) of romantic comedies, or comedies with a strong romantic edge to them, which isn’t really the sort of thing that I usually enjoy admitting to but still. An example of a rather slushy film that I gleefully posses is “Love actually”, which I know got panned by critics everywhere, but I really don’t care, if only due to the fact that I have never laughed so much upon first seeing a film in my life. This was largely the fault of the two friends that I had gone with, but I still think that it was worth getting regardless. Overall though I’m quite happy with the selection of movies that I have so far got, and there’s a quite a few titles within there that the majority of people would say have at least some level of credibility, but most importantly they are (by in large) films that I love, so I’m more then happy with them.

Break it! Don't bite it!

2006-01-09T20:01:00.000Z

After many years of eating many, many Kit Kats, since before they were made by Nestle (back in the good old days when Rowndtree were still an independent company), and through these years of scoffing overly large numbers of this confectionary I have come to a few conclusions as to how best to eat them.
Firstly the ones wrapped in foil are a great deal better then those wrapped in plastic, as found within the larger more economic packs.
Secondly they are best stored and consumed at a few degrees below room temperature, (though insure that they aren’t stored within too cold an environment, or you’re likely to break you’re teeth on them).
Thirdly, and in my opinion most importantly, you should never bite into a Kit Kat, but you should instead firstly break the two sticks apart, and then snap the fingers into smaller chunks, and then chew them predominantly just using the molars.
I have no idea why Kit Kats taste better when they are cracked apart in this fashion, as opposed to just munching straight into one, but it does. Honestly.

Top ten films.

2006-01-07T00:02:00.000Z

This is a list of my favourite 10 films at present. The order is correct at the time of writting but is subject to change depending upon mood, weather, time of year etc. The films themselves might be superseded by others, which is more then likely considering I saw two of the films in this list in the past 12 months. I only felt the need to write this in the first place as I could never really decide upon a top 5 whenever anybody asked me, so I thought that if I had a top 10 I would be more able to easily realm off 5 titles that though they might not be my actuall top 5, would at least be a good representation of what my top 5 is like. Anyway, here they are:

1. American Beauty. (2000)
2. Amelie. (2001)
3. As good as it gets. (1997)
4. Shaun of the dead. (2004)
5. Pleasentville. (1998)
6. Garden state. (2004)
7. Lost in translation. (2003)
8. Harvey. (1950)
9. The Apartment. (1960)
10. Office space. (1998)

2005 list

2006-01-04T01:00:00.000Z

Best moment: Talking to Polish peeps in the Bear.
Worst moment: Two minutes before getting punched by a townie outside of cinema at aspects.
Best film seen at cinema: Sideways.
Worst film seen at cinema: White noise.
Pub of the year: Saracens head.
Beer of the year: Guinness.
Fav band of the year: The Shins.
Song of the year: Let go, by Frou Frou
Best sitcom of the year: Spaced
Number of novels intended to read: 3
Number of novels read: 0.9
Novel(s) read: Closing time.
Best sporting event: England winning the Ashes.
Worst sporting event: Six nations/ Lions tour of New Zealand.
Number of countries visited: 0
Most obvious physical reminder of the year: Two broken front teeth.
Other major events: Arm finally healed and metal plate removed; nearly getting into a fight with a mate; dancing more, and actually enjoying it; discovering that can hold back from fighting even when drunk and severely provoked (separate incident to previously mentioned occasions).

Right arm update.

2005-11-03T16:33:00.000Z

On October the 13th, I at long last had the metal plate removed from my right forearm! The process of going through day surgery, as far as I was concerned, consisted mostly of sitting around waiting and trying to read a decent book, whilst not starring at the other people in the waiting room and pondering what they were in there for. The only brief distraction from sitting around, was when a nurse with a couple of forms took my blood pressure, took me through the days procedures, and gave me two wrist bands; the first of which told me what my name was and the second stated in bold letters the word “paint stripper”. The reason for the second was due to my allergy towards paint remover, but it still struck me as a rather odd thing to have on my wrist, I kept thinking that it probably looked to somebody else that this was my name and that I must have had very eccentric parents.
After many more hours and around eighty pages of my book having gone passed, I eventually got the call to go and get changed in preparation for the op. I was told to strip completely, and to put on one of those hospital gowns that do up from the back, my dressing gown, and a rather odd and peculiar looking pair of “paper pants”. Paper pants are as far as I’m concerned one of the strangest items of clothing that I have ever worn. They come folded immensely tightly, in a cigar shaped plastic wrapper which you have to stealthily tear off, always in the slight fear that you may also rip through the incredibly flimsy garment. When fully unfurled, what is reviled is a pair of uni-sex, one size fits all, semi-transparent pants that have been made extra idiot proof, in that they are the same either way around you choose to put them on. I’m slightly unconvinced as to what difference it would make actually wearing these compared to wearing nothing at all, as they certainly don’t feel as if your wearing anything, and being translucent, they don’t exactly do much in way of protecting your modesty.
After having changed I then went to the second waiting area, which was I have to admit rather comfortable and pleasant apart from the fact that there was a radio therein, playing Radio 2. I’m normally not all that bothered either way about Radio 2, but it just so happened that due to it being Margaret Thatcher’s 80th birthday that weekend, there was a discussion about the former would be dictator (if she had had her way). Normally speaking I would have changed the station straight away and done virtually anything to avoid hearing about her, but as it was, there were two other people in the room with me and so I was trapped in one of those awkward social situations, where you don’t really want to start talking to the other people in the room in order to ask them if they mind if you change the station, as you know that if you do, then it will just kick off an uncomfortable silence in under five minutes, whereas the silence that you are currently all existing within together is much more cosy, if only due it seeming to be the status quo, as it were. I did find rather quickly however, that it really might have been a better idea to have just changed the radio station regardless, as perhaps one of the most depressing and downbeat songs came on, which was Elvis Costello’s “Tramp the dirt down”, which was his heavily anti-Thatcher song. Some of the lyrics within the song are simply not the kind of up-lifting things that you want to hear, just before going in for any sort of an operation, even a minor thing like mine was.
One further thing to note is that men are clearly oblivious as to how to correctly wear clothing similar to a skirt. The man sitting opposite to me, despite only wearing a dressing gown and the aforementioned hospital issue pyjamas, still assumed the standard masculine sitting position, of sitting with his legs wide apart, resulting in an incredibly unpleasant and disturbing view for anyone sitting opposite, namely me. So for the half hour or so, that we had to sit in this room, I had to sit with my eyes virtually glued to the ceiling. I should think that the other two men must have imagined that I was due to have an operation on my neck, rather then my arm.
Eventually, I was taken into a little room, and onto a bed, where the general anaesthetic was administered, which was as weird and oddly pleasing sensation as I had remembered from the previous year, as was the sensation of drunkenness, when I came around. This was accompanied by an equally odd feeling of being aware that time must have passed since I was previously conscious, but I had not dreamed as far as I could recall, nor had I any real idea as to how much time had gone passed.
I was completely gutted and somewhat devastated when I was told that I wouldn’t be allowed to keep the metal plate which had in a very real sense been part of me for slightly over a year, due to hospital policy. I was deeply unhappy, and was tempted to try and bribe one of the doctors to just slip it into one of the pockets of my dressing gown whilst nobody was looking, but didn’t get the chance to. It does raise the rather disturbing thought, that they might re-use such plates to fix other peoples broken limbs, which begs the further question, of how many people had the plate been inside of, before it was part of me?
I had evidently been wrapped up in bandages, after the operation, and after a couple hours of sleeping and general recuperation, I was discharged and sent home. It was a few days before the thick bandages came off, and a further week before the smaller cover to my scar was removed. The new part of my scar is actually thinner then it was before, and about 4 inches in length, leaving a further 2 inches of the old scar still visible.
My right arm and hand have since experience a few strange sensations, such as the occasional feeling as if water is being dripped slowly over my wrist, that and of pins and needles in only half of my hand.. Also an occasional numbness in my thumb, and the fact that whenever I straighten my arm completely it feels as if the skin itself is being pulled and stretched. All of these things are slightly disturbing, but not to any real concern, largely to all of the various sensations that I experienced after the first operation. Although I will confess that I will be slightly happier when it feels completely normal again.
But anyway, I’m one big step closer to being able to play football and various other sports yet again. Hurray!

Its a bit nerdy really.

2005-10-08T21:11:00.000+01:00

I have become more aware of the fact that I behave and think more and more in a manner which could be considered to be decidedly nerdy. The more worrying thing about this is that I am actually quite happy in my geeky-ness. I know that the mere fact that I am content in my geeky behaviour and ways of thinking increases the level of a nerd which I could be thought of as being, but frankly I don’t particularly care.
I partly blame the sitcom series “Spaced” for this feeling of casual general indifference. This is largely due to the main characters being rather freakish in some ways, also the use of film references throughout which had the resulting affect that if you actually knew what the various references were, then you would find some of the scenes funnier then if you didn’t. The programme as a whole just made being a bit of an obsessive geek seem slightly cool in an odd alternative type of way. Though I have to admit that I was very much a geek long before Spaced ever came around.
The first and most obviously nerdy thing that I have started to do this year is to write thousands upon thousands of words of absolute drivel on this blogspot thing. The amount of time that I must have spent over the last few months typing complete nonsense is decidedly frightening. What is perhaps even more scary is the thought of the total amount of time that I must have spent on the computer this year. Especially as the most constructive activity that I do on the computer is listening to comedy programmes on the BBC’s internet radio service. The fact that I listen to Radio 4, is itself decidedly nerdy, and the fact that I do so via the internet is doubly so.
Other examples of geek like behaviour, would be things such as instead of putting my DVD’s into alphabetical order (has to be mentioned that just the process of putting anything as unimportant as DVD’s into any order is a touch on the geeky side), I have put them into chronological order. What is perhaps even more shameful is that I seriously considered having put into order from the surname of the director. But I am glad to say that I drew the line there, if only due to my laziness narrowly outweighing my geekyness.
I’ve begun to realise that I the amount of pleasure that I attain from hearing a song on the television that is being used for an advert for a programme, or as backing music within a programme, which I know and simultaneously know that few other people would recognise it, is somewhat over the top. I think the fact that I know something in that instant that the majority of people don’t know is what makes the experience so satisfying. My knowledge upon things musical is extremely limited, which I suspect also has a part to play in why my reaction inward feeling of joy is a touch on the extreme side.
So, do I think that being a nerd is actually cool? No. That’s the simple answer. But frankly, who cares? And frankly isn’t that really the point? (Probably not.)

Attempting not to drown.

2005-10-03T22:44:00.000+01:00

Recently I have had reason to think about the consequences and occasions when I have felt inclined to be a participant in the rather unnatural, and incredibly wearing activity of swimming.
Looking back in the recesses of my memory, I think that I must have first learnt how to swim aged about 5, with a combination of being taken swimming with my school and my parents dragging me along to paid lessons.
Although the lessons at school were rather few and far between, (and basically non-existent after a couple of years), the other lessons that I had, carried on until I was around 10 or 11, and in this time I had become reasonably provisioned, and was a capable swimmer. Well saying this I always felt as if I was drowning when doing the butterfly stroke, but then I really can not see what on earth could be the point of such a ridiculously difficult and obscure swimming technique. My main memory of the swim school was all of the posters that ordained the walls, which tried to illustrate the correct way in which to perform each of the main swimming styles and this is only due to the cartoon character having a remarkable resemblance to Magnum, P.I.
After quitting swimming lessons, the next proper experience of swimming (excluding such things as the occasional overly deep bath, and once falling into the River Ouse, when the kayak I was in toppled over) occurred during a geology field trip in the South of Spain. This event did very little to re-endear me to this activity. The main reasons for this were that firstly after around 8 non-swim involved years of life, I had virtually forgotten how to coordinate my limbs in the correct manner. This resulted in a great deal of splashing and near drowning type motions, and the swallowing of copious amounts of the Mediterranean Sea. Upon leaving the water I almost instantly began to feel as though my entire body was about to freeze, and even after I had managed to dry myself through my intense and near uncontrollable shivering, I couldn’t get warm for hours and hours afterwards. Although I have to say that a few moments after I had managed to get dressed came the clinching incident that almost completely put me off swimming again, (or at least swimming again within a natural body of water), which was somebody pointing out the decomposing remains of a black and white cat, lying within reach of the tide, around 20 metres up along the coast from us. Bearing in mind the amount of water that I had taken in, I didn’t exactly feel amazingly lively.
At least a year was to go by before I was to go swimming again, although this time in the comparative cleanliness and warmth of one of the local indoor swimming pools.
In an attempt to become slightly more healthy and fit, I decided that one of the best ways would be to give swimming another try, and after I had persuaded a friend of mine to come along with me, and having purchased a very large pair of swimming shorts and goggles, we made our way to the baths. On entering the water, my goggles naturally fogged up instantly. I know that you’re supposed to spit into them and all the rest of it, but even then they refused to remain clear for more then a couple of minutes at a time. To my surprise however, I was slightly more competent at swimming then I had been in Spain, and actually managed to swim a few lengths, (although I have to confess that I had to pause every time I reached either end of the pool). My friend however fared slightly worse then me, and so decided that that was probably going to be the last time he would attempt swimming for a while.
This left me with a bit of a problem, as he was the only person that I had managed to persuade to accompany me swimming, I was left with the choice of no swimming, or the horror and immense embarrassment of swimming on my own. Now for the majority of people who are actually competent swimmers and have a normal level of self confidence, swimming by themselves in a public pool would not present a problem; for me however, this is very much not the case. The whole reason why I had felt the need to get somebody else to come along and swim with me was basically so that I wasn’t the only person present in the pool that felt like a bit of a twit. To put it simply, incompetence loves company, if only so that I didn’t feel like the other people in the pool were all staring at me and noticing the fact that people of well above pensionable age were able to overtake and even lap me, with ease.
Yet another year went past, until during a holiday in Bavaria Germany, I was talked into going swimming in one of the lakes that was nearby to where I was staying. Now the thought of swimming in a lake in England would be dismissed and ridiculed with the greatest level of scorn possible. Suggesting swimming in a lake in England would be comparable to the suggestion that drinking a couple pints of toxic sewage, whilst virtually naked in a freezer while somebody throws buckets of water at you, might be a good way to spend an afternoon. In the South of Germany however, the practice of swimming in a lake, is a common and perfectly acceptable one.
The lake that we went to was pretty much as nature had created it, or at least that was certainly how it appeared. The only man-made structures were a small car park area close by, and a couple of small wooden hut type structures, which comprised a set of toilets, and changing facilities. The Lake itself however, was untouched by any artificial structures. The water itself, looked fairly murky, but seemed to be remarkably clean despite its appearance, and in fairness was probably cleaner then most of the chlorine saturated water that is found in most indoor pools.
I have to confess that even though my swimming technique was still appallingly dismal, and I felt as if I were close to drowning on numerous occasions, which let to a great deal of amusement within two girls I was with, I actually enjoyed myself immensely. There seemed to be a much more laid back and relaxed attitude to the activity of swimming there, then would normally be found in England. It was similar to being by the sea-side in many ways, with family’s and friends enjoying talking to one another by the edge of the water, bathing in the sun and eating picnics as much as actually spending time in the water. I must also profess, to a slight nagging sense that I perhaps stuck out from everyone else somewhat and having the feeling that it must have been painfully obvious to even the most casual observer of my Englishness. I think I felt this way, partly due to the fact that I must have been several shades paler then almost anybody else around, and that the majority of the men around, even the most out of conditioned an plainly overweight, were to a man, all wearing ridiculously small Speedo’s, whereas I stuck to my perhaps rather overly long and baggy swimming shorts, which even had useful pockets. I’m still not overly sure as to why anyone would really feel the need to have not two, but four pockets in a pair of swimming trunks, but there it is. Perhaps for somewhere to put your sandwiches if you suddenly felt peckish in the middle of a dip? Who knows? But anyway, I did feel rather on the conspicuous side, if only for this fact of feeling that I should be as modest in my bathing attire as I could, where others around me painfully (and believe me some of the people were rather on the distressing side, upon the eye) immodest.
There was at least one other English male present and shamefully in respect to how the British represent themselves abroad, he was easy to spot. He was sporting one of the cardinal sins against fashion, which for some unfathomable reason a large section of British men, cannot see anything wrong with it. I am obviously talking about the act of wearing socks with open toed sandals. I still shudder at the memory and for the feeling of nationalistic shame.
The second trip that week to a lake was slightly different and a great deal more organised, commercial, partially man made, pricy, and consequently a great deal less appealing.
I am being rather on the harsh side, as it was still a very enjoyable experience, although the fact that somebody had obviously brought a natural lake, made a tiled edge to part of one of the sides, surrounded it by fences and charged people an admission fee, just made it all seem less unique and special then the first one did. Perhaps it’s partly my decidedly lethargic but underlying dislike of commercialism that is at the root of my unease towards this lake in comparison to the other, but I am sure that even through my bias, there was a slightly less friendly and care free atmosphere to be found there, then what was present within the first lake visited. My opinion of the lake may well also have a negative bias due to me having hurt my little finger, by my having clumsily swam into the tiled edging. But, regardless of these slightly damning criterions, as I have mentioned before, these two aquatic experiences were overall, rather positive ones.
With this in mind and with a rather unexpected amount of renewed gusto towards exercise (well, I was surprised by the amount of enthusiasm I suddenly had towards physical activity, I don’t think that anybody else actually cared much either way), within eight weeks, I had organised to go swimming again with a mate from work (eight weeks might seem like a long time to organise something as trivial as swimming for some people, but I assure you, that that is on the decidedly nippy side, as far as I am concerned)! However my plans were cut short at the last moment, when I unexpectedly snapped a bone in my right arm the night before the planned aforementioned swim. Six months went by of being repeatedly informed that my limb was still broken. Then followed a further six months of near complete bone idleness and disinterest with nearly all forms of exercise, which brings me (at long last) near to the present day, and to a further bout of eagerness towards swimming!
I am happy to report that at present, I am still incredibly and hopelessly inadequate and diabolically dreadful, not to mention almost insanely slow, at swimming. But I’m also enjoying the challenge of improving, and I vow that one day, I will be able to swim faster and with a higher level of grace and skill then the old age pensioners that currently leave me behind in their wake.

Do I know you?

2005-09-03T19:39:00.000+01:00

More and more often, I seem to come across more and more people that I recognise, but that I’m not sure if I actually know who they are, or if I ought to simply say hello to them, try and spark up a conversation, talk about old times, or run screaming in the opposite direction.
I’ve never been all that good at remembering who people are, especially when it comes down to details. Even names are a problem, I generally just manage to recall what football team that they support, assuming that they support anyone. This has its own problems, as the majority of the people that I know, support one of three teams, being Arsenal, Manchester United or Liverpool, and so it’s hardly a great way to define someone’s personality, and individuality.
This all results in a great deal of confusion within my mind whenever I’m presented with somebody whom I have a vague recognition of. Over the past few years, the amount of people that I see on a regular basis, without actually knowing who they are, has increased dramatically, due to being employed in a supermarket. This is largely due to certain customers coming into the store and buying the same thing, at the same time every week religiously. After a while you do actually start, sub-consciously to believe that you know them and have had in the past, a long and close history with them.
So these people combined with the various people that I only vaguely know from random meetings, or from former hobbies etc. all result in a huge social etiquette mine field. For instance, do you say hello to someone, knowing that you are running the risk of saying hello to somebody that is actually a complete stranger? Or is it better to just simply waltz past someone that you just recognise, and thus risking causing offence to somebody that actually used to know you sometime in the past? I have in the past been a victim of the incredibly powerful social weapon, that is “the blank” and so I am reluctant to simply walk past people and risk the possibility of inflicting “the blank” upon some poor individual that may well be a wonderful and great person. One tactic that I have been trying to develop is to give a quick smile. This is (in theory at least) a good plan, in that it can be an acceptable greeting even if you don’t actually know the person, just as long as its not a creepy or frightening sort of a smile, as that could easily be taken the wrong way and potentially lead to being arrested and law suits.
Another thing which I have recently become aware of, is that due to the mental stress concern and attempts to remember if I do actually know the person approaching me, that if they actually do come up to me and begin to talk to me, then my brain turns into a big wobbling jelly and any attempt at a proper conversation is a complete dead loss. If they ask me any questions, then I just reply with the first words that come into my head, even if those words have no relevance to the question asked whatsoever. This has the effect that if the same person sees me in the street again, then they will more then likely actually try very hard to avoid me, which would be easy to do as I wouldn’t be able to remember if I knew them or not, and so would be trying to avoid any contact with them in order to avoid the whole potentially awkward social situation.

For anyone that is unaware of what the “the blank” actually is, it is simply just walking past somebody and not giving them any acknowledgement whatsoever, despite the fact that it is blatantly clear to the person being blanked that the person deploying the blank knows of their presence.

My supermarket uniform.

2005-09-03T16:32:00.000+01:00

My single most loathed item of clothing would have to be my supermarket uniform.
When I first started working for a supermarket, it must have been around five months or so, before they finally twigged that I hadn’t actually got a uniform and had managed to thus far escape the indignity and the ensuing conformity that comes from wearing the same basic item of clothing as everyone else that happens to work in the same place.
I remember just how demoralising it was when I first had to put on the polyester shirt and trousers. It was like loosing a small bit of my individuality and identity and just becoming one of the many drones that worked either stacking shelves (like myself), or those that had to contend with the tedium of employment on the tills.
I very quickly discovered just how much of an easy life I had had when I had been working in my own clothes, in that the amount of people that stopped to ask me for the direction to various grocery items more then tripled almost the very moment that I put on that ghastly blue checked Tesco shirt. Previous to this I was able to get away with appearing as if I were just a random insane customer with a shelve stacking fetish, which caused the customers to keep their distance from me.
Plastic trousers, can soon build up a large amount of static charge, which can prove decidedly unnerving (some find it strangely arousing, but that just seems a bit on the kinky side for my liking). It’s also a bit on the worrying side if going out in the middle of an electrical storm, whilst wearing them.
Further draw backs of having to sport such attire is that, due to it being made of polyester simply walking around in it induces huge amounts of sweat, which makes working incredibly unpleasant for everybody in the near vicinity. This is even more objectionable in the summer for obvious reasons, especially as I have to cycle to get to work.
The only good thing that I can think to say about the uniform is that I didn’t have to pay for it. That isn’t really a brilliant thing, but it’s still the most positive thing which comes to mind.
In short I can’t wait until I finally actually get a proper job, just so that I shall be able to burn the offending article on a large ceremonial bonfire, invite a few friends over and drink in celebration of the destruction of this symbol of boring, tedious, pointless and soul destroying employment.

Dancing.

2005-06-08T16:37:00.000+01:00

The phrase “I just want to dance the night away”, is not one that many people could accurately accuse me of uttering in any serious context very frequently. However this may not be the case for a great deal longer, as I have over the past couple of years or so, become increasingly keen on the practice of flailing my legs and arms around in a vaguely rhythmic motion, occasionally accompanied by music, which could be loosely described as being “dancing”.
Before I was of school age, I had absolutely no idea what on earth dancing was, and mainly just ran around frantically, but varying the pace slightly, depending upon the beat of the music being played. This was commonly at those wonderfully freaky occasions, which have been the cause of countless of young children growing up and having to go into therapy, in other words, the family disco. It must be said that in comparison to the dancing styles of some of my relatives, my idea of running around was decidedly sophisticated.
As I got older I realised that running around wasn’t really such a great idea, and so I adopted a much more conventional awkward shuffling motion instead. As my age increased, so did my feeling of self consciences, as I became aware that people were to a certain degree or other, judging everyone else, upon their respective rhythmic prowess. I must confess that the onset of puberty and the subsequent increase in interest for girls made matters all the worse. The knock on effect of this, was that my shuffling became even worse and my arms appeared to be permanently stuck rigidly next to my body in a strange robot like stance. My only saving grace was that I hardly ever had to dance, up until the time when I was persuaded to go to some of the various clubs around Bedford.
The big clubs in Bedford are really appalling places in my opinion, as you can’t talk to anyone because the music is too loud, you can’t drink anything because the prices are too expensive, you have to try and limit the amount of toilet visits you take, otherwise some bloke (I assume that there’s a female equivalent in the ladies), squirts you with after shave, and gives you a paper towel that you didn’t really want, and a horribly flavoured lollypop and expects you to give him whatever loose change that you have remaining, after having spent much more then you had anticipated on just gaining entry to the club in the first place and then upon some cheap green alcho-pop (which you had been advised to get by a friend, as they were the only things that cost less then £3). You can’t even idly just stand around, or people will simply accuse you of being a pervert for ogling the women dancing, (even though that’s exactly what all of the blokes are really doing there). This all means that you are inevitably left with the only option of trying to dance to music that you don’t even like.
I should really explain that the only reason why I ever went to nightclubs in the first place was partly out of a sense of trying to be sociable and partly due to me trying to delay saying goodbye to anyone that I was out with (something which I always seem to have problems with).
This continued to be the general situation, up until a couple of years ago, when I started to go to the dark and delightfully peculiar Esquires. Filled with some of the more unusual looking and darkly clad occupants of Bedford, it has to be the most interesting club in Bedford (which might not be saying much in itself, but it does win this accolade by some considerable margin). For me, it also scores higher then the competition, in that the drinks are actually affordable, as is the entrance fee; there are no toilet attendant; the music is actually generally good enough to listen to there are areas (all be it rather small areas), where you can talk to people. One of the biggest plus points (dragging myself to the main topic of this writing) is that the act of dancing is actually an attractive one. This is in part due to the fact that you are not forced into it through the lack of alternatives, but also due to the feeling that nobody really cares how ridiculous you look as you wave and frail your limbs about. Not to mention the activity of mosh pitting, (which is a very exciting if slightly scary activity to do, if you have a broken arm at the time).
I have become so comfortable on occasion with dancing in Esquires, that I even have began to adopt my own strange style of dancing, in that its perhaps best described as a sort of mix of formal dancing, mixed with a lot of twirling around of whoever is unfortunate enough to be dancing with me at the time. Even in the casual and relaxed atmosphere in Esquires, I have still found a few incredulous looks being thrown my way, but I’ve been informed that it isn’t entirely unpleasant for the person that I happen to be dancing with, but this might just be optimistic speculation.
My opinion of dancing in general has also changed a certain amount, in relation to dancing by yourself (or rather by myself). There have been many occasions when I have found myself motioning my feet in a rhythmic like fashion whilst at work, even when there isn’t any music present. This has resulted in some of the people at work keeping a greater distance from me then before, but considering I work in a supermarket, I would consider this to be a positive thing on the whole.
So, in short dancing is really a rather positive and enjoyable, almost liberating thing, despite the occasional moments of embarrassment and twisted ankles.

It was a dak and stormy night (part one).

2005-05-13T15:07:00.000+01:00

It was a dark and stormy night and Harold had once again forgotten to put the cat out. There was a very good reason for this, as Harold’s mind was somewhat pre-occupied with the fact that he had earlier been rather messily killed by an elaborate combination of a hair dryer, a microwave and a cheese grater.

It was a dark and stormy night when, nothing much really happened. What did happen however, though being in itself insignificant, would however have knock on consequences which would, eventually lead to the end of the world.

It was a dark and stormy night however this didn’t last for long, as it was June in Greenland, so it was very quickly a dark and stormy day.

It was a dark and stormy night and Norman was cursing the fact that he hadn’t bothered to buy an umbrella. Or for that matter put a coat on when he had left home earlier. Norman had been in a rush to get to his local garage, to rescue his car from Barry the mechanic.

It was a dark and stormy night and Sandra had been hit by lightning for the third time within the space of forty minutes. She was not in a particularly good mood.

It was a dark and stormy night, which preceded a dark and stormy day, which had all occurred shortly before an incredibly dark, dismal and stormy month.

It was a dark and stormy night; well actually that’s not entirely true, as it was actually about half past two, on a moderately dismal and dreary (but still not exactly stormy by any means) Tuesday afternoon, in a small village in Hertfordshire.

It was a dark and stormy night and Gordon, the bookstall owner, was in for a bit of a surprise. Surprises didn’t exactly come “thick and fast” into Gordon’s life. It wasn’t really due to his life being particularly event free, or dull (although it’s probably fair to say that up until this point, there was a distinct absence of Hollywood producers clambering over one another, trying to sign up the story of his life, as the basis of the next big blockbuster).

It was a dark and stormy night but that still didn’t manage to spoil the party like atmosphere that was going on in the little village of Warmpfish on the Woll. If anything, the villagers seemed to actually revel in the natural electrical light show that was going on above their heads.

It was a dark and stormy night but nobody really cared, as there wasn’t anyone around to witness it. This was due to it being a dark and stormy night on Mars. It also happened several million years ago, and so nobody had even become sufficiently evolved enough to appreciate the event, even if they had been on that planet for some reason or another.

Lucas Radebe

2005-05-10T16:56:00.000+01:00

It felt a bit like the end to another era on Sunday, when the great Lucas Radebe, finally “hanged up his boots” and finished his playing carer at the age of 36. Out of all of the many footballers that have played for Leeds over the past 18 years since I first began to support them, Lucas would have to be (to put it simply), my all time favourite. Indeed, I can not think of any player who I rate higher within the world. This is not simply due to how talented he is as a footballer, but also how he has conducted himself off the pitch.
Many names come to mind, when considering all of the brilliant players that have played for Leeds over the years, and more specifically the ones which have influenced me and have either influenced, or at least in some way reflected how I play (or try to play) football. People like Gordon Strachen, David Batty, David Weatheral, Gary McCallister, Gary Kelly etc. have all been players that I have looked up to, for their determination and style of play, which might not always be the most aesthetically pleasing, but has a workman grit about it. But when I consider how Lucas came to Leeds rescue time and again, when injury would have stopped a lesser man, with ruptured knees, and heaven knows what else, I have to give him the greatest respect I can.
It is true to say that there are many players that are more skilful, quicker and successful than Lucas. Even staying within his position, players such as Tony Adams, David O’Leary, Sol Campbell, Rio Ferdinand, to name just a few, could all claim to be more accomplished players, and all have plenty more trophies to their names then Radebe does, but to me “the chief” has something that just sets him apart from all the rest.
There is no doubting that he has accomplished many achievements within his carer. Such as picking up a FIFA fair player of the year award, being the most capped player (and the most capped as captain), for South Africa, as well as being a member of the first South African team after the end of apartheid. He also scored more goals in the 2002 world cup finals, then the entire of the then holders France managed to, (ok, so it was only one goal, but it sounds impressive).
He has worked over the years for many charities, both in England and back in South Africa. He can count Nelson Mandela as being a friend, which is rather impressive in itself.
There is even a band named in honour of him, after the team which he played for before joining Leeds, (the Kaiser Chiefs).
I am sad to see the end of his playing carer (ending as it did on his 200th appearance for Leeds, all be it only a five minute one), but I will always look back with fondness of a truly legendary player.

The Giggles.

2005-05-03T18:32:00.000+01:00

As far as I can ascertain, the giggles are really something of a mixed blessing.
As many people have proclaimed in the past, laughter is very good for you (or as an old joke goes, “laughter is the best medicine, unless your diabetic, and then insulin tends to be of more benefit”). There are such things in the world as laughter clinics, where miserable people go in order to try and prolong their lives through laughter. A recent survey said that watching comedy films can prolong your life and conversely horror films shorten it. All this withstanding, there is a slight difference between normal everyday laughter and “the giggles”. If for whatever reason, you have never been witness to someone with the giggles, or have never yourself had a fit of giggles then it is slightly difficult to accurately describe them to you; it could be said to be an uncontrollable and prolonged bout of laughter, which borders upon hysteria. When I say “uncontrollable” I really mean it. Even the threat of severe physical harm and pain is not enough to stop someone that is in mid giggle from carrying on in their semi-delirious state. This is mainly due to the fact that once a giggling event has got itself solidly established, then even the most mundane event will seem extremely funny and will just start off another wave of mirth and insanity.
Many very famous people have been cursed with the giggles, (although it should be noted that generally in acting terms, it is called “corpseing”), such as Peter Sellers, who was well noted for creasing up regularly filming. The elevator scene in the Revenge of the pink Panther springs to mind, where they took hours to film a single shot and in the end only had a few seconds of usable footage, due to Peter’s constant giggles, which then set off everyone else in the lift.
I believe that I am slightly predisposed to giggles and fairly often find myself fighting sternly against them. I must confess that although I don’t get them as often as some, when I do they tend to last for a very long time and render me completely incapable of any normal function. The last occasion when this occurred there were several contributing factors that I can identify as being causes for it. It happened on the Friday night of the 29th of April. I had earlier that evening watched the film version of the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy, which I found very funny in itself. After this I drank about 5 pints with the same friend that I had seen the film with, and had various random meandering and amusing conversations with him. At the end of the evening as I was walking home from a takeaway chicken and chip shop on the High Street I spotted a bloke that had a “Geology Rocks” T-shirt on. Now being a Geologist (well I have a degree in it, even if I do still work in a supermarket I can claim that I’m a geologist- sort of), I had heard this joke, or play on words (whatever), many times and I can’t say that I have ever really found it particularly funny, however on this occasion, and after having briefly talked to the wearer about the fact that I was a geologist and that my first name means rock, I found myself starting to laugh uncontrollably. Now considering that I was walking through the middle of Bedford, at around 11 on a Friday night, there were a fair few people around to witness this slightly embarrassing event. Now I know that if I were to see a person laughing to themselves for no apparent reason, in a slightly manic fashion, then I would definitely find them more then a bit on the weird and possibly disturbed side. Being aware of my own thoughts as to what I must look like to all of the various people as I passed them in their various degrees of inebriation, this just made the whole situation seem funnier to me and so the giggles just increased in there intensity, until a near state of delirium was attained. I hate to admit it but I even thought that it would be a good idea, to ring another friend of mine (who must be glad that she lives for the biggest part of the year, miles away in Sheffield) and simply laugh down the phone at her. I must have been in this state of near hysteria for a total of around twenty minutes, which is rather on the short side, compared with previous giggling events, which have lasted for around 45 minutes. I’m still bitter about the people that put a stop to this last giggling event, whom whilst driving past a couple that were in a deep embrace yelled from the car window “dump him girl! I’m a real man! You should try me out instead!” This really annoyed the hell out of me, as for once the couple in the embrace actually looked as if they genuinely cared for each other and that it was a genuine moment of togetherness for them, which had been spoiled by a couple of complete and utter twats leering out of a car window at them. Sorry, I know that this is now getting off the point, but I felt that it needed mentioning.
It is often the final catalyst for the giggles, is something that is rather insignificant not all that particularly funny in itself, but its all of the events that have preceded it and lead up to it, which are the most important factors.
In conclusion, I would have to say that, although having the giggles is at the time very enjoyable and to a certain extent liberating, as you certainly don’t really care about what anyone around you thinks about you, if anything you revel in their disgust and awkwardness, however on the down side, you do tend to feel a fool afterwards and are in danger of being locked up for insanity. This is not to mention that if a bout should occur in an inappropriate time and location, such as at a funeral, which I have been informed does happen more often then you would think, then it can be offensive to others and be the potential course for break-ups and expensive divorce proceedings.
So be warned.

My right arm. (A recent history of a limb).

2005-04-25T23:27:00.000+01:00

As I have mentioned before, around the end of September 2004, I broke my arm whilst at Judo practise. Rather embarrassingly it was entirely my own fault, as whilst being thrown with what I think was a drop Seonagie, I stupidly put my right arm out straight to stop the throw, and consequently part of my radius, went one way, whilst the other part went in a slightly different direction (as did my elbow joint). I have to admit that I don’t think that I have ever experienced anything like that amount of physical pain before in my life. As there were a large number of young children around, it was all I could do not to yell out several well chosen profanities. Very shortly after the event, I apparently went very pale, and felt as if I was going to be sick. Things were hardly helped by a couple of little kids asking me, if my arm was really broken, why I wasn’t crying. Not really the sort of question that you want to field whilst you are just wishing that you’d’ pass out soon.
This pain persisted until I was given a couple of tablets of codeine, although it wasn’t completely taken away, until I was given a shot of morphine, whilst a nurse very skilfully manipulated my elbow back into joint. Apparently I was only given a very small amount of morphine, but it was more than enough to knock me out within a few seconds (what can I say, other than I’m a lightweight?) My last memory, just before conking out completely, was of my arm being swivelled around in a very peculiar manner and at a rather disturbing angle and me just not being able to feel a thing.
The next couple of days were spent within one of the fracture wards within the hospital and were very unremarkable. To say that I was bored is an incredibly big understatement; I actually put off falling asleep, so that I would have something to look forward to later on in the day. The one event that did occur was the operation to set the bone. This is due to the fact that they had to cut into the arm, and screw in a metal plate, which is approximately 6 inches long. They gave me a general anaesthetic, which is one of the weirdest sensations. First my shoulders went numb, then all down my arms, then my chest, and finally I just fell unconscious. Coming around from it, was equally weird, it was just like being very drunk, but not having any memory of what had been going on within the previous few hours.
Anyway, a day or so later, they let me escape. I thought that I would show off my new temporary cast to one of my mates, so I spent a few hours watching a couple of films round his house and didn’t start walking back home until sometime after 12. Now the walk from his house to my own is a very dark, but quiet one, and takes about 15 minutes to do and normally speaking I wouldn’t really give a second thought to being threatened by anyone that might be coming the other way, however in the event, I happened to pass a bloke who must have been around 20, and dressed in a baseball cap and tracksuit who must have been around my height and of slightly slimmer build and I don’t mind admitting that for the few moments that it took for me to walk past him, I was genuinely intimidated and thought for all the world that I was going to get mugged and beaten up really easily. All I could keep thinking was that all he had to do would be to hit my right arm, and I would be begging him to just take all of my money and to leave me alone.
I absolutely hated feeling this vulnerable and from then on I tried as hard as I could to be more confident and not think about my arm as much as I had been.
I had to wear a plaster cast up to my shoulder for the next ten weeks (the first six being just a plain and dull white one, and then for the last four, a much more interesting purple cast, which I would strongly recommend for getting noticed). During this time I should think that I probably talked to more random people, then I would have talked to in years. It really is remarkable just how many people have broken a limb of some kind in the past! In every pub that I went to in this time someone would inevitably come up to me at some point in the evening and make some comment or another about how they had broken their arm, or leg, or finger, or whatever and remarkably every single person managed to make their breakage sound a lot more dramatic and exciting then mine was. One bloke had previously broken his left leg and both arms in a car crash a couple of years ago and still couldn’t walk up stairs probably and that really my arm being broken was incidental in comparison.
One cool incident, was when I got talking to another bloke with his right arm done up just as mine was and got into a big debate with about five other lads that I had never met before, as to who had the most impressive break, going on where the break was, how it was done, how we had both been operated on and various other criteria.
One activity that I wouldn’t really recommend doing with a broken arm is going into a mosh pit. Although they are certainly fun and with a broken arm there is a heighten amount of danger and excitement, there is also a good chance that someone will hit into you and cause some serious amount of damage.
When I was finally freed from my plaster cast, I quickly discovered just how alien and odd looking my arm had become. Apart from it being extremely thin compared with what it used to be, it also had a mass of black mated hair all over it, along with a load of flaky and dead skin, not to mention the left over of the scab that ran along my new scar. It certainly was not a very pleasant sight. Then I was told by my consultant that, although I would now be permitted to go around in the world without a cast, my arm was actually still broken. He showed me the x-ray, and even I was able to clearly see that there was indeed a clear gap, within the bone.
For the following few weeks, I persisted in wearing my pink coloured sling, every time I would go out to the pub. Often however I wouldn’t actually put it onto my arm, but just wear it loosely around my neck, like a misshaped pink scarf. In doing so I received many odd looks from the increasingly inebriated population of Bedford, as well as many queries as to what I was doing. The reason that I gave, was simply that as my arm was still broken, to insure that I didn’t get incredibly drunk and forget this fact and consequently do something incredibly stupid, I would wear my ridiculous looking pink sling, (I’m certain that’s a cocktail, but I won’t go into that), as a constant reminder.
Harking back to the subject of the hairs on my arm briefly (as it isn’t really a very pleasant subject), all this time on from having the plaster cast taken off, and my right arm is still hairier then my left! I am seriously considering trimming it back a bit, as it really does look a bit weird. The weirdness is added to, by the fact that the hairs appear to be of a darker colour then they used to be. It’s all rather confusing really.
A couple of months went by, as did another visit to my consultant. He ought to get a quick mention in himself, as he is certainly a slightly unusual man. He came across as being a very intelligent but stern man, who didn’t seem to suffer fools gladly. His most remarkable feature however was that he had numerous black hairs growing out from the bridge of his nose. I can’t say that I have ever met anyone with such peculiar follicle growth. It certainly was very distracting, trying to pay attention to what he was saying, whilst I couldn’t take my eyes off from the weird misplaced strands of hairs protruding from his hotter.
Around March time, I was walking home after a night out with my mate Nick, when I stupidly fell over my own feet. Fortunately I was awake enough not to stick my right arm out in order to break my fall, although instead I had to use my face. This had the rather painful result, of breaking two of my front teeth in halve and grazing my chin and under my nose severally. As I was fortunate enough not to have a mirror handy at the time I wasn’t as shocked by this incident as Nick was, who seemed rather concerned about the quantity of blood coming from inside of and around my mouth.
This all means that I now have two half, false teeth. 23 and haven’t even got all my own teeth! This surely, can not be a good thing.
6 months on to virtually the day, I was finally told that the bone had decided to do what it ought to have done some four months or so before, and joined up into one piece! I have been told that it isn’t as solid as it ought to be yet, but it does mean that I can yet again lift things with it! Although it also means that I won’t be able to get the metal plate out for a few more months yet, and when I do that’ll mean another 6 weeks in plaster. Going back to Judo still seems a long, long way away. Oh well.

Vagaries of time.

2005-03-14T23:55:00.000Z

For many years now, I have been very interested with the while concept of time. Ever since I discovered that time was actually a dimension, as opposed to an unchangeable, fixed and somewhat abstract force.
The thought that time can be slowed down, speeded up, bent, and even broken, intrigued me greatly. As did the concept of time just being like a road, on which you travel along, with the logical implications, that if it is like a road, then you might be able to travel backwards as well as forwards.
I don’t pretend for one moment that I understand it all, just getting my head around there being four dimensions in the universe is enough of a mind bending procedure. But just going by what I do understand, just somehow makes the universe seem like an even more amazingly strange place, and one that is full of strange possibilities.
The fact that every individual person has there “own time” and how quickly time travels actually does depend upon the individual is a rather stunning one to me, because, it transfers an abstract concept into something which is very much real, and important. The fact that when you are in danger, or are scared of something, you feel as if time is slowing down, well in a real way, it literally is for you.
I remember a story about a physicist who’s wife had dies, and he consoled himself in part by thinking within the terms, that as all time (the past, present and future) all actually exist, and will continue to do so for at least as long as the universe continues to, then in a sense his wife still exists, only in a different time, then he was currently occupying.
This idea that the future already, in a way exists, doesn’t sit very easily with a lot of people, especially within the religious community, as it conflicts with the idea of free will, and that everyone’s decisions have already been made. Physics has however come up with a kind of get out clause for this, in the form of alternative universes. This idea, allows for the concept of a different universe existing for every possible contingency, or decision that is made. Some theologians would argue that this is still not compliable with free will, as God would overlook every possible universe that could be in existence; therefore if a separate universe is produced for every decision made, then every decision would have in a sense cancel each other out and have no consequence. However, as I am happily not a theologian, I can happily go on with my life, without worrying too much about the next big idea that physics may produce.

I do however (I have recently found) worry immensely, if I am in a situation, where I am un-able to tell what the time is, at my own will. For instance, if I have to remain within a room, that has no visible clocks, and I am without a watch, then I quickly (well I perceive it to be quickly, but without the aforementioned chronological devices, there is a certain amount of supposition in that statement), become rather agitated and overly anxious. It isn’t as if I am constantly looking at my watch, when I am wearing it, its more of the case that, if I know that I can’t, I constantly feel the need to know. It’s the lack of being able to, that is the main frustration. This is probably why I have about 5 different clocks in my room; I own four wrist watches, and even a pocket watch. All of which tell slightly differing times from one another, but it’s more the principle of knowing what the time is, then the need for that knowledge to be entirely accurate. As I touched on earlier, as time is all relative to the individual, as far as I’m concerned I always keep good time, it’s just that it doesn’t happen to correspond to Greenwich.

The rising waistband theory.

2005-03-07T23:58:00.000Z

Patrick Moore has for a long time now been a truly great figure for all that is eccentric and peculiar to be found within ageing British scientists. I only mention him really, due to the fact that as I was channel hoping late the other night, I caught a glimpse of him on the sky at night and was astonished by what I saw.

Firstly I ought to quickly describe a theory that has been going around for many years now, but to my surprise not many people have actually heard about it. It is basically that the older a bloke gets, then the higher the waist band on their trousers gets, until it is virtually around their neck. Next time your out, or happen to see a man that is over 70, just take a moment to look at where the top of his trousers are. Another way of testing the theory is with a series of full length photos. You ought to be able to see a gradual, yet definite rise in the level of the waistband, and a decrease in the amount of shirt that can be seen. For the science geeks out there, you might be tempted to do a little graph with age against waistband height.
Many people have said that a certain Simon Cowell has prematurely been raising his waistband, at a relatively young age. Assuming that the theory is correct, (you might want to use your graphs to prove this), then by the time he is in his 60’s, it is possible that his trousers may well be fully over his head. Some would say that this would be a relieve for all, but I couldn’t possibly comment.

Anyway, going back to Patrick Moore; what I saw that night was perhaps the best vindication, and example of the above theory, that I could ever have wished for. From his seated position, it actually looked as if the top of his trousers were literally mere inches away, from being right underneath his armpits.
At first I was shocked, then after a couple of minutes of getting used to the sight that was before my eyes, I found myself in awe of him. I’m sure that he is well aware of what he looks like. And does he give a damn about what people think? Hell no! He’s always been an individualist, and that’s the way he’ll stay. Forget about kids that dress all in black to be “different”, when it really comes down to it, its people like Patrick, that are the true trend rebels.

Fears and Phobias

2005-02-25T17:24:00.000Z

As far as I can tell, the majority of people have some sort of fear or phobia, to a certain extent. Most people’s phobias aren’t any where near extreme enough to have any significant effect upon their lives, although there are a few exceptions. I say few, in the sense that the percentage of people considerde to have a major phobia is loosely thought to be around 10% (so very much a minority), although in real number terms, this means that around 600 million people on the planet have a severe phobia of some sort.
The shear range of recognised phobias is simply outstanding, and some truly make the mind boggle. Everyone knows about the obvious phobias out there, such as a fear of spiders (arachnophobia) or a phobia of heights (acrophobia, or vertigo), but there are literally hundreds of other phobias out there, that some one, genuinely “suffers” from.
The strangest recognised phobia, that I have ever personally come across, was a girl who had pogonophobia, which at the time meant that she was too scared to come overly close to me, due to it being the fear of beards, and I had a freakish, bright ginger load of fuzz on my face in that moment.
Surely the most ironically named phobia is “Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia” which, if you haven’t guessed, is the fear of long words! Whoever made up that name must surely have been a true sadist. Just imagine the torture that a person that has this phobia, must go through, every time that they have to tell someone, or write out what their phobia is!
There are numerous phobias about body parts, such as genuphobia (the phobia of knees), and odontophobia (the fear of teeth)! I’m not sure if these phobias mean that you have a fear of other people knees etc. or your own? If it’s the latter, then does that mean that you purposely knock your own teeth out to get away from them, or shoot your knee caps off, to save yourself from constantly being scared every time you look down at your own legs?!?
A phobia a great deal of old fashioned stand up comedians that are to be found on the working men’s club, circuit must have had is pentheraphobia (the fear of mother’s in law).
Phronemophobia, is something that many people would accuse George Bush, of having; (the phobia of thinking).
There really does seem to be a phobia for almost everything imaginable, from cyberphobia (computers), papaphobia (the Pope), lachanophobia (fear of vegetables), there is even a fear of phobias, approbiately called phobophobia!

Not wanting to feel left out from the weird freakish phobia thing, I thought very hard, for a great deal of time, as to what my possible phobia might be. The only thing that I was able to come up with, after much consideration, was an irrational fear about the corner between Beckitt Street and Greyfriars, near to the Esquires night club in Bedford. Although oddly enough I wasn’t able to find an exact name for this particular phobia.
My fear of it isn’t that I think that one night whilst I’m sleeping, the corner is going to sneak into my room and strangle me or anything like that. It is more the fact that pretty much every other time that I walk around the corner, there is someone else coming the other way, who meets me head on, and without any prior warning.
Now generally speaking I’m fairly laid back, and most people would assume that I am simply far too dozy to be easily shocked; however this isn’t really always the case. For instance, I absolutely loath watching horror films, especially when I’m with a lot of people, as I have the very embarrassing tendency to leap several feet into the air at the least provocation, (much to the enjoyment and laughter of those around me). And one of the other occasions where I portray this rather irrational nervous tendency, is whenever I walk around the aforementioned corner.
No matter how much I steal myself for almost colliding with someone head on, as I round the bend, whenever I do come up against someone, I still jump out of my skin, and make a complete idiot out of myself. It doesn’t matter whether the person, is big or small, male of female, young, old or whatever, the reaction is universally the same.
If anyone else has the same fear about the corner of Beckitt Street/Greyfriars, or can think up an appropriate name, (try to be at least slightly polite), then please let me know.

My voice.

2005-02-24T17:07:00.000Z

One of the most obvious and in many ways fundamental aspects about me is my voice.
Many people have made many various comments and observations about it, ever since I was first able to speak, and this has continued to the present day.
It all really stems from the fact that I have a speech impediment. When I was first able to speak, communication was a real problem, as for most of the time only my older sister was able to understand what on earth I was trying to say. This I seem to remember was rather frustrating and tedious, not to mention slightly detrimental to my early learning. Being of that age, your mind is full of ideas and questions about the world around you, and when the only person that you can ask any of these things is, someone that is only two years older than yourself, there must be a slight negative effect somewhere.
Anyway, this is getting away from the main point. When I was around 3 years old, it was decided that I should have speech therapy; otherwise school would have been a major problem. Even with the therapy once a week and a significant improvement in pronouncing the majority of sounds, school was still at times, not the most pleasant place to be. I quickly found out that having something slightly different about me, was looked upon as being weird, strange, and a good excuse for people to begin bullying me. Being short and skinny made the bullies lives that much easier, and so they rarely tired of me.
This continued up until the point when my voice broke. Before this event, my voice had always (as well as being slightly on the unusual side), been rather quite, and somewhat “munchkin” like. Afterwards however it became rather overly deep. Not to the extent of Barry White or anything that extreme, but it is fair to say that I had one of the deepest voices in my year, and it progressively became deeper over the next few years.
I remember one person saying that my voice really didn’t seem to go with the rest of me, meaning basically, that it would have suited a much bigger person. For once I was really happy about having a strange voice, and really ever since then, I’ve grown to look at my slightly unusual voice as being a positive, as apposed to a negative thing.

Throughout the years, many people on first meeting me have speculated as to what country or part of the country that my accent originates from. There have been a great range of suggestions, such as: Scotland; Germany; Scandinavia; Russia; the Czech Republic; Australia; South Africa; Canada; The USA; and even Greece, amongst a few others. The variety and differences of opinion, has often been of slight bafflement to me. This is in part, due to the fact that as far as I’m concerned, my accent sounds as if I come from the Home Counties in England. When I state that I was born in Bedford, (where I still live), this is often met with disbelief and bewilderment.
The current favourite accents, that people belief I have, would have to be either Australian, or South African, and I have to admit that after having recently heard a recording of my voice, if I didn’t know better, than I would have to say that I would have thought that I was indeed, South African.
The main reason why I now see my voice as being a good thing is really that it automatically makes me slightly different from everyone else, without me even having to try. Admittedly, it is in a rather shallow and superficial kind of a way, but at least it provides some sort of conversation starter with a lot of people, not to mention I am able to make up stories about myself, to the unsuspecting.
Other advantages that I have found, are that, I have on occasion, been able to get away with saying slightly nasty things to people in the heat of the moment, by them not being certain what I said, and me being able to make up something quickly. I know that people do this all the time, but with me it’s just that slight bit more believable, due to the impediment.
Anyway, I do on the whole try to use my voice for good rather than evil, although I don’t think that a career in radio is ever going to be likely. This is a shame as people have often said that I have the perfect face for radio, but never mind.

Introspective nonsense (please ignore)

2005-02-24T16:31:00.000Z

I thought that it would probably be a good thing to take a bit of a break from writing these blogspot things, as it really was getting to be a bit on the addictive side, which made me rather worried about what it said about me. One of my main concerns was that it made me think about some of the reasons why I feel the need to communicate with people, and why I tell them the things that I do.
It’s almost as if I feel that unless I tell someone about an instance or an event in my life, than that moment never actually really occurred. It’s a bit of a “if a tree falls in the woods, and nobody is there to see it…” kind of thing. I don’t really understand why my mind would consider this to be true, but there is a definite urge within me, to tell someone, (it doesn’t always matter who really), whenever something, even mildly important, or interesting (well important or interesting to me. Again, I’m not overly concerned if the person that I am conveying this information to finds it particularly interesting themselves) occurs, or if a relatively interesting idea comes into my head.
I’m not certain what this would have to say about me as a person, but properly reflects some level of insecurity and neediness. But never mind, I think that’s enough introspective clap trap for one day. All this self analysis really isn’t any good for anything, and hardly makes for interesting reading, or really interesting typing for that matter. I’ll have to cut down in the future.

Addiction.

2005-02-23T16:47:00.000Z

My 200grm a day habit.

It all began after breaking my arm at the end of last September. I was told that I would not be able to go back to work, and that I wouldn’t be able to do any sort of sporting activity. With the majority of my friends away at their various universities, I was stuck at home with nothing to do, and not many people to talk to from day in, day out. I progressively and very depressingly spent more and more time on the internet, looking up various random pieces of information, in order to keep my mind marginally occupied. However after a while, I felt the necessity to leave my house as much as possible, and go out into the world (or at least out into Bedford). And it was through this that the story of my decline into addiction really begins.
I began to make excuses up in my head as to why I needed to go into town, such as buying a newspaper, a lottery ticket, or some shoe laces. And it was on one such excursion, that I happened upon the Lidls store, near to the High Street.
I ventured in. I was curious, slightly excited and yet mildly nervous at the same time, after having heard from various friends and acquaintances about the wonders that were to be found within, and almost all at prices that were even affordable to students.
And then my eye caught sight of the thing that would be my eventual undoing.
A stack of 200grm choc chip cookies, priced at the seemingly insane price of 29p! On seeing them, I didn’t hesitate, or think about what the potential consequences were, I simply grabbed two packets, and ran (after having queued for fifteen minutes, and managing to just scrape together the 58 pence from loose change from the numerous pockets in my jacket).
I rushed home, and hungrily, almost lustfully, tore into the first packet. Picking out the first cookie, and pausing for a moment to gaze at the random pattern of the choc chips, within the hard and crumbly texture of the biscuit. I then took a bite, then another, and then took another cookie, and a third, stopping only briefly to pour myself a glass of milk, (as I had heard is the traditional way). I had quickly consumed the entire packet.
I put the other packet away inside of a cupboard. Knowing that if I couldn’t see it, then the temptation of it would be reduced. I was able to hold back from eating it for another four days, but when eventually I did yield to my desire of it, the passion that was within me, upon eating that first cookie a few days previously, was re-awakened.
Over the next few weeks my trips into town were becoming more and more frequent. I told myself, that I was simply going into town, in order to get myself out of the house, and yet deep down I knew that that was simply an excuse.
Three, four, five days a week, I would go. Into Lidls with my 29p clasped firmly in hand, hungrily anticipating the taste of those delicious cookies.
After only two months, I had sunk to going down every day. Sometimes I wouldn’t even be able to wait until I got home before I started savagely ripping into the plastic wrapper.
I began to take small plain, brown paper bags with me, so that I could consume them with no-one seeing what I was doing. I was only fooling myself of course. All the people in town knew what I was doing. They all knew that I had become a cookie fiend. A choc-chip junkie. I could see the disgust, and pity in their sullen, disapproving eyes. But I didn’t care what the world thought of me. I had my cookies, and that was all that mattered.

And so I would have remained, slowly degenerating into a festering, cookie munching wreck, if it hadn’t been for one person that stuck by me, and saw what I was doing to myself. He managed to get me back on the straight and narrow, by slowly whining me off the cookies, firstly onto just plain choc-chips, and then onto chocolate shavings, then icing sugar, and now I’m currently just eating artificial sweeteners, and am well on the way to a full recovery.
I just hope that this serves as being a warning to anyone else out there, who might be tempted and seduced by the lure, of cheap cookies. For heaven’s sake don’t do it to your self. I t really isn’t worth it.
Be strong.
Thank you.

Uni Acknowledgements.

2005-01-17T15:49:00.000Z

This is the actual acknowledgements list that I handed in as part of my dissatation project for my degree.
My apologies if I know you, and you're not in there somewhere. This would either be because, I didn't know you then. or didn't know you very well then, or didn't know how to spell one of your names, or simply forgot to put you in. I was at an incredible amount of stress whilst writting it, as only had a few hours left to print it all out and hand it in. Thats my excuse and I'm sticking to it.
Thanks again to all of the people that are mentioned in it below, and to several others who for one of the above reasons are not.
Ta.

Acknowledgements.

I would firstly like to thank, Dr. Graham Weedon, and Professor Angus Duncan for their support and advice during the construction of this project.

Further thanks to my parents for all of their patience and assistance throughout these past few years in particular, but also, all of the years Prior.

I would also like to thank the following students, Mathew Kennet, Andrea Stocker, and Francis Waddington, who accompanied me upon my various visits to the Isle of Arran.

Final recognition should go to Nicholas McCallum, Ahmar Yaseen, Ceri and Jennifer Gallivan, Timothy Oxbourgh, Hannelore Laudgraf, Hannah Broadway, Dawn Blake and several others, who’s superb distractions, prevented me from sinking into insanity, throughout the course of making this project.

"Sorry is the hardest word" (Yeah right!)

2005-01-14T13:36:00.000Z

The Elton John song, “Sorry is the hardest word”, could not be much further from the truth in my case, if it tried. As far as I am concerned sorry must be one of the most commonly used words in my vocabulary.
I have to admit that it is like a bit of a disease with me, or rather an addiction of some kind. I have been known to apologise to people that have trodden on my foot (presumably that my foot wasn’t as comfortable to walk on as the pavement underneath). I have also apologist to people who have pushed in front of me in queues, for holding doors open for people, for helping to push some blokes car for them, and for countless other obscure things.
I’ve even been known to apologise for apologising on many occasions. I remember one particularly horrible incident, in a pub, after I had had a couple to drink, of getting into an apology cycle with some girl. It was truly terrifying for all concerned. I could see that all she wanted to do was to run away, (either that or for someone to shoot me, or her, whichever was quickest I think), and yet all I could do was apologise for apologising, and then apologise again. It really was the most bizarre thing for anyone who might have been watching, and to this day I still don’t know exactly what was going on in my mind. Not only that but I still refer to the girl in question as “the apology cycle girl”, and this is about a year and a half after the event.
As far as I can tell, apologising is one of more obsessive aspects of my nature. Its something that annoys me at times, and I know that it annoys many of my friends often, and yet I feel somehow compelled to persist in it. Almost every New Year for the past 7 or 8 years at least, I have vowed to at the very least, cut down. And yet every year, I just end up doing the same as I have always done, and persist in this absurd manner.
I just hope that this serves as some kind of a warning for anyone, with a similar strange obsessive tendency.

Recent problems with shaking hands.

2005-01-14T13:35:00.000Z

My problem with shaking hands with people all began when I went to Germany in August. It has nothing to do with going to the country itself, more that whilst there I somehow managed to hurt the little finger on my right hand. Although I didn’t notice doing anything to it at the time, I did notice as I was climbing out of the lake that I had been swimming in (yes, a lake! Sorry but there simply aren’t any lakes around where I live that anyone in their right mind would want to swim in, although its apparently a common thing in Germany). Anyway, for the next month and a half I was unable to shake hands with anyone with anything like the amount of grip that I had been able to, in the past. A few of my friends noticed this, and being the great mates that they are, decided to squeeze my hand with added vigour, and intensity.
My little finger was just about back to normal, by around the end of September, when I incredibly stupidly managed to break my right arm, whilst at Judo practise.
Now although it was a fairly clean break in itself (although was accompanied by a dislocated elbow), the bone was apparently at a bit of an odd angle, so it had to screwed back in place with a small metal plate in the middle of it.
I was told at the time that it ought to be fixed within about 6 weeks; ten weeks with of having plaster up to my shoulder, plus another six weeks, and it’s still not completely fixed. The last x-ray I saw there was a visible gap in the bone, which I cant say was an overly thrilling sight.
All of this has meant that apart from being paranoid, that any sort of force exerted onto my arm, will either break it appallingly badly, (or worse, bend the lump of metal inside of it), but it has also meant that my right arm, and hand are now a lot weaker than they once were.
All of this means that I am now only capable of the most meaningless, weak, and feeble hand shakes, you could possibly imagine.
Now personally I never was one to subscribe to the whole load of bunk, about telling a lot about someone’s personality through their handshake, but it is still rather embarrassing. When I was still in plaster I was able to get away with it, to a certain extent, not to mention I had pretty much perfected the art of the reverse, left handed handshake, (which did lead to a couple of rather comedy moments). Now I’m out of plaster, however, there is just no tangible excuse I can really use, without going into a long and dull explanation of events over the past four months or so.
Oh well, just a bit of a moan really, I just thought that I would share it with the Internet community as a whole. Hope it killed a bit of time for you, and made you think. I’m not overly certain what you would think after having read this, but I hope that its something that is at least in some way of a positive nature. Something that will perhaps make you do something that brings happiness to someone else in the world. Obviously I can’t actually see any connection between doing something positive and this load of nonsense, but you never know how some people’s minds work.

Goodbye.

2005-01-14T13:34:00.000Z

I am one of the worst people in the world for saying goodbye to anyone that I know. I seem to be almost completely incapable of actually saying the word “goodbye”, and even if I do manage to utter it, I then just carry on talking to the poor unfortunate soul that I am with. One of my problems is simply that during the majority of the time in which I am in someone’s company, I can only think of a limited amount of things to say to them, but when it comes to the point of leaving, for some reason my mind suddenly snaps into gear, and a torrent of subjects, questions, and antidotes spring to mind. I have often thought that it would probably be a better idea to start a conversation with someone, by saying “goodbye” and then I can have a full discussion with them, say all the things that are on my mind, and go away again happy. However this might seem a bit of an odd way to start talking to somebody.
A further contributing factor, is that I believe that hereditarily, I am pre-disposed to always be the last person to leave a gathering, or party or group event of some kind. I have been told that not only my mother, but also my grandmother, did exactly the same thing. Therefore I am going to do, what many overweight people, and a certain number of criminals have done in the past, and (in part at least) blame my genes.
I am always sad to say goodbye to anyone that I would consider to be a close friend to, which I think is what it really all boils down to. That and if I’ve had a very good time, then I simply don’t want that time to come to an end, and so I try and put off the end for as long as possible.
When I come to think about it, this might not really be the healthiest way in which to behave. Having a reluctance, to except the inevitable ending of events is surely an attempt at least to try and avoid the reality of everyday existence. Perhaps I’m thinking far too much about it. But anyway, this isn’t, unfortunately the only problem I have when saying goodbye.
The next problem comes around when I have finally accepted that, the end really has come, and I have to leave, or to part company with the people that I had been with. It isn’t so much a problem with people that I know well, nor is it a problem with people that I don’t like, or at the very least didn’t enjoy there company on that particular occasion. The main source of anxiety is with people that I don’t really know all that well, but with whim I have still enjoyed being in their company. Now I ought to briefly explain that I am not naturally someone that goes in for hugging people, traditionally I stick to a handshake, and leave it at that. However, over the past year or so, a few of my friends have introduced me into the whole culture of hugging, and I have to admit that (despite not being overly good at- but that’s a whole different story) I am more than happy to hug someone that get on well with, and are friends with. So when an occasion arrives when I’ve enjoyed being in the company of someone that I don’t really know, I am at a bit of a loss as to what to do. I can’t really hug the person, as it might seem a bit on the strange side and make them fell uncomfortable, and so I resort to a handshake. A simple solution you might be thinking. Well not entirely. This is due to the fact that through a hug a certain amount of emotion can be projected through the hug, and it can be done over what is effectively a large surface area. If you put the same amount of emotion into a handshake, with a comparatively small surface area, the effect is that the poor unsuspecting person that is getting their hand shook, very rapidly feels an acute pain, from their freshly crushed mitt.

As you can probably tell, there are many pit-falls when it comes to saying goodbye, and for me it is at times, a major headache, and certainly not an activity in which I take very lightly.

2005-01-13T16:33:00.000Z

Sunset view from Arran

Nasty self-discovery

2005-01-12T19:06:00.000Z

I have discovered that just lately I have started to develop a slight (well I hope that its only a slight), and rather disturbing strain of arrogance.
I first noticed the symptoms of this unfortunate type of behaviour a few months ago. At the time I thought that it was probably just a momentary lapse in behaviour, and would pass, however just of late I have realised, much to my horror and dismay, that the occurrences of such despicable and undesirable behaviour have if anything, actually increased.
It has been made even more of an uncomfortable self-discovery, due to the fact that the cause has been a sense that I know a lot about one particular subject. Now if you know me, or even if you have just read a couple of my other posts, you will know that, I try not to know a great deal about any one particular subject, and if anything somewhat revel in the thought that I know small amounts about a fairly large number of subjects. (Must be noted that thinking about it, that sentence has a certain amount of arrogance within it, however, I must point out, that it really is a very small amount of knowledge, and to say it’s a large number, just means greater than ten, really- well sort off, you get the picture anyway).
The subject in question is sort of the history of comedy. To be honest, when I think about it, I really don’t actually know a great deal about this. There are certain things I know, and I would probably be able to name more comedians from the past then the majority of the people that I know, however, I would never be able to go on mastermind and honestly hope to be able to answer more questions upon this subject than I could on any other random subject.
Anyway, I have caught myself, professing to a few friends of mine, about various different comedians from the past, in tones that would suggest that I know all about there life stories. Not only this but I have also, started telling jokes that I know that the people that I’m telling them to wont actually find funny; but I carry on doing so, because I know that I know someone else, that would find it funny.
This is truly strange behaviour to be carrying on with, and is really very unfair on my friends, who have so far put up with this really abhorrent and arrogant behaviour.
All I can say is that I am really very sorry for this, and I know I have a problem, and I am trying to stop myself from carrying on with it as much as possible.
Sorry all.

Individualism.

2005-01-12T17:33:00.000Z

As far as I am concerned the Internet can be a strange, incredibly huge, mind boggling, peculiar, perplexing, confusing, scary and interesting place. It appears to be full of just about every type of human being that you are ever likely to met in your life, not to mention many people that you (at least hope) will never meet, ever.
I would imagine that in many ways, to many people the Internet is rather reassuring. I mean this in the sense that no matter what your interest, or behavioural type is, you are bound to find like minded people somewhere on the internet. This I discovered whilst casually looking for other people that steal mannerisms, and within about 5 seconds I was able to find someone that had very similar views on the matter as I do.
Now for certain idiots like myself, the realisation that there are other people out there who have the same quirks, and oddities in personality and ways of thinking as you do, does have a slight tendency to be slightly on the depressing side. This is only due to the fact that I, like the majority of others (well at least the majority of people profess to thinking in this manner, although there is evidence to the contrary with many of them), wish to think or believe that we are actually individuals and that we are different than all of the other people in the world. This therefore means that in finding other people who have the same peculiarities in personality as we do, somewhat diminishes the sense that we are individuals.
I have to admit that I often do, carry on rather about how I never really fit in with any particular groups of people, and that I don’t really “belong” to a specific group of people, but if I was being entirely honest, there is a big part of me that is really quietly happy about this. This means that the discovery of someone that shares at least one of my quirks as quickly as I did was slightly depressing in a strange sort of way.
However, I have (mainly for my own reassurance and to a degree vanity), thought up an argument, which means that I can still at least claim to be an individual. This is simply that, although there might be many people about that share singular quirky and unusual aspects of my personality, it would be incredibly unlikely if there was any other person that could legitimately claim to posses ALL of my peculiarities.
Therefore until I find that there is such a person (and if I did I feel that I might have to kill that person, if only for the fact that they might be thinking about killing me), I can keep up my pretence to myself, that I am to a degree at least, an individual.

Einstein's last words

2005-01-12T16:16:00.000Z

I discovered last night that no one actually knows what Einstein’s last words were. This is due to the fact that his last words were muttered in German, and he died in an American hospital, where at that point in time there was no one around that understood German.
This to me is a great shame, regardless of what he said really. I say this because, either his last words were something profound and meaningful, in which case for all we know the world could have been a slightly richer and maybe even better place, had someone realised what the mutterings were.
If they weren’t in the least bit profound (which lets face it, the majority of peoples last words are anything but philosophical, simply due to the fact that few people realise that they are going to be the last words that they will ever utter); in which case they would have had some sort of comic value, if only for the fact that from someone so noted as being a genius, to have as there last words something as simple and as mundane as “could I have some more cornflakes please?” is rather amusing.
Therefore either the world has lost a really profound statement, or it has lost a great source of amusement. Regardless, I think that this is a great shame, and something which if I had the power, I would correct.
If there is an afterlife, one of the first things that I will ask, will have to be “what exactly were Einstein’s last words then?”
To be honest I’m secretly hoping that they were something to have a laugh about. I wouldn’t think that there is a great deal of need in hearing anything overly profound when you’re already dead.

Knowledge. or lack of it.

2005-01-12T15:26:00.000Z

The phrase “ignorance is bliss”, is one that bugs me greatly. I have to admit that in certain circumstances, not knowing the truth, or the complete facts of a situation, could be said to be a good thing. If for instance someone that you knew had died whilst in an enormous amount of agonising pain, it could be said that it would be a lot better for you not to realise this, and just believe that instead they had died peacefully.
However, apart from such circumstances, knowledge can be, by in large a great thing to possess. I have to confess that there used to be part of me that saw knowledge as somehow a bad thing in regards to certain things, such as the stars. I felt that it somehow took away the aesthetic value of them, knowing that they were nothing more than enormous masses of gas, emanating light and heat via a process of nuclear fusion. I felt that it was a similar thing to knowing how a film made with loads of special effects was made, or knowing how a magic trick was done. By taking away the mystery of it all, took away some of its beauty and majesty somehow.
I no longer find this the case. Instead I now look upon things like that knowing what is really still only a very small amount about them, and find them even more fascinating and spectacular because of what I do know. The thought that several million years ago a nuclear reaction, in a star that is so far away, it is hard to imagine, produced some light, which has travelled all the way to Earth, and now I can see it; something that could have happened when Dinosaurs were roaming the Earth.
It’s a similar thing with Geology. You can look at a rock, or a series of rocks, and tell what it was that caused them to be as they are. You can look at certain formations and tell that there had been a flood, at that location, or a volcanic eruption, or something even more spectacular, millions of years ago, and there is still the evidence for it in front of your eyes. It’s a brilliant feeling to know that you know of something that happened at a particular spot, at a point in the distant past.
Similar thing to fossils. If you find a fossil, you have found something, that was once alive, and has been preserved for an enormous amount of time, and the first time that anything has seen it since its death could well be at the moment that you have found it.

I don’t profess to actually know all that much about anything really, although what I have discovered is that, the more about anything you do know, it seems that the greater the realisation that the amount that you know is painfully small, and that there is a stupendous amount of things that you will probably never actually know.

Tablet advert.

2005-01-11T18:48:00.000Z

Tablet has got to be one of the best ever made confectionaries, to have come out of the British Isles. Normally made in Scotland, with some of the simplest ingredients around, (such as condensed milk, sugar, and butter), this has got to be one of the most delicious, and superbly simple, and yet stunningly glorious things you would ever hope to try in your life.
I happened upon it, whilst in the Isle of Arran, on the West coast of Scotland, where they make homemade Tablet, in Brodick (to the South of the Island). I tried some of this local produce, and ever since, have been hooked.
If you ever get the chance to purchase some of it, then I implore you to do so. It is similar to fudge, only with a slightly harder consistency. Simply brilliant stuff.

Trilby hat wearing.

2005-01-11T16:42:00.000Z

My theory on this is quick easy and simple.
There are only two types of men that can wear a Trilby hat successfully.
1. Someone who is both very short, and rather fat. Or…
2. Someone who is both rather tall, and thin.

Computer Solitaire: Enemy to the essay writer.

2005-01-11T16:29:00.000Z

Computer Solitaire: Enemy to the essay writer.

Due to my incredibly bad handwriting, bad spelling, and my lecturer’s insistence upon everything being word processed, I was forced into using the computer to write all of my many essays that needed to be completed for my university course.
Now as anyone that knows me, will tell you, I always put doing any type of academic work off until the last possible moment, and am in constant search of some kind of distraction or another, be it the television, or the radio, or going to the pub, or whatever; if the smallest thing comes up that might be of a possible delay to actually getting down to doing some work, then I will grab it with both hands as eagerly as is humanly conceivably possible.
Now in having to write my essays on the computer it brought me into direct contact with what surely has got to be the ultimate mindless and meaningless time killing distraction that could possibly have ever been conceived of. I am obviously talking about Windows solitaire.
The number of times that I would sit calmly at my computer, with a nice cup of tea, some tune or another playing either on a radio, or on the media player, open Word, and just prepare myself for the task ahead, when I would think to myself “well I’ll just play one game of solitaire. Just until I get into profit.” And then proceed to spend the next hour or so, getting myself into an obscene amount of debt (all I can say is that I am eternally grateful that this is only an imaginary debt, otherwise I would surely have had to have taken out several loans with some dodgy characters, not been able to pay them, and had nasty things done to my knee-caps, and appendages). All the time my essay would still be sitting on Word, with just maybe, the title having been written. And this sort of behaviour would continue until the night before it would have to be handed in, where a mass panic would transcend upon me, resulting in a furious stream of writing and quite swearing at the computer, and myself, for having (yet again), left it all to the last minute.
So to finalise I must just say, that for any student, out there, or novelist, or whatever, if you wish to get any work done, please, I implore you, please just delete this truly evil and strangely addictive game from your computer, before its all too late.

counter

2005-01-11T15:37:00.000Z

Free Web Site Counter

Tea, (As written by Douglas Adams, via the Salmon of Doubt)

2005-01-11T15:21:00.000Z

One or two Americans have asked me why it is that the English like tea so much, which never seems to them to be a very good drink. To understand, you have to know how to make it properly.
There is a very simple principle to the making of tea and it's this - to get the proper flavour of tea, the water has to be boiling (not boiled) when it hits the tea leaves. If it's merely hot then the tea will be insipid. That's why we English have these odd rituals, such as warming the teapot first (so as not to cause the boiling water to cool down too fast as it hits the pot). And that's why the American habit of bringing a teacup, a tea bag and a pot of hot water to the table is merely the perfect way of making a thin, pale, watery cup of tea that nobody in their right mind would want to drink. The Americans are all mystified about why the English make such a big thing out of tea because most Americans have never had a good cup of tea. That's why they don't understand. In fact the truth of the matter is that most English people don't know how to make tea any more either, and most people drink cheap instant coffee instead, which is a pity, and gives Americans the impression that the English are just generally clueless about hot stimulants.
So the best advice I can give to an American arriving in England is this. Go to Marks and Spencer and buy a packet of Earl Grey tea. Go back to where you're staying and boil a kettle of water. While it is coming to the boil, open the sealed packet and sniff. Careful - you may feel a bit dizzy, but this is in fact perfectly legal. When the kettle has boiled, pour a little of it into a tea pot, swirl it around and tip it out again. Put a couple (or three, depending on the size of the pot) of tea bags into the pot (If I was really trying to lead you into the paths of righteousness I would tell you to use free leaves rather than bags, but let's just take this in easy stages). Bring the kettle back up to the boil, and then pour the boiling water as quickly as you can into the pot. Let it stand for two or three minutes, and then pour it into a cup. Some people will tell you that you shouldn't have milk with Earl Grey, just a slice of lemon. Screw them. I like it with milk. If you think you will like it with milk then it's probably best to put some milk into the bottom of the cup before you pour in the tea.1 If you pour milk into a cup of hot tea you will scald the milk. If you think you will prefer it with a slice of lemon then, well, add a slice of lemon.
Drink it. After a few moments you will begin to think that the place you've come to isn't maybe quite so strange and crazy after all.
1 This is socially incorrect. The socially correct way of pouring tea is to put the milk in after the tea. Social correctness has traditionally had nothing whatever to do with reason, logic or physics. In fact, in England it is generally considered socially incorrect to know stuff or think about things. It's worth bearing this in mind when visiting.

To shave or not to shave?

2005-01-10T21:51:00.000Z

To shave or not to shave?

A question, which has dogged mankind for countless years, (mainly the male half of man kind, but then there have been one or two exceptions in the past).
Many men choose to have beards for many reasons. John Peel said that the reason why he grew a beard was due to sensitive skin, although he also said that he distinctly disliked beards, and that they showed that the wearer properly had something to hide (other than his face).
Other reasons for growing a beard could be that the person, is simply wither too lazy, or has too hectic a life style to shave in the morning. With modern razors however this isn’t really a very valid excuse, except for the real hard-core lethargic lay-about.
Some might be under the impression that it improves their appearance. For some this might be the case, but then the question always must arise, that if by growing something that in hiding a good proportion of their face actually improves them visually, then they couldn’t have looked all that great in the first place.
Some of us are unfortunate enough to have different colour facial hair to our head hair. I say that this is unfortunate, due to the fact that not only does any difference, make it look as though some sort of dying has taken place somewhere, it is also the case that within such differences, the colour of the facial hair is often ginger. Although not overly bad in some peoples eyes, in others it can be a great source of humour and mocking, especially in the summer months, where a full ginger beard can positively glow in the sunlight.
Many professions have been noted to have a higher than average beardy percentage. Such professions as Geology, History, and several other science (especially Earth science) related occupations have often been singled out as culprits for cultivating face fungus wearers.
There has been much derision in the news papers about beards, especially in recent years, with every level of insult coming out of the woodwork, from it being a mask for a lack of virility, and simply that its repulsive and undesirable, to comparisons with dictators and mass murderers being predominantly either bearded or at the very least moustached.
The quandary of facial hair is one that I am not (I’m sorry to say), skilled or knowledgeable enough to be able to at this time, answer. However I will say that it ought to be up to the individual, and to hell to whatever anyone else says or thinks! It’s your face and you can do with it as you please. Not to mention that a beard is hardly a permanent thing like a tattoo; if you get bored with it, then there is always a razor.The choice is up to you. I hope that my words have been of some guidance.

spike Milligan was the best

2005-01-10T21:42:00.000Z

Spike Milligan is the greatest comedian to have ever lived!
Basically I’m not going to bother to explain this statement in any great detail or length, suffice to say that the main reasons why I would say this are as follows:
Firstly, he almost single-handed wrote the most influential and revolutionary comedy radio show, in the history, the mighty and surreal Goon Show!
Where it now takes a team of writers, in America to come up with a half hour sit com to be put out every week, Spike did this same thing almost entirely on his own. There has got to be noted a great deal of credit to other writers who aided him greatly, in-particular Eric Sykes. Not only this but the show itself was like nothing else that had ever been heard on the air waves before, it was completely new, for the time rather risqué, and influenced the next generation of great comedians, most obviously the Monty Python team. How many modern day comedies can boast anything like that kind of an achievement, or ever will?
It should also be said that the process of writing these programmes, although possibly giving him great pleasure, whilst being performed, within the pressure of writing them, caused Spike to have a mental breakdown.
Despite this, Spike went on to write two novels, a series of wartime memories, many many books of poems and verse for adults as well as children, and several comic adaptations of famous books, such as the bible.
He appeared in the “Q” series on television, and made some small appearances in films, such as Monty Pythons Life of Brian, and the Mel Brooks film, The History of the World Part 1.

Without Spike, there would be no modern comedy, as we know it. Without him there may well have been no Monty Python, and therefore the next generation of comedians on either side of the Atlantic, would not have arose.

Stolen mannerisms

2005-01-10T21:17:00.000Z

Characteristics and mannerisms that I have stolen or borrowed from people in the past.

Disclaimer: Firstly I must apologise to all of the people that I am about to mention. Some of you are famous, but in the case of the majority of you, you aren’t, which is in a way worse as it means that I actually know, or have known you.
In my defence, my attempts at imitating your mannerisms are as a rule of such a lowly standard, that there is no way that anyone (least of all yourselves), would be able to realise that they are imitations at all.
Lastly an apology to all the people that I haven’t stolen anything from (so basically you could say that I’m apologising to the entire world), its nothing personal, it’s just that I haven’t picked up on anything specific. I dare say that you do have specific and probably truly wonderful mannerisms, all of your own, its just that for one reason or another (in the case of nearly 6 billion of you, its simply because I have never seen or heard of you before), I just haven’t as of yet nicked anything from you.

Stolen from: Helen Hunt, in from the film As good as it gets;
Mannerism description: a look of insulted very wide-eyed surprise, coupled with a slight double-take action, and saying something like “what? And did what?”

Stolen from: Ceri Gallivan
Mannerism description: A fairly rapid forefinger to and away from the forehead, as to indicate either, a great idea, or that the person being talked to is stupid, and should “think about it”.

Stolen from: Lud Loyd.
Mannerism description: (a complicated one). Marginally wide eyed look, whilst still appearing to be almost asleep, with a slight up and down eyebrow movement accompanied by a gentle sideways rock of the shoulders, during a moment of slight contemplation, or simply as an action to fill a silence.

Stolen from: Caroline.
Mannerism description: Beginning with a look of confidence and understanding, towards a situation or sentence, and then degenerating to a greater and greater level of uncertainty, whilst gradually looking downwards in a curious fashion.

Stolen from: Black books episode 1 series 1. Eamonn O’Neil.
Vocal mannerism: The way in which he says the word “Jesus”, almost as if he has sneezed the word.

Stolen from: Black books episode 3 series 1. Kevin Eldon.
Vocal mannerism: The word “dirty”, with heavy enthasis and extention upon the “dir”.

2004 list.

2005-01-10T21:06:00.000Z

2004 list.

Best moment: Train to Prague.
Worst moment: Tube station in Prague.
Best film seen in cinema: Shaun of the Dead.
Worst film seen in cinema: The Chronicles of Riddick.
Most frequented pub: The Bear.
Beer of the year: Guinness.
Fav band of the year: The Cure.
Song of the year: No Rain; by Blind Melon.
Best sitcom of the year: Black books.
Number of novels intended to read: 15.
Number of novels read: 1.
Novel(s) read: On the Road.
Best sporting event: Kelly Holmes winning two Olympic golds.
Worst sporting event: Leeds United being relegated.
Number of countries visited: 3.
Scariest TV moment: Changing channel to see Jesus saying that he was going to vote for Bush.
Best news quote: “Batman is helping police with their inquires”
Most obvious physical reminder: 6-inch scar on right arm.
Other major events: Legend John Charles dieing; Judo competition in Germany; passing and graduating university degree; breaking arm; talked to more random people than ever before.

Not a good blogger.

2005-01-10T18:18:00.000Z

I have not got a great deal of knowledge on any one particular subject, instead I have a small amount of knowledge upon a moderate number of topics, as I try and have as many interests as possible. I also try not to become overly obsessive about one singular thing, as I can’t say that this would be an overly healthy thing to do.
This is basically my explanation for not writing a great number of blogs.Thank you. That’s all.

BMW drivers: not as evil as you might think.

2005-01-10T17:31:00.000Z

BMW drivers, in my opinion have of late at least, started to redeem themselves slightly, and appear to be striving away from their reputation as being arrogant, opinionated, self-important, jerks, that own the road.
I have come to this rather loose conclusion, purely on the bases of recent events, where in one single day, not one, but two BMW drivers, let me cross the road, even though there was no reason for them to do so, other than it was a nice thing to do. I ought to point out that I am not an old frail lady with a walking stick, surgical stockings and a blue rinse, nor (at the other end of the spectrum), am I a large aggressive looking thug, that carries several brands of knives and pump-action shot guns under a big drench coat. Therefore there was no reason for them to feel undue guilt or fear from not letting me cross the road.
Further evidence arose the very next two times, in which I went out of my house. I was witness to further displays of letting pedestrians, another motorist, and even a CYCLIST, go either ahead, or past them, for no other visible reason, then out of pure courtesy.I rest my case. BMW drivers are improving their ways. Or so it seems for the time being. I will update on any further developments.

Supermarket employment

2005-01-09T23:46:00.000Z

Supermarket employment.

Disclaimer:
There are many positions to be had within the set up of employment within a supermarket, each with there own good and bad points. A large amount of the information, and the opinions voiced, are based upon second hand information and a certain amount of conjecture, but are believed to be as accurate as is possible. It should also be pointed out that some of the job titles, which have been used, might well not be used within all supermarket chains, but hopefully they should still be recognisable, from the descriptions of them. The aim of this entry is to provide a brief glimpse of life within a supermarket, as a guide for anyone seeking future employment within such an establishment.

General Assistant, (shelf stacker/ dogs body)
This position is regarded somewhat as being the lowest of the low within the supermarket, and generally is accompanied by the lowest amount of pay and the highest level of condescending behaviour dished out by the managers. If you are a general assistant, however than you would say that the trolley boys are the lowest of the low, (an opinion which it ought to be said, is mutual).
This job requires a knowledge of the location of just about every item, (no matter how random or bizarre), which the store sells, and even some of the things which the store doesn’t. Failure to have this intimate knowledge of everything on sale, often results in the customer becoming irate, and looking at you as if you’re the scum of the earth, for slowing down their highly important shopping trip.
Customers will often treat shelf stackers, as lowly pieces of scum that are just there, in order for them to take out their frustrations onto, as they can’t fight back. This situation is the same for all of the other menial jobs within the store such as checkout workers.
Shelf stacking involves perhaps the most amount of physical labour within the supermarket, especially upon the grocery and alcohol sections. Apart from the aforementioned having to remember where everything in the store is, part of the job, it is hardly what anyone would deem to be a brain taxing occupation.

Trolley workers.
The only position, which makes the general assistants feel important. The majority of the people within the store consider them to have suffered slight detrimental effects from having been out in the sun for too long, and are hardly what would be deemed as being a highly respected bunch.
They have to contend with the vagaries of the British weather, and come rain or shine (generally rain), they have to gather the trolleys that have been strewn all around the car park, and the localised area, by customers who are to lazy (or just plain evil), to return them to anything remotely like there rightful places.
Like the general assistants, there is no sitting down on the job, well no official sitting down on the job, like you do on checkouts, and so is rather tiring, but yet again easy, its not as if you can go too far wrong, when trying to collect a load of trolley’s together in the one place.

Warehouse/backdoor.
A much abused, underrated and looked over position. With the same level of pay as a general assistant and having normally originated from this area, the back door person (no jokes please). This area has to contend with all of the day’s deliveries, clean and maintain the warehouse, deal with waste, and all with the minimum of human contact throughout the day. The job has of cause got the plus point that they don’t have to content with customers all day long. Again the work isn’t what would be said as being mentally trying, but there is plenty of physical things to do, such as moving cages of stuff around, offloading and then re-loading cages etc. etc. So the job is hardly what could be called, an immense amount of fun.

Till worker.
This is generally thought of as being perhaps the easiest and yet the most boring and tiresome of all of the positions within a supermarket. A typical day upon the checkouts consists of sitting down for hours on end, slowly passing one item after another after another, past a little scanning red beam of light, listening to customers whinnying over the price of what their buying and the incomprehensible layout of the store; getting the occasional, random, and strictly timed, tea break.
There is a limited amount of opportunities to actually talk to anyone who you work with, which could be perceived as being a good thing, depending upon the kind of people that you happen to be working with. Saying this, as this is the largest single section within the store, with a fairly even mixture between the sexes (whereas the rest of the store does tend to be largely male orientated), there should be plenty of opportunities in which to meet other people. Especially if you are able to do a quiet shift.

The night team.
Going from a limited amount of information, the night team, who tend to begin work from 10 or 11, onwards into the night, are generally speaking a law onto themselves. Not that they run amok as no one is around, more that they keep to themselves, and have their own ways in which they do things. The nocturnal habits of the night team are perhaps best left alone. It would only be advised as a job option, if you don’t mind ever having a social life again, but would want to have a fair amount of money. It does pay a piece more than daytime work, (not to mention you would have less to actually spend the money on, if you work at night and sleep in the day). This could possibly be a good idea for a student type of job, especially if the amount of debt that you’re in is building up uncontrollably!

Skilled work (Fish counter, deli, or canteen etc. etc.)
This is a rather broad category and consists of many various unrelated jobs of varying levels of difficulty and areas of expertise. All of these positions have certain things in common, for instance, they are all higher paid, then the general assistants, and carry with them a small amount of self satisfaction for those within these positions, in that there is a very limited number of people within the store set up that have the requite skills to take over their jobs from them. They can be split into two sections; one which deals with the preparation of food, and the other, being one which deals far more with customers and staff problems and the public image side of a supermarket.
Fish counter and deli, people have to have a certain amount of knowledge as to what they are cutting up and dishing out to the customers, and have a skill in how they cut up the produce which they hand out, however have a disadvantage in that they inevitably (especially in the case of the fish counter), end up smelling very pronouncedly of whatever it is that they are dealing with.
Customer services and reception have the unpleasant job of dealing with customers, who are generally just there to ask difficult questions and/or to complain about the store. Not only this, but have the embarrassing job of giving out announcements to the rest of the store every five minutes over the loudspeaker system, about lost children, cars parked in the wrong places and special offers, ending each message having to thank the customers through gritted teeth, for shopping in the store.
It could be said that being a skilled worker would put a certain amount of stress upon you, as you have to actually use your brain, within what you are doing, to a certain extent, and if you do something wrong its fairly obvious (generally), that it was you who did it, as (as has been said before), there are a limited number of people within the store who are capable to do your job. But even with these jobs, it could hardly be described as being rocket science.

General manager.
This situation within a store is one which has certain mixed blessings, in that although it is certainly one of the best paid positions, which is indeed attainable for any employee who has any ambition within the supermarket industry, it is ultimately an admission by the person who undertakes it, as being that THIS is what their life is ever going to amounted to. This is the job which enables many unskilled and uneducated people to dish out orders, to lower figures within the stores pecking order, even though many of the “lower” figures, may well be of considerable higher intelligence then they are. This is not always the case of cause; there is the occasional “good” manager, who does treat people with respect, and displays sincerity and good humour, though that is not generally the rule. An observation, which has been made in the past about general managers, is that even if they start out with all the aforementioned virtues, they slowly, over time, become more and more egotistical and develop Napoleonic complexes. It has also been observed that when in the company of “higher” members of staff then themselves, they take on some of their characteristics and mannerisms, in order to emulate them.

Store manager.
Normally the most hated and loathed single figure within the store, as well as being considered to be the most incompetent by all, including the general managers. Also the highest paid job within the store. This is supposed to be (in theory at least) the most stressful job in the supermarket, as all of the decisions ultimately come down to you. Although what does often happen (allegedly) is that, if anything goes wrong, then someone slightly lower down the food chain, gets lumbered with the blame.
The store manager is able to bully people, and is ultimately the one who decides who gets fired, (and they let everyone know it), so for someone who wants a little taste of meaningless power, this could be the job for you.

General points.
Breaks, are generally speaking not very strictly monitored, (unless you happen to be on the checkouts), and so there is opportunity, to take your time over them to a certain degree, and have the odd extra five/ten minutes here and there, as long as you don’t get greedy about it. Managers on the other hand are able to get away with it however, by having lengthy “meetings”, within the canteen, which go on for endless amounts of time, and consist of such important matters, as “pull many birds last night then?” and “did you see the game last night?” Talking about sport, one quick tip, it is rather unadvisable, to yell at the store manager “One nil! One nil! Arry Kewel! Header, back of net! Ave it! Leeds are the greatest, in your face Man U!” when your store manager is a Man Utd supporter, and your team have just stuffed them at the beginning of the season. {ok, so Harry Kewel will no longer be scoring any goals for Leeds United, but you get the picture}.
Another thing you should watch out for is that after a while you learn to hate and detest the customers that come into the store. You somehow forget once upon a time you were just like them, and instead begin to loath them, for small things, such as picking up items of shopping, and then putting them back down in the wrong place, or for asking where something is.

Conclusion.
To finalise, employment within a supermarket, has its good and bad points, and it largely depends upon what you hope to get out of it, as to how good a place it is to work. If you’re a student, and looking for some casual work to earn some beer money, then its quite a good place to try. However there is always the danger of becoming sucked into the system, never to escape. There are many till people and general assistants, who have been working in supermarkets, who finished being students long ago, and yet are still stuck in the same jobs as they had when they were 16. They refuse to go for management jobs, as that would be like admitting defeat, and that the obscure job that their degrees entitle them to have, will never arise. Or even worse, they give up the dream of escaping, except the management job, and become a fully fletched slave to the system.
One of the major problems with working within a supermarket would have to be the lack of job satisfaction associated. For instance, if you’re on the tills and have served a hundred customers within a certain time (or something equally ridiculous), or a shelf stacker, and have been able to completely fill the all the shelves up for that day, none of it really maters. The next day, there are going to be hoards more customers waiting to be served, and the shelves are going to be empty again, there is nothing tangible within the job, that you can look back at and say “I did that”, like there is, for instance within building for instance, when you can look at a wall, or a house, and say “I built that”. But if that is not important to you, then by all means go for a career in a supermarket, there are far worse and far more difficult ways to earn a living.

Bedford pub review

2005-01-07T17:46:00.000Z

Pubs and bars in Bedford.

This is a quick introduction to some of the pubs, which have visited on occasion over the last few years, within the county town of Bedfordshire, Bedford. This is by no means all of the pubs in the Bedford area, nor is it a detailed description of what you are likely to find within, those that have been included. But it should be of relative use as an introduction to drinking within the town. Hope you find it useful. Will hopefully be adding more detail to it, as new pubs are visited, and old ones revisited in the future.

The Allen’s club.
A moderately sized pub, with a 40p pool table! Does seem to be slightly lacking in atmosphere, but is still rather pleasant all the same. Live bands occasionally play, should be noted that they tend not to be the usual rock or metal, types that are found in other pubs; they tend towards the more jazz end of the musical spectrum.
Comfortable seating, and plenty of it. It is a bit out of the way from anywhere else however (the pub that is and not the seating).
Hurst Grove.

The Balloon.
The Balloon is a very small pub that is close to the centre of town, but is one of those places that you wouldn’t actually ever go to, unless someone described exactly how to get there. It is certainly not a place for many of the younger drinkers around, and has a reputation as a bit of an old mans pub, which is very much reflected in the main clientele of the place.
The phrase “no-body likes a smartarse” is an apt one for this place. No-body should have any problems in this pub and actually have a good time, (some of the regulars are more than happy to regurgitate stories of past events to anyone that will listen), however if you behave as if you think that your better than the other people in the pub, then you may well not be inside the pub for a very long time. But on the plus side you won’t have to walk out of the door (because half a dozen blokes will have picked you up and thrown you out).
Overall a nice enough small pub, not one for most young people and certainly not for the majority of students. Is greatly lacking in conventional pub entertainments, and hasn’t exactly got the nicest décor or seating in the world, but could all be very much worse.
Foster Hill Road.

The Bankers Draught.
The other Wetherspoon’s to be found in Bedford*. There isn’t a great deal which can be said about this pub, which hasn’t been said about Pilgrims. Apart from, it is on the high street, and therefore has easier access to other pubs. Also has a beer garden, but is generally slightly smaller than Pilgrims, though saying this, it is still one of the largest pubs in Bedford. Becomes insanely packed on Friday and Saturday nights, but generally speaking isn’t overly bad.
High Street.
*Might be an idea to read the review about Pilgrims Progress before, Bankers Draught, as that was the original order in which this was written for some reason, but then thought to be clever would put the pubs into some sort of alphabetical order. Sorry if this causes confusion.

The Bear.
Perhaps not the type of pub for the smiley happy people brigade. Always seems to be dark, even on the brightest afternoon. Is part of the Greene King chain of pubs and therefore the quality of the beer, is fairly guaranteed. Perhaps has not got the best reputations in the world, and if you make the mistake of wearing very pale or bright colours when going there, then expect one or two dirty looks. The music tends towards the slightly alternative/ Kerrang style. It ought to be noted that unlike most pubs, the music is not produced by a bar controlled music machine, but rather by a jukebox at the far end of the pub. This has the plus point of providing the music that the people drinking in the pub actually want as opposed to what the pub managers like, but has the disadvantage of long silences occurring from time to time, and feeling that it’s chucking out time before it actually is. Does have a small outside drinks type garden out the back, with a couple of tables etc.
As long as you can get over any initial fears which may greet you as you enter, then you should find it a pretty good all round pub, but perhaps not the place to take the family.
High street.

The Bedford Arms.
This pub shall, almost certainly strike you as being a little on the rough side, from the moment that you walk through the door. Has had a slight refit and fresh lick of paint recently, and this has helped to improve the atmosphere somewhat. Although the main part of the bar does still look just about the same as it always did; the side room, (with pool table), does look really quite nice, with new modern looking stools, and décor. Still perhaps not a pub to spend a whole evening in, but can at least spend an hour or so there without feeling unduly uncomfortable.
Has a reasonable location, near to the centre of town, and less than five minutes stumble to the High Street.
Bromham road.

The Bedford Lounge.
This used to be (up until recently) Yates, and to be honest despite the change in name, some new sofas, and a new coat of paint inside and out, it hasn’t really altered at all. Well, it was very difficult to see any dramatic improvements within the place; the bar is exactly the same, the music being played is virtually the same as before, and even some of the bar staff look familiar. Have been told however that “its improved immensely”, although as the person that said that, had been drinking for the previous nine hours or so, his opinion is perhaps not the most reliable.
Basically if you like Yates, then you should like this place. Did seem to have a great deal more people in it than Yates ever had, but that could be because it’s a “new” venue. The music is basically popular, club orientated stuff, designed to get people warmed up for places like the Mission (see further down). Nothing really new or exciting here though. Disappointing.
High Street.

The Bird in Hand.
A plain and not very exciting kind of place hasn’t got anything really outstanding about it to recommend, or slate it. Has two pool tables, though they are often used for club matches. Also has big screen TV for sporting events. A bit out of the way though, and it’s a bit of a walk from the centre of town. Good for quiet nights out only, or for those willing to do some exercise along with there drinking.
Brickhill Drive.

The Blarney Stone.
A fairly small quiet pub, which is slightly hidden away from the main road, by a numerous amount of houses. A Charles Wells pub, which, is just about the only pub in Bedford, which serves Harp lager. Apart from that, the range is pretty much standard. It has a beer garden, which overlooks a small side road. It is rather too open, however, and there isn’t really any sense of privacy within the garden. Like many of the pubs in Bedford, which are not on the High street, there is nothing excessively wrong, or astonishingly brilliant about it. This seems to be a bit of a shame, as the pubs on the High street have an advantage over the non High street pubs (or N.H.S.P’s), due to their localities towards one another. This would have made me think that it would have been more of an incentive for the N.H.S.P’s. to be more individual and “different”.
Roise Street.

The Castle.
Another pub, which contains multiple rooms, although neither of them are particularly impressive or overly entertaining in themselves. A small number of horse brasses are dotted around, and it has the feel of an old-fashioned cosy type of establishment. Nothing to overly recommend it however, and is a bit difficult to find if you don’t know of its existence.
Rothsay Place.

The Century.
Quite a bit out of the way, from just about any other pub. Looks very uninteresting and new from the outside, and it doesn’t get too much better when you step inside. Has the added disadvantage of being in an area, which seems to attract “townies”. Although it does have to be said that the landlady has got a fearsome reputation as someone who does not take any flak from anyone, and so whilst you’re in the pub, no harm will come to you. Though you will have to keep a check upon your own behaviour and language.
Church lane.

Bar Citrus.
Perhaps not the most popular place to go, though there are not really many reasons why that should be so. All right there’s no pool table, or TV, but the beers nice, it’s fairly spacious, clean, with a pleasant enough, if rather subdued atmosphere. Not to mention that when a couple of us, whilst in a fairly intoxicated state, attempted to buy one of the bar maids a drink, she very honourably refused to accept, and did not take advantage of our slightly clouded states of mind. Does seem to be overly well lit for a pub, and is in stark contrast to the Bear, just around the corner. Is slightly difficult to see how it stays open, but does have a mildly good mid-day food trade, and has a nice looking coffee machine to boot.
Also should be said that Friday night is jazz night, with local musicians playing live music.
Harpur Street.

The Corner House.
A fair sized pub, although it does have the appearance of being bigger from the outside, than in. Has a pool table for entertainment value, and the beer is good quality and of the range you would expect from a typical Charles Wells pub. There’s an affordable jukebox in the corner, which plays, quite descent music. A pretty friendly place, with a reasonable atmosphere.
Tavistock Street.

The Cricketers.
Located fairly close to the centre of town and the High Street, this is an incredibly small pub, but often a very popular one. It is the closest pub to the rugby ground down the road, and is the primary drinking hole for fans after and before a game.
Due to this, and the obvious connotations from the bars name, it is a traditional sports bar. There is a wide screen television, that shows various sporting events, and it is decorated with various sporting memorabilia, such as old cricket bats and pictures of former players etc.
Over all a very nice pub, perhaps not the most exciting, or one that you would go to for a wild night out, but a very good family type of a pub, and perhaps good for the start of an evening out.
Goldington Road.

The Cross keys.
Another pub, which has Karaoke on a Sunday. Small, with a small dance floor, have virtually no seats. Didn’t exactly seem to be the most entertaining pub in the world, the only times that have gone into it, but nothing really to make me complain about it. Have been reliably informed however, that on the right night, or at the right time of day, it can be full of atmosphere, people music and excitement. So pick your timing carefully, or you could get a less than favourable idea of what it’s like.
High street.

The Devonshire arms.
Another small and highly un-noticeable pub, especially from the outside. If you didn’t know that there was a pub on this road and it was a dark day, than it would be very easy to walk straight past it. Inside there are two small rooms, which are connected via both a door by the bar, and the toilets, which was a nice feature.
Seemed to be a very friendly and cosy pub, with just about the right level of lighting, and a good old-fashioned traditional pub type of feel to it. Very homely and not a million miles of from the pubs on, and near to Castle road.
Dudley Street.

The Dew drop.
A very small pub, located across the road from the main accident and emergency hospital in Bedford. Not overly remarkable in itself, to look at wither inside or out, the décor is simple and old fashioned, and is typical of many other old fashioned pubs around. A Charles Wells pub, which has reasonably priced drinks, at a decent quality. Its main appeal is it’s locality to the hospital, mainly due to the possibilities of conversations with staff and patients from across the road nipping in for a quick drink to relieve their stresses of the day.
Has a big television, and pool table. Isn’t exactly the most exciting place in town; however is still one of the most known pubs around.
Britannia Road.

The Embankment hotel.
You have to walk through the hotels reception area to get to the bar from the main road. The bar itself is rather unremarkable and of fairly little interest. The price of the beer is slightly higher than what most people would wish for. You can order food at the bar, and there is a wide screen television and comfortable seats, in terms of entertainment value. The main good point about the place is its location on the side of the river. There are several seats outside at the front of the hotel, and you can overlook the incredibly picturesque Great Ouse River. So it’s up to you if you think that the great view is worth the extra expense of the beer.
The Embankment.

The Engine and Tender.
Didn’t come across as being the friendliest place in the world, at first, but as long as you don’t talk as though you have a plum in your mouth you should be alright, and get out with all knees intact.
No longer has any pool table, and so the only reason for going there has ceased to be. The seats and general décor are a little rough, but not to the point of being actually scary or a health hazard in themselves. It’s only the other people in there that you have to be weary of.
Midland Road.

Esquires. (Danny’s bar).
This should not be confused with the two areas of Esquires, where you have to pay for admission, which shall be described much later. Located on the ground floor, the bar in Esquires, is fairly small, but the bar area itself is reasonably large. It contains a pool table and slightly separated seating area at the back, if you want to get away from the bar itself. There are numerous televisions, dotted around, of various sizes, which normally have a music channel showing, the exact channel, depends largely as to who happens to be behind the bar at the time. Not much of a selection of beer and the atmosphere is fairly dead until late on in the night. Less than 10 minutes walk from the High Street, but then you could just spend the whole evening in Esquires, going from the bar, onto the club section later, if you can’t be bothered to walk anywhere.
Does occasionally have live bands playing, within the bar area itself.
Greyfiars.

Fleur de Lis.
A rather uninspiring pub, which doesn’t really have an enormous amount going for it. It is located close to the main club in Bedford (The Mission), and so has an advantage for those who can only manage to pretend to be sober for short periods of time. There isn’t really a great deal, which can recommend this pub, or for that matter especially damn it. The seating is fairly good, although it is lacking somewhat in any real atmosphere.
Mill Street.

The Flower Pot.
This, has a reputation as being one of the more intimidating pubs in Bedford, although, it is hard to say why on visiting. It certainly seemed to be one of the more friendly, if anything, places to go to. The people within, did tent towards the older end of the pub going market, and it would be rare to see many in there under 30. Still a very nice place to go to. Don’t let the name put you of either.
Has a small but pleasant enough beer garden, which is hardly very glamorous, but does all that’s it’s supposed to do.
Tavistock Street.

The Forester’s Arms.
Another small, not terribly inspiring pub, which has nothing wrong with it in particular. It has a very nice beer garden, which is very nice to spend some idle hours in, during a hot summer’s afternoon. The music is fairly standard popular modern stuff and the beer is of a standard sort of range. It also has a good quality pool table. All in all, (apart from the beer garden), it is a fairly average pub.
Union Street.

The Fox and Hounds.
Has various pop type music available, and two pool tables. Also an easily accessible jukebox. Plentiful comfortable seats available and an outside beer garden. Owned by Green King, so the beer tends towards being slightly the wrong side of £2.00 for the average half descent pint. Has the majority of the typical range of drinks, but nothing out of the ordinary or exciting.
Most notable feature is that it is painted bright yellow, though that is perhaps the most exciting aspect of it. Good for families.
Goldington Road.

George and Dragon.
Noted by some as being the pub to go to, on a good night out (at least on a Friday or a Saturday). A good variety of music and beers is often to be found. Has the bonus of being pretty much, right next to the Mission nightclub. A good all-round atmosphere has a fair sized beer garden out the back, and seats are often attainable, if you can wait for a few minutes. It has a good variety of drinks, and the bar is apparently open until 1, (at least on a Friday night). It is also close to the pubs on the high street. A draw back however, is that the music does tend towards the loud side, which on a Friday night is fine, but can be irritating if you want to talk to someone, in that you would have to go outside into the beer garden.
Mill Street.

The Gordon Arms.
Another fairly ordinary and plain pub. Is slightly newer looking than the other two pubs in the area. Has a nice enough atmosphere and serve nice enough beer. Has a nice pool table, with nice cues. There are nice people to be found at the bar, and all in all it’s a nice place. What more can really be said, apart form it’s “nice”.
Castle road.

The Grafton.
It seems to be a fairly small pub, but that’s only up until you realise that there are three separate rooms within. Not the sort of place you would spend a lot of time in if you don’t like either Manchester united, or Celtic, as there are many numerous pictures and memorabilia, from either team, dotted around the walls. If you don’t really care about this however, then it is a perfectly nice enough place, to go. One of the rooms is fairly quiet, and you can have a perfectly civilised talk, in front of the telly, which is all very homely. Did get the impression that students were hardly the largest section of the places clientele, so if you are, then be prepared for a few slightly surprised looks.
Midland Road.

The Hobgoblin.
A Wytchwood owned pub, which looks and feel like an old fashioned slightly alternative pub. Great atmosphere if you catch it at the right time. Serve an above average range of drinks, especially if you’re not solely a lager drinker. The seats perhaps leave a little to be desired, as they are of the hard basic wooden variety, though saying that this is not a pub where soft furnishings would really fit in very well. Kerrang is normally to be seen on the big projector screen, and heard over the speakers. Friday’s are slightly different however, as it try’s to become more mainstream and tends to play more and more “cheesy” pop tunes as the night wares on. There is again a pool table available for extra entertainment. Once more, a draw back is the steep stairs to the toilets, but on the whole this is a pub which would be strongly recommend, for those who are perhaps not completely conventional, but not willing to go as far out as the Beer.
High street.

The Kings arms.
This is an old fashioned type of pub, with an old fashioned looking wooden interior etc. along with the occasional one or two pieces of horse brass etc. has an entertaining pool table (if you get to play on it, then you will see what is meant by that). Has a very cosy atmosphere, and is good if you want to just sit down and chat to someone, as there is the added bonus of mild level music in the background to fill up any awkward silences, which may occur. Does apparently have occasional karaoke and quiz nights, should you feel so inclined; if you’re not however, be warned.
St. John’s Street.

The Littern Tree.
Karaoke on a Sunday seems to be pretty much the main draw back of this pub. That and the occasional use of promotions, which require members of the staff to go out in the street dressed in ridiculous costumes, trying to induce people to come inside. Anywhere, which feels that it needs such extreme forms of self-advertising to get custom is rather off-putting, and comes across as being a touch desperate. Has pool tables, if your lucky enough to get on them, numerous and large TV screens, which tend to show sport. Plentiful seats, and the music is usually pretty good, if perhaps occasionally inappropriately loud, (in that after around 8, loud music is fine and good and normally very welcomed, however in around 6, should be more in terms of background only). A large pub, one that could compete with the Wetherspoon’s. Yet again however you have to endure a set of stairs, if found in need of relief. Now there appears to be a toilet attendant present most evenings. Although always genial in themselves, it just isn’t really what you want to find whilst in a pub.
This at time of writing was the only pub that was found to be open till 12, on a Sunday night, (at least on the High Street); but perplexingly, only open until 11 on a Monday and a Wednesday.
High Street.

The Mill.
A fairly soulless place, which is perhaps overly well lit. Has a bit of a reputation as being the place where the local public school kids go to, which can be either good or bad depending on who you are. Deeply lacking in atmosphere, and is perhaps overly clean, feels as if it has been sterilised. It is however very well located, being very close to the Mission night club, and close to the High Street. Would not recommend it as a place to go to for long, or if you want an entertaining time.
Mill Street.

The Nags Head.
Has a fairly descent pool table, and a long bar. Not certain what the range of music is, as have only been in there a couple of times, and then they played light Reggae. Extensive sofas and all of them seem to be quite comfortable. The walk to the toilets is perhaps one of the rather more curious aspects of this pub, in that you have to walk along a long and winding corridor, from the bar to them (which would imagine become quite a challenge for the more inebriated). It occurs to me that they could have made the pub about twice as big, if they made the toilets closer to the bar.
Good quality food is also available.
Midland Road.

The Paddington
Pretty large pub, with two main rooms, one of which has a large dance floor area, and the other a pool table. The seating appears to be slightly limited, but what there is, is comfortable enough. Again nothing much to complain about here, although its location is a bit out of the way and the atmosphere hardly gets the blood going.
Midland Road.

The Park.
A very nice and homely pub. The occasional local band plays there, although is really too small to contain a band if truth be told. Has a spacious beer garden, which can be seen from the road, and adjoins onto the car park, which is a bit unusual. There is usually a quiz night there on Sundays. Its location is negative on the one hand, due to the distance from other pubs, but positive on the other due to its proximity to Bedford Park, which is surely one of the most picturesque places within Bedford.
Kimbolton Road.

The Phoenix.
An instantly warm and friendly place to go to, with friendly staff and even friendly regulars. A fairly large pub, if slightly out of the way, but is really worth a few minutes walk to get to.
Another Charles Wells pub, with perhaps fractionally expensive beer, however this is in part at least compensated by the 50p pool table, which is really of a good quality for a pub, as are the cues. Other sources of entertainment are to be found in small televisions and a darts board.
The main attraction really is the overall friendly atmosphere, which has a distinct Irish tinge to it.
St. Johns Street.

The Pilgrims Progress.
A Wetherspoons. There isn’t a lot more which needs to be said about it really, as the majority of people know exactly what that entails, i.e. no music, only warm taps in the toilets (which discovered to great annoyance, upon the first visit to one of these chain pubs), quite a good menu of food, on a normal night, a strange mixture of old people and students (due to the menu, and cheapness of the beer). It goes without saying that there isn’t a pool table in sight, and that the atmosphere is generally rather non-existent. However, due to the lack of music, is good if you want a lengthy conversation, or somewhere to take a family.
This is the larger of the two Wetherspoons in Bedford, though the furthest from the majority of the other pups in Bedford (e.g. The High street).
Has got a small beer garden to the rear of the pub.
Generally seen to be a pub that you go to, to get drunk on cheap beer, before going to somewhere else.
Midland Road.

Porters Black. (Has recently closed down, will keep posted).
A music and sports bar essentially. This is a very modern looking bar, with a large dance floor, and slightly above average seats. Most nights there is some sort of sport being played on the large screen, apart from on Friday nights when they have a live band. The quality of the band does it has to be said, vary quite a lot, and is a bit of pot luck as to whether you like them or not on the night.
High street.

The Rose.
Deemed a music bar, and therefore obviously has a plentiful and slightly varied range of music being played. Different nights have different musical styles, and you should try and pick your night with discretion. Has a very large beer garden along the side of the pub. There are two pool tables, but both of which are outside, although you can only use them during the summer. Does have a large TV projector screen thing. Have to climb a set of stairs, for the toilets, which as a mate discovered one New Years Eve, were quite an effort. The chairs tend to be of good comfort quality, if you can get one. Can become incredibly busy, (memories of waiting for over half an hour sobering up, whilst in a queue for a drink are still haunting). Have one or two slightly “different” beers, in the form of Hoegardern, on tap, (which I would recommend, but be warned, it is quite heavy and not one for the already bloated). Now open until 2am on Friday and Saturday nights.
High Street.

The Saracens Head.
This was formally the Circuit bar, but has gone under the name of the Saracens head once before.
Basically much the same as it was, still very small, with toilets at the back, well lit, and reasonably comfortable seating. It has altered in the sense that it now caters more for people wanting to eat, then it did before, with the whole of the back end of the pub being just a series of tables, where there had previously been an empty space for dancing. There is also a slightly increased variety of beers available, and is (at time of writing) the only pub in Bedford to serve the German Erdinger Weissbier, wheat beer. This is a much more palatable and less cloudy wheat beer than Hoegardern, and in the few months since the pub opened has already become somewhat of a cult, amongst certain people that work within the area; despite a slightly unusual smell, which some might find a bit disturbing.
One of the main drawbacks to the pub is that the price of the beer is on average a bit more expensive than the majority of other pubs, even those on the High Street. Also there is a slight feel of exclusivity, which may be off putting to some, although it does depend rather as to what time of day you go in, so it is worth a try.
St.Pauls Square.

The Ship.
A very friendly pub, with plenty to do when you are in it to keep you entertained. There are a few small TV’s dotted around, a pool table, darts, and they have live music on Saturday nights. The music (with the understandable exception of Friday and Saturday nights), is played at a decent level, and is affable enough. There is however a feeling that pretty much the same people visit the pub time and time again and that everyone knows one another. The whole, “where everybody knows your name”, springs to mind. If you are intending to find a friendly, place to call you’re local, then this will probably suite very well. But it is also a nice pub just to visit on the odd occasion as well.
Bromham road.

The Ship.
This is quite an interesting pub; in that it is sectioned of into three fairly separate parts, with the bar dead in the centre of the pub. The first part being the non-smoking section. This is perhaps the least lively section, and means that you have to effectively partly go outside and come back in again to the second section, in order to get to the toilets. The second and third sections are somewhat plain and unremarkable in themselves. There is a small beer garden at the front of the pub, and an additional slightly bigger one to the rear, which are both very pleasant upon the occasional sunny days that come along within Bedford. Does seem to be a friendly and pleasant pub, with a good atmosphere, comfortable and varied seating (pending on what room you’re in), and a reasonable variety of beers. Pretty close to the High Street, although if you didn’t know about it, then it would be slightly difficult to just bump into.
St. Cuthberts Street.

Bar Soviet.
Small and highly modern. Is perhaps trying slightly too hard to be chic, but as far as Bedford is concerned, it comes over as being fairly sophisticated. Has a very wide range of various vodkas, of various types and flavours, as well as all of the normal Alco pops and usual suspect lagers. Nice seats, and has the benefit of no stairs. Another pub with an occasional big screen TV. The queues to get in there on certain nights, can be rather extreme however, and would advice either going early, or being prepared for a long wait in order to get in.
Lime Street.

The Square.
The Square, (formally the Bullnose Bat), reputably is the first and so far only bar in Bedford that runs an American style of bar tab, in that if you wish, you can pay for all of you’re drinks at the end of the night, instead of paying as you go. As you have to hand over you’re bankcard at the start of you’re stay there, there is no chance of running out without paying. This method of doing things seems a little on the risky side, as it would be very easy to accumulate an obscenely large bill, without really noticing it until its too late.
Other draw backs to this pub are that, it no longer has any pool table, the music is of a somewhat questionable club like nature, and it is heavily overcrowded. Like the bulllnose bat before it, however, it does have incredibly comfortable sofas, although actually being able to sit on one is a little on the difficult side due to the overcrowding issue.
St. Paul’s Square.

The Three Cups.
A good old fashioned, fairly traditional looking and feeling pub, with two separate sections, with the bar in the centre. Slightly unusual music (such as Country and Western), but other than that it’s a nice enough place to visit. Once more slightly out of the way, and is really not the sort of place that’s really worth walking out of you’re way in order to get to. Pleasant enough, with good seating and the only coat hangers, that you would actually be tempted to use, in any pub in Bedford.
Rothsay Place.

The Three Tuns.
The only pub, which is in the small village of Biddenham. This is very much an old fashioned, village type of pub, which contains numerous and plentiful horse brasses, which are liberally dotted around. You do half expect someone to come in and start yelling, “tally ho”, at any second. Saying this, it does have a cosy enough atmosphere, and the people within it are always friendly. It does seem to be very much a local pub, and it does seem unlikely that many people from outside of the village frequent it very often.
Deep Spinney.

Venom.
One of the slightly new breed of pub/club type places. A highly fashionable and modern sort of place, playing very clubby style music. Very large in size, although largely on the same level. Has plenty of seating, which is of a reasonable comfort, and has an area for dancing. The prices are some of the most expensive to be found on the High Street (and therefore in Bedford as a whole), especially for pints. The amount of variety is considerably limited as well. Really far too loud a place to go for a conversation with anyone, and really only the type of place to go to if going to a club afterwards. Nothing really new to be found here, and not worthy of some of the hype that has come its way. There are two beds to be found at the far end of the pub, which are there apparently for larger groups of friends to “chill out” upon. There is also a fountain, although “if ya touch it, then you’re out!” So you have been warned.
The High Street.

Wellington Arms.
At last a pub not on the High street, which offers something slightly different! It does this by offering a large range of guest ales every week. Admittedly this would hardly appeal to all, but it does fill a gap in the market, and it does it very well. There is normally quite a selection of unusually named beers to chose from, (with the added bonus of being able to try before you buy), and they alter every week, so if you’re an ale drinker you will never get bored. There are one or two more mainstream beers on offer regularly, as well as a few wines and spirits for those less keen on ale.
The atmosphere is very good, in that it’s a small pub, which gets VERY full. Everywhere you look within it, you can see beer mats from countless strange named beers, from breweries all around the country and beyond. The average age of the customers within, would have to be around forty at least, so perhaps not the typical young persons pub, but all in all it certainly makes for a slightly different place to go. Comes highly recommended.
Princess Street.

The White Horse.
Initial impressions, caused scepticism, as seemed far too well lit, and appeared to just be an old pub, that was trying to be overly modern, by having fancy glass, light coloured wood panelling and new looking seats dotted around. It ought to be knotted that if new look wood etc. is what you are looking for within a pub, than you may well be a bit disappointed by the toilets.
It was redeemed heavily by the friendliness of the bar staff, who were only too pleased to chat about complete nonsense, which is always a bonus within a pub, when you are trying to pass time, whilst waiting for someone.
A large place, that isn’t exactly very close to many other places, although is the nearest pub to the Pollhill campus of the local university, and isn’t too far away from the cinema (around 5-10 minutes walk).
Overall, a reasonable place, but benefit if it were to try slightly less to be modern.
Newnham Avenue.

Awards (so far).
Best music: (Generally), Hobgoblin.
Best seating: Bedford Lounge.
Cosiest atmosphere: The Ship (Bromham Road).
Best “going out” atmosphere: The Rose.
Best toiletries: The George and Dragon.
Best “starter” pub: Bankers draught.
Best entertainment (pool table etc.): Fox and Hounds.
Best beer garden: The Ship (Bromham Road).
Most old-fashioned pub: The Three Tuns.
Most “intriguing” jukebox: The Bear.
Jekyll and Hyde atmosphere (depending on night): Hobgoblin.
“Tis a local pub for local people”: The Three Tuns.
Worst stairs: The Rose.
Slowest serving: The Rose.
Worst atmosphere: The Circuit bar.
Scariest pub: The Engine and Tender.

Clubs.

The definition between pubs/bars and clubs in this instance is purely that you have to pay, on entrance into a club, and not in a pub.

Esquires.
Downstairs.
It should be firstly pointed out that although the upstairs and downstairs of Esquires, are to be found within the same building, the reason for the definition between the two, is that, as a bouncer once put it “there two separate venues, got it?” So taking his word for it…
Downstairs basically consists of a large dance area, with a bar at one side as you walk into it, from the cloakroom/corridor, and a small seating area, on the other. The music tends towards the more alternative / Kerrang end of the market, and the most entertaining night would have to be Friday. Saturday is normally about as busy, although the music and the people are mush more mainstream (one Saturday the most alternative thing played was “The Darkness”). A very entertaining place to visit, with a varied range of people to be found.
Recommended pubs: The Bear; Hobgoblin; Esquires (bar).
Upstairs.
This is generally just a live music venue, and like the bar downstairs, closes at 11. Normally speaking, local bands play there, which means that the quality can vary greatly; although some known bands have been known to play there in the past. Can be a very good atmosphere, but again depends upon the bands playing. It is also reputedly haunted, although no evidence of this has so far come to light.
Recommended pubs: Hobgoblin; The Bear; Porters Black.
Both to be found upon: Greyfriars.

Lizards. (Has now closed, and is turning into Temptations, which will apparently be a lap-dancing club.
Quite small for a club, has an average sized bar, a moderate dance floor area near the back, which slightly annoyingly you have to walk through to get to the toilets, which are themselves really too small. Live bands often play there, on Fridays and Saturdays, which means the quality of the music, can be variable. The non-live music tends towards the rock end of the market. Always a friendly and altogether pleasant atmosphere to be found. Is free before 11, and the beer is more or less at pub price level, so a cheapish night out can be had.
Fairly similar to Esquires, although smaller, and perhaps not quite the same energetic atmosphere.
Recommended pubs: Porters Black; Hobgoblin; The Bear.
Tavistock Street.

Luxe.
On the site of what was Chaplin’s on the High Street, although if you were acquainted
with that place, then do not expect anything remotely like it.
Firstly the positives about the place: The price of entry is reasonable for a club in Bedford, especially considering that it is the only club that is located on the High Street itself. There are even times when entry is actually free before a certain time, on some days. The lighting and initial atmosphere are very good, and it looks like a very stylish and sophisticated type of place. There is a small outside courtyard, where you can chill out, and get away slightly from the music inside, which even includes a very comfortable bench. The toilets are incredibly spotlessly clean, and again are rather stylish in themselves, and have the added plus of not being encumbered by an attendant. The bar staff and the bouncers are all friendly, and even when the club is pretty busy; you can normally get served promptly.
Now for the negatives: It is one of the smallest clubs in Bedford, and is perhaps only slightly larger than The Pad. The outside courtyard, although having some heating, is really far too cold a place to spend a great deal of time in the winter. To get to the toilets, you have to walk straight through the middle of the dance floor, and try and avoid colliding with any overly enthusiastic dancers. The toilets themselves only have warm taps. But the main bone of contention is the price and selection of drinks available. For the average bottle of beer of alcho-pop, the price is around £3, which would be steep for even the bigger clubs, like Mission. For a draught beer however you are not given the option of a pint! You are forced to drink a half pint, which for many is really a step too far. The price for this is a truly excessive £2! There are only three beers on tap, two lagers, and a wheat beer (Hoegarden).
The music itself is a reasonable and quite popular selection, but not to everyone’s taste.
The majority of people that go there dress smart casual, so if you don’t want to feel out of place, a shirt of some sort might be a good idea. Well if you are male at least.
All in all a reasonable place to go, and will suit if young, look smart and can afford the drinks; but perhaps not for all.
Recommended pubs: Venom; The Square; The Bedford Lounge.
The High Street.

Mission.
Possibly the largest and currently the most popular club in Bedford, partially for its size, its location, and the type of music played there.
The entrance fee is fairly reasonable, and there are student nights on Mondays and Thursdays.
The music played there, is a mixture of drum & bass, dance, and a bit of cheese thrown in for good measure.
The drinks range from expensive, to very expensive; so don’t even bother about pints, unless you’re loaded.
Being one of the most popular places to go, there is a bit of a variety of people that go there, but is generally filled with young clubber types, on the pull.
The toilets are very clean and pleasant, although are slightly of putting, in that there is generally an attendant that constantly tries to flog you lollipops, and aftershave samples.
The building used to be a church, many years ago, which included a graveyard. The fact that whilst you’re queuing to get in, you have to stand by a load of gravestones, is a bit off-putting, and hardly something to put you into a party/dancing mood.
It does have a bit of a bad reputation, especially if one or two of the local papers are to be believed, in terms of violence outside and in.
Recommended pubs: Littern Tree; The George and Dragon; The Rose; the Circuit Bar.
Mill Street.

New York New York.
Has some of the best and more imaginative lighting of any place in Bedford. Was formally Chicago’s and is certainly a big improvement upon what it was like. The main attraction and kitsch value of the place is dance floor. Not the largest dance floor by any stretch of the imagination, however it has got to be the most colourful by a long, long way! Think sort of Saturday Night Fever, with alternating colour squares. It is worth a look. Even the steps up to the gent’s toilets have lights imbedded within them.
The main part of the place is centred on the dance floor, with a bar at either end. The beer, depending on what you have is actually reasonably priced, and there are normally deals to be found on certain brands (sometimes a pint can be as low as £1.50). There are a couple of small rooms at the front, which are sort of small quite places to chill out a bit and get away from the loud music, which is always a good thing within a club.
The price of entry is normally fairly reasonable, and although it isn’t a very big place, and the music wont be to everybody’s taste, it is definitely worth a look, if only for the one time.
Recommended pubs: Bankers Draught; Cross Keys; Fleur de Lis.
St Peter’s Street.

The Pad.
A very small club, with an incredibly small dance floor and bar. It does have the advantage of having a small room upstairs, that is sort of a chill out room to escape the noise of downstairs, so that you can actually talk to people and relax for a few minutes, just passed the toilets, (should be noted that this room is not always open, just on busy nights i.e. Friday, Saturday and Sunday).
Serves some slightly more unusual types of beer, although you should ask how much some of the more peculiar types are, before sampling, as they can be a touch on the expensive side.
The music although being fairly on the mainstream side, has become more on the alternative rock side of late, and can be considered to be a lighter option to Esquires.
There is a glass shelve situated on one wall by the side of the dance floor, which due it being situated just underneath a purple fluorescent light, has the rather unnerving effect of making any lager placed thereon, glow a disturbing green colour. This is certainly a fairly worrying thing to see when you have drunk a few, so be warned.
Have some incredibly friendly bouncers, which is always a pleasant and unusual surprise. A reasonable atmosphere, although can be a while before it picks up if you get there before 11.
Recommended pubs: The Rose; Littern Tree; Bar Soviet;
Lime Street.