Archive for July, 2008


I nearly cut one of my ears off just now. “How ever did you manage that, Crapsack?” I hear you gasp in dismay. “Were you juggling with burning knives? Wrestling a Siberian tiger, perhaps? Or is is because you’re so damn hard that you decided to snip an ear off, without flinching, just to prove how goddam ROCK you are?”

None of the above.

I was trying to trim my ear hair.

Now, just a minute, let’s have a look at those two words again ; Ear. Hair. Two pefectly serviceable, nay – vital words. Two words that should never be seen together in the same sentence. Nevertheless, over the past couple of years strange strands and tufts have started appearing from within my head via my ear-holes.

Why in the name of fuck do I suddenly need ear hair? What’s it bloody for, other than to make me look like even more of a twat than I usually do? I just don’t get it. Well, I do, and that’s the problem. Ever tried trimming hair in your ears, I hope to christ you haven’t, it’s an affliction from the very depths of hell itself. Oh, something else – it’s only in the last couple of years that I’ve suddenly lost my life-long ability to hear bats! Yeah, ok, it’s not exactly a super-power, I know. But it must coincide with this sudden hirsuteness about the lobes which I’m experiencing.

Getting old is shit, no doubt about it. All you young things who titter at my predicament – your time will come, mark my words, and when it does… well, I’ll probably be dead so you won’t be able to turn to old uncle Crapsack for his sage advice. So there.

My weekend was rubbish, the rendezvous never happened. I felt like shite on Saturday so I decided to have a couple of hours kip after lunch. Woke up at 7pm, the time I was supposed to arrive at my mate’s place, and felt even shitter. So I had to phone in on that one. Then I developed the screaming squitters and had to cry off work for monday and tuesday. Heh. No, really, it was trickling down the backs of my legs I tell you.

Ah well. Soon be Christmas.


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Turned Out Nice Again

Fuck me it’s hot, and about bloody time too! Yeah, I’ve whinged all year about the weather, finally it’s boiling and I’m going to BLOODY WELL ENJOY IT… even if I can’t sleep and if I so much as blink I start sweating… I’M BRITISH DAMMIT, WE LOVE THE HEAT…

Today went, er, kind of badly I suppose. I was almost right – the Frenchman was tall, dark, swarthy and miserable, the Indian was short, dark, swarthy and miserable and the other one– tall, slim, long blonde ringlets and looked younger than I’d thought but actually turned out to be older than I’d thought. You just never can tell, eh? I met them for about 2 minutes, then they were whisked away for top-level meetings which I wasn’t a party to while I held the fort in the office with a staff of 6 people trying to do the job of 20. It was bollocks, big hairy sweaty swinging bollocks.

With clagnuts on them.

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Tomorrow’s going to be weird.

I am meeting some clients of the business I work for. I’ve been speaking to them daily, via the miracle of the modern telecommunications network, for many months now but I’ve never actually met them in person. I know their names, where they work, have a rough idea of their personalities and have formed imagined images of what they look like purely based on their mannerisms. Yet I’ve never even seen so much as a line drawing of any of them.

No doubt they also have images of me, I think they may be in for a disappointment. I’m not putting myself down, but I – apparently – have a young-sounding, soothing voice (I would heartily dispute that but, hey, who likes the sound of their own voice anyway? Apart from John Barrowman obviously). I am neither young (not far off, but not quite anymore I’m sad to say) or soothing if you were to get to know me. Although how is that related to my appearance? Obviously not at all. But I get the impression that at least one of them thinks I’m quite good looking. Oh dear.

For the record these are the mental images I have of the 3 people I’m due to meet ; one is a slightly flirtatious, slightly world-weary middle aged woman (I know that much from various chats we’ve had) and I picture her as a little matronly, perhaps slightly plump, brunette who colours her hair (but not too much) and is great fun at dinner parties. One speaks with an almost impenetrable French accent and I see him as tall, confident, 40-ish, dark haired and slightly swarthy. The third is generally rude, waspish and impatient. I imagine her as Indian (her name is Indian so that’s a shoe-in), short, slim, late 20s and very aloof but attractive with it. This will be an interesting experiment…

In other news, the dog almost caught a squirrel today. Not a good idea as it would probably chisel his face off if he got it in his mouth. By Christ my life’s interesting, eh?

Sod it, I’m going to run the bath…

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I’m sure my ‘hordes’ of ‘loyal’ ‘readers’ will be relieved to hear that I am still alive. No? Ah, bollocks to you then. I’ve been a tad tardy in my blogging of late, this is due to a quite extreme form of utter laziness for which I offer no apologies. Hey, shit happens y’know.

So, what’s been going down? Well, not one hell of a lot to be frank (or edward). Had a couple of weeks holiday, took dogs on walks, visited places, ate food – you get the general picture. Last Saturday though I thought I’d let me hair (singular) down a bit and toddled off to the good city of Bristol to meet up with a couple of mates (for anonymity’s sake I will refer to them as Len and Paul – yeah, you know who you are). The evening started off quite innocently with Len demonstrating his new purchase – a replica MiniMoog which can produce some quite astonishing sounds with very little effort and made me feel I was suddenly in an episode of Dr Who from 1972. Sadly Jo Grant (older eaders and saddos will get this reference) didn’t appear, neither did she strip off and frolic with a dalek, so we met up with Paul and decided to ‘hit’ the town.

 Specifically we invaded a small, somewhat primitive venue known as The Croft and proceeded to destroy our cognitive functions with a mixture of real ale and the ocassional dash outside to a small alleyway where we furtively sucked on a spliff like naughty schoolboys behind the bike sheds… Is that phrase relevant any more? I imagine these days that ‘naughty schoolboys’ walk around openly smoking weherever they like, happily knifing anyone who may protest.

 I digress.. The main reason we were there was to attend a couple of live bands – The Heads (a notorious Bristol based band with a massive cult following) and The Wooden Shjips from San Fransisco. It was a new one for me – my first psychedelic prog-metal gig! That’s the only way I can describe the incredible music I experienced that night. There was a third band, the name escapes me, the warm-up, which consisted of one bald man playing drums and another bald man on lead guitar. The drummer pounded an ultra-fast ultra-loud rhythm while the guitarist created ear-buggering feedback and just kind of twisted his guitar around for 45 minutes. It was certainly novel, I’ll give them that, and the venue was the size of your average lounge so pretty soon my eardrums had just given up, packed suitcases and fucked off. Still, with some chemical assistance one can enjoy almost anything.

 Eventually it was time to go, minus eardrums and brain, please don’t ask me what actual time it was – I haven’t the faintest idea. It was dark though and the centre of Bristol was strangely quiet so the (long) walk back to Len’s passed uneventfully, even if we were tripping off our nuts. Please remember here that all three of us easily fall into the bracket ‘gentlemen of a certain age’ and are therefore expected to behave in a civilised manner. Not a chance. Sorry, but as you get older life becomes even more uninteresting and mundane, the narcotics are an absolute boon.

 We diddled around at Len’s for a few more hours, listening to music, behaving like 7 year old girls when an unexpected cat appeared through the back door, topping up the drugs whenever reality threatened to intrude and I eventually crawled out of there at 8am and made my way home on the first train back, still floating happily in a haze of bewilderment. Christ knows what Iooked like to fellow train passengers, some homeless git with a stupid cheesy grin I expect. Aw, c’mon, I do this kind of thing about 4 times a year, give me a break here, it’s not illegal… ok, some aspects of it might be, but I’ve never had points on my driving license you know – balance, see? Balance. I’m a good boy most, alright some of the time.

 Another rendezvous is planned for this coming weekend, different town, work colleague from years back, and a much calmer evening planned (probably). Which no doubt means we’ll end up in the Spearmint Rhino or something…


Christ! I left the oven on….

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