Archive for February, 2009


Like several million people in this country I am a car driver. Unlike several million people in this country I know how to drive a car. There’s a difference. And, as far as I’m concerned, about 75% of other drivers on the road should be in silly little cars which keep backfiring, forcing all the doors to fall off, and wearing silly wigs, big red noses and size 18 shoes. You BUNCH OF FUCKING CLOWNS!!!

Here’s a little lesson on what some of the funny knobs and dials are for on your dashboard : You know those funny little sticks which protrude from around the steering wheel? Guess what – they’re actually NOT for hanging things on! When you twist them they do some pretty amazing things. For example, one of them makes little lights flash on the front, back and sometimes even the side of your car! THESE ARE NOT DISCO EFFECT LIGHTS WHICH FLASH IN TIME TO THE MUSIC YOU ARE PLAYING – FAR TOO FUCKING LOUDLY BY THE WAY. They are there so you can tell other people where you are going! I know! What a revolutionary idea!

Now, I know your next question – Why should you want to let anyone else know where you’re going? That’s your business, right? WRONG. For example, if you see, let’s say for the sake of argument ME, waiting to cross a busy road the other side of a roundabout and you are indicating to carry on round the roundabout and then decide, without switching off your indicators, to actually leave the roundabout with out any warning at all you may well find that I am halfway across the road in front of you. This is NOT the point where you sound your horn and gesticulate wildly at me in an aggressive manner. No. Because that makes you like like an UTTER TWAT, an ARSEHOLE and a RETARD. Got it? TWAT!

Actually that’s happened before. The last time some massive tit tried to murder me was during the summer. This car draws up to a junction I am about to cross, not signalling, so I assume it’s going straight on. I step out and the wanker turns directly towards me and nearly has both my bastard feet off. As he passed I leaned into his open passenger side window and said “You know your indicators are broken mate?”. Ignorant fucker chased me down the street screaming incoherant swear words at me. Some people just can’t take a bit of gentle criticism.

I’m goint to open the Crapsack School of Motoring. If you don’t come up to scratch and show a bit of COMMON FUCKING SENSE I’ll have both your bastard HANDS off at the WRIST. Ha.




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I try to walk to work as often as I can, partly for the excercise and partly because I need an infusion of music to start my day and my car is so ancient it only has a crap cassette player with one working speaker in it. So I load up the mp3 player and set forth on my 50 minute journey.

This is all well and good but I seem to wear out the headphone cable with alarming regularity. I decided to spend a bit extra and get some good quality headphones for a change. So I bought the Sennheiser cx 300s. I’ve never used headphones with ‘ear buds’ before, attracted by the phrase ‘Blocks Outside Noise’ I thought I’d give ’em a go. Jesus. Yes, they certainly do block outside noise. Unfortunately they enhance INSIDE noise. With the buds pushed firmly into my ears I can hear every step I take reverberate through my body like thunder, every swallow I take makes a disgusting crackly gulping noise. Worse still, and I don’t think I’m some kind of freak of nature, but when I do swallow the pressure created between my throat and ears (via the eustachian tubes for all you human biology ignoramouses out there) sucks the buds deeper into my head. It’s disgusting, uncomfortable, distracting and – frankly – gross.

So I have to try and balance them just inside my ears but not quite pushed in – so that it sounds like I’m listening to music via two tin cans on a bit of string.

Why is modern life so utterly shite sometimes? I try and spend a little extra to improve my leisure and pleasure time and end up worse off than if I’d spent £3.99 on cheap ‘phones which break after 2 weeks.

Maybe I am a freak of nature after all. I suppose that would explain my five nipples.

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Living where I am I don’t get to see many famous people in the flesh. Met Midge Ure once, who lives round here, that’s about it. But the last two times I’ve visited Bath I’ve almost bumped into actors who have been in Doctor Who.

Three weeks ago I was wandering towards a car park when Louise Jameson marched past me. She was clearly on a mission, heading purposefully in the direction of the Theatre Royal, and I didn’t have the guts (or stupidity) to stop her. What would I say anyway? What would be the point?

A couple of months before that I was standing on the platform of the railway station when a dapper little man in an immaculate light grey suit scurried up to look at the electronic signs which were all displaying either ‘LATE’ or ‘CANCELLED’ messages. He was talking loudly and unhappily into a mobile “Yes, the bloody thing’s cancelled..” was all I heard before he scurried off again. It was Simon Callow, and he’s shorter than me much to my surprise. But he looks so tall on the TV, etc etc

They’re only people. But it’s kind of weird meeting people in the flesh in mundane situations who you’ve seen countless times on the telly box. I do hope I never bump into George Michael in a public lavatory though, you gotta draw the line somewhere.

I have been amused this week by the song written by Hugh Cornwell about the town of Trowbridge. He is basically saying it’s a terrible dump with no redeeming features. The news showed images of a dirty, crappy looking town and then stopped a few people in the street for some vox pops. They came across as thicky dullards, I especially liked the ape-like creature who was asked ‘Do you know who Hugh Cornwell is?’ You could see clearly that there was absolutely nothing going on behind the eyes as he grunted “Ooh?” in a superbly dim-witted local accent.

Here’s a little secret – I live in Trowbridge.

And Hugh Cornwell is absolutely correct.

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Naked and Dripping

Baths. Bloody genius.

I was born in the 60s to fairly elderly parents. They had lived through the 2nd world war and all its privation, and bloody loved every minute of it. As a consequence, when I was growing up under their control I had to live with the very real fact that frugality was the constant watchword and luxury was to be shunned. A normal bath for me – right up to adulthood – was about 2 inches of water, just enough to cover my legs, and a capful of bubble bath. That was it. Get in, wash, get out. Trouble is, as a kid you just accept things as normal and the first time I actually took a bath deliberately with another human being I was laughed out of the bathroom.

This is my bath routine now : fill bath to level just below rim so that when I submerge it almost, but not quite, sloshes onto the floor. Add copious amounts of any and all bath foams/salts/liquids I can find. Turn out bathroom light, light candle. Light incense. Light enormous biffer. Switch on music, loud. Sink down alternately puffing and sipping from large glass of red wine. Or whisky. Sit up, submerge, sit up, submerge, wash, submerge and repeat process for about 90 minutes until totally trolleyed and gleaming clean. Emerge steaming and retrieve huge, soft towel from radiator.

Try doing that in the shower! Mind you, showers are better if you want a quick hand shandy. That’s definitely not good in the bath, you get horrible bits of stringy goo floating around. Or so I’ve been told.

I’ll get my coat. On second thoughts, think I’ll run a bath…


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S’NO JOKE (arf!)

If there are any regular readers of this blog – which I doubt as there aren’t exactly regular postings – then I feel I ought to explain that due to unforeseen lifestyle changes which seem to be sweeping me along at the moment I have not been/am not able to keep things updated very often.  I used to be a regular reader/commentor on various other blogs also which I simply haven’t had time to visit lately… Shit happens, y’know?

I had hoped to make this a daily discipline but that’s not possible at the moment. One of the reasons for this is a sudden resurrection of my social life. Basically I’m out too often getting pissed up to be in a state to blog when I get home. Maybe I should try it, a new sweary, arseholed twat blog. I could call it ‘The Sweary Arseholed Twat Blog’. There’s imagination at work, right there.

It snowed here today. Again. I’ve got used to snow in this area being scheduled for about 1 hour per year over the past 10 years, suddenly I can barely get to work through it. I remember jumping in snowdrifts with a couple of mates when I was 12, building massive snowmen, having epic snowball battles. Now it just seems wet, cold and rubbish. Looks good though, I love going out at night in this, especially when the moon’s bright, it’s like some kind of silent, ethereal wonderland. The dog thinks it’s ice cream and is constantly eating it. What a dickhead.

 Some of the lads at work made a snowman today, even provided it with a technically amazing snow-laptop, most impressive. Now it’s just a shapeless mess of sludge. but, more heavy snow forecast for us tonight, then -10 apparently tomorrow night followed by the mother of all snowstorms Sunday night into Monday morning. Can hardly wait. Bet they’re wrong, it’ll probably just rain a bit.

I will be having a weekend in. Just as well as January was a continual blurred voyage through boozeland, with the odd narcotic chucked in for effect. It’s a hobby, not sure it’s a good idea to put it down as such on my CV though. Perhaps I’ll get my shit together enough to produce a semi-humourous account of life here in the deep west at the moment, perhaps I won’t. We’ll all just have to wait and see, won’t I?

Till then, take it away Lizzie…

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