Words of Little Relevance

We have a new home !!

2011-07-23T13:25:00.000+01:00

After many happy years here on Blogger, this blog has moved.

So I am delighted to tell you that this blog is now settling into its nice new home over at WordPress.

So do please come and visit the new blog here and if you like anything that see, hit the 'subscribe' button.

The new URL is : http://wordsoflittlerelevance.wordpress.com/

Communication or smokescreen?

2011-02-13T19:20:00.003Z

Let me start off by offering a caveat (and yes I know that it’s not a caveat, but I just can’t think what on earth you call a caveat that goes at the beginning rather than at the end and I’m feeling too lazy to research it right now - so beat me if you wish - no really, I might like it). My caveat-that’s-not-at-the-end is this:

If upon reading this blog entry you wonder if it is directed at you, then it probably isn’t; whereas if you get to the end (and simply by doing so you will rewarded with my undying respect and admiration and the promise that a warm area of the deep end, where heavy petting is allowed, is reserved just for us) and think “well that’s all very well, but I wonder who he means”, well then trust me, it’s meant for you.

And so now onto the text of my sermon today.

I really love listening to people talk about the importance of communication. Communication in business, in politics or in relationships. And why I hear you ask, do I love listening to such people? Well since you ask so nicely if a little sheepishly, I’ll tell you: it’s because it identifies them. It identifies them as surely as if they had a Google Maps blobby pointer thingy dangling precariously above their heads. It identifies them, as people who are really bad at communicating or at least who try to deflect it away from themselves.

Consider this little quizzlett: You know the “Dummies” series of books (“The Dummies guide to Java”, “The Dummies guide to toilet training your Warthog”) etc. well what do you think “The Dummies guide to Dodging Having to Communicate” might say on page one? Yes I know is doesn’t actually exist – I haven’t written it yet, but if it did? Well actually of course there would be twenty odd pages of Contents and Chapter summaries and a beautifully crafted piece about what a great guy the author is (and I might have actually written that bit by the way). But yes, you, the boy at the back with the nose-ring and tutu? Speak up…..

Exactly. Once the narrative started it would proffer the following guidance as to how to dodge having to actually communicate:

Talk about the importance of communication – a lot and
Ask lots of questions.

Very good indeed boy. Come see me at break time when you can sit on my lap and have an extra bottle of milk.

You see, by following this simple two-step plan, you will easily manage to:

a)    Appear to be the great communications orator
b)    Keep the other person(s) occupied so that hopefully they don’t notice what’s going on
c)    Deflect anyway from yourself any pressure or need to actually give away anything of yourself.

In other words, you will be “facilitating” communication by the other person(s) without actually having to communicate yourself.

And as such, you will therefore glean information. Possible a lot of dross along with it, but information nonetheless. And what does the acquisition of information about someone give us? Anybody? Yes, you, the girl with pigtails and the skirt of an inappropriate length?

That’s right. Information gives us power. Or at least the appearance of power. Very good dear, come and see me at lunchtime, when you too can sit on my lap. And trust me, there will be milk!

Yes the acquisition of information gives us the feeling of power. And why would somebody feel the need to give themselves a feeling of power? Anyone who’s got to Freud, page three can answer this: Yes that’s right: Performing actions that are designed specifically to give us a feeling of power is our way of compensating for our feelings of insecurity. I can see I’m going to have get more milk!

So the next time somebody starts talking about the importance of communication and stating the very obvious, ask yourself why they feel they need to do that? What are they masking? Why is this communication exchange so one-sided?

Now, who can I tempt to a jammy ring?

Good morrow.

Do you keep fall asleep in meetings?

2010-11-02T02:34:00.001Z

This has been around for a long time, but still relevant today.

Do you keep falling asleep in meetings, lectures and seminars? What about those long and boring conference calls? Here's a way to change all of that :

1. Before (or during) the next meeting, seminar, or conference call, prepare yourself by drawing a square. I find that 5" x 5" is a good size. Divide the square into columns - five across and five down. That will give you 25 one-inch blocks.

2. Write one of the following words/phrases in each block :
Synergy, Strategic fit, Core competencies, Best practice, Bottom line, Revisit, Expeditious, To tell you the truth (or "the truth is), 24/7, Out of the loop, Benchmark, Value-added, Proactive, Win-win, Think outside the box, Fast track, Result-driven, Knowledge base, At the end of the day, Touch base, Mindset, Client focus(ed), Paradigm, Game plan, Leverage.

3. Now tick off the appropriate block when you hear one of those words / phrases.

4. When you get five blocks horizontally, vertically, or diagonally stand up and shout "BULLSHIT!"

Painting by numbers (when there's only one number)

2010-09-05T05:35:00.000+01:00

When i first started school, there were some things that i learnt very quickly. That little girls like to crawl under the door to watch little boys pee; that glass milk bottles get extremely cold when left outside in the winter; and that i, James McCann, should never EVER be allowed to hold a loaded paint brush.

Whenever i was forced to pick up a paintbrush, it was always a disaster. If the paint got in my hair, it hurt when it got combed out. If the paint got on my hands, it hurt when my hands were scrubbed by an annoyed nun. If the paint got on my clothes, it hurt when i got a walloping at home later that day. The likelihood of me successfully applying the paint to the target area of paper (or toilet roll or cereal box) were tiny. The likelihood of me getting into a lot of trouble for making quite a bit of mess, were by comparison, huge. Furthermore i hated getting messy, well actually i still do, i'm a very clean boy you see. No really, pure and spotless, through and through.

Anyway, i never liked painting, i never wanted to paint and i was never any good at it. And this remains true to this day. Giving me a paintbrush is likely to get the same result as offering it to a chimp high on caffeine. The paint will go anywhere and everywhere, with the possible exception of where it's actually supposed to be going.

So imagine my horror when i realised that the new garden shed (10' by 5' !!!) needed to be painted, inside and out, before it could be built. Painted with an Acorn Brown waterproofing paint.

Carnage.

The fence is now Acorn Brown. The lawn is now Acorn Brown. Barnaby the new puppy is now Acorn Brown. Many of the apples still on the apple tree, are now Acorn Brown. I am now more Acorn Brown than that orange antique bloke off the telly.

Oh sure, some of the Acorn Brown did actually make it onto the shed, but it looks rubbish. Like a two year old did it.

And now i see that the paint manufacturers want me to apply a second coat!! Well they can get knotted.

My little friend's gone

2010-08-25T04:33:00.000+01:00

With regard to death and in particular, the death of others, I suppose in a way, I've been quite lucky. I have no family really and therefore have had very little contact with death. The last time that I had to deal with any effects of death that involved me personally was "Lockerbie", way back in 1988 and even that was an extremely unusual relationship with death, involving court and inquiry appearances.

And yet as I sit here now, I can glance up to the mantelpiece and see a small wooden box upon it. It's about five inches long, three inches high and three inches deep. If I were to get up and look at the top of it, I know I'd find a shiny brass plate, which is simply engraved, "Basil".

Basil was a beagle who died, rather tragically a short while ago. He was never my dog as such, yet he had been a constant companion for the past three years. Referred to in the house by others as "the stupid beagle" he was considered the genuine "underdog", the slightly simple boy. Because of this I think, he quickly became my favourite of the two dogs.

I've been surprised a little by my own reactions to his death. As someone who has previously delivered bereavement counselling to others, I should be familiar with most of the possible emotional responses, yet, I still seem to have managed to surprise myself. The true owner of Basil decided to have him cremated and his ashes kept in the aforementioned box. In the past, I would have expected to have not wanted to let go and to have relished the prospect of hanging on to his ashes in an attempt to hold on to him and not let him go. Yet as I sit here and regard the box of ashes, it just doesn't feel like he's there. To me, he's gone. I wish he hadn't, but he has.

Of course I completely respect the desire of his owner to want to keep his ashes, but to me it doesn't really represent any lingering tactile reminder of him. To me, Basil is in the dozens of blankets in which we still find his doghairs. He's in the ragged soft toys that the new puppy is busy destroying. He's on the landing stair where I'd sit and chat to him, singing him little songs i'd make up about him. He's on the sofa where he never should have really been, but frequently was, usually pretending to be asleep so we didn't move him (and they called him "stupid")! He's in many places, just not in the box above the fireplace. At least not for me.

We have another beagle, Bertie and we have a new puppy, Barnaby and together they make a great pair, but i still miss my little friend.

Eye-eye!! (Or, sometimes I truely marvel at the extent of my own stupidity).

2010-07-21T14:00:00.001+01:00

I recently had occasion to perambulate down the road. It was a sunny day and I was having difficulties with my eyes which were both itchy due to an excess of pollen and watering somewhat, due to bright sunlight. Essentially, eye-rubbing was called for. Now, rather than rubbing alternate eyes as many a common folk might be seen to do, i opted for the time-saving “dual rub” method.

Unfortunately this had the rather inconvenient (and bizarrely unforeseen) effect of rending me unable to see. Unable to see at all. Unable, in fact, to see the low garden fence that i wandered into, or indeed to observe the group of school children at the nearby omnibus stop, who laughed heartily as i went head first over it and into someone's garden.

Whoops, it might be sooner than i thought

2010-01-29T12:05:00.006Z

In recent years (and certainly since i turned forty) i had assumed that my fiftieth birthday would be the half-way point in my life. In other words, i was still in the first half. I hadn't reached the point of no return and was a long way from starting the second half.

I had time to sit back and relax before the serious work of "life" began in earnest.

And then a book that i've been waiting for arrived today in the mail. It's the "Pocket Ref" by Thomas J. Glover and has a huge variety of useful (and for others useless) information. It's a pocket reference guide to the world really. Sample topics include :

Hand signals for crane and hoists (p.105)
Formulas for electricity (p.203)
Clamping force and standard dry torque (p.407)
Approximate hole sizes for wood screws (p.442)
Beaufort wind strength scale (p.640)
Igneous rock classification (p.368)
Mortality tables (p.328)

Yep, it was that last one that got me. It helpfully tells you how many more years you've got left to live, given your existing age today. It's based upon the United States Social Security Administration Period Life Table.

And, apparently, a male of my age today, has only another 29.71 years left.

SHIT !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I was banking on getting to one hundred. I've got stuff to do don't you know. And there's a myriad of kink that i haven't tried yet. And i do intend to try them all you know!

Actually i've just noticed that a woman gets an extra 4.5 so i might go and get "swapped over" to buy me some time.

Ironically, i notice that the table is immediately followed by a "Firewood / Fuel comparison" chart (p.330). So at least i now know the most efficient way to self-cremate.

Useful book.

Is Panto sexist? Discuss.

2010-01-09T14:50:00.001Z

I should warn you, that if you're not English (or at least have lived in England for many years) this blog may well make absolutely no sense to you at all. For it takes as its central theme, the cross dressing antics of the pantomime, a particularly English type of theatre experience.

Anyway, in most years at around about this time, I usually get involved in a pantomime or two - and please don't - no, stop it - oh go on then, get it out of your systems -

"Oh no you don't"!!

There, are you happy now?

As i was saying before you naughty boys and girls interrupted me, I'm involved with a panto or two. I work backstage and do techie things, i don't dress up and perform (at least not until the after-show party and even then it's more likely to be UNdress and perform).

And yesterday i was training my follow-spot light on Dick Whittington, the principle male character, who was, as is tradition, played by a girl. I was enjoying watching her parade about in her tiny shorts and long leather boots and giving her thigh the occasional pantomime slap. And i must admit she looked extremely gorgeous. A lesser man may have weakened and lusted unprofessionally.

But, and it's a very big but (no i don't mean she has a big butt, she doesn't, it's a very nice butt, well i haven't looked, i mean, what do you take me for, some sort of pervert)?

No, the thing is, her cross-dressing is hardly ever the subject of comedy. There's nothing "camp" about a girl dressing as a boy and adding elements of male behaviour to her performance. It's simply accepted by the audience with hardly a titter.

But then there's the dame. There's always a pantomime dame and of course, "she" is always played by a man. The character is embellished with as much "campness" as it's possible to muster. From her costumes, to her songs, to her demeanour, to her, quite frankly desperate attempts to get off with every leading male character, there is nothing feminine about the role. And, it's hilarious (for the most part and if done well).

But why is that? A woman dresses and behaves like a man and it's not funny. A man dresses and behaves like a woman (admittedly like no woman i've ever met) and it's funny.

I suppose the correct question to ask could be "why is that part written as comedy, whereas Dick isn't"?

I'm not complaining, it works very well (assuming you like the whole panto thing of course).

If I was to tell you that i thought someone to be "camp" i suspect you'd immediately assume i was speaking of a male. I guess the opposite of "camp" might well be "butch", but that hardly encourages comedy.

So is panto, essentially, sexist? And if it is, do we care?

I'd like to buy a shovel please

2010-01-06T18:19:00.010Z

I recently visited a large orange coloured DIY store. My mission, was simply to purchase a shovel, with which to be prepared for any snow shovelling activities which i might become engaged in. This dialogue is (more or less) an account of that visit :

ME : "Hello young man, i'd like to purchase a snow shovel please".

STAFF : "Certainly sir, they can be found in the gardening section, between the forks and the hoes".

ME : "Alas no. You see i venture to suggest that you are in fact mistaken, for those implements of which you speak, are in fact spades".

STAFF : "Yes it's the same thing".

ME : "Oh good gracious me. No it is not, as one is for digging, the other for shovelling, a shovel being much the wider don't you know".

STAFF : "What do you want it for?"

ME : "Well i'm hardly likely to be grouting the bathroom with it, i want it for shovelling".

STAFF : "Couldn't you just use the spade?"

ME : "Oh dear. Let me explain. Very soon now i shall be wanting to cut your balls off. Now i could use a petrol driven chain saw from your very fine outdoor range, but i know i'll favour the garden shears instead. You see it's all about using the right tool for the job".

STAFF : "Security !!!!"

New Year Resolutions - a strategy

2010-01-06T13:32:00.010Z

Now don't think for a minute that this blog entry will detail some, few or many of my own New Year resolutions. For I'm not that stupid and you're not that interested.

I learnt a long time ago that there are three key strategies for use when dealing with these annual little critters. You may have more and if so, perhaps you'll be so kind as to share them with us by way of a comment.

First there's the "To make them / To not make them" debate. Now just because your parents or siblings or peers encouraged you to make them in your childhood, doesn't mean that you should get suckered into thinking that you have to make them now. There's no city ordinance or Canon law requiring them of you. So chill baby.

Secondly, don't for the love of all that's holy and cake based, tell anyone about them. As soon as you say to your work colleagues "hey i've decided to give up chocolate and go for a twenty mile run every lunchtime" they'll be watching you like a hawk, teasing you with cocoa based goods and then all going off to lunch at every new Tapas bar for miles around and insisting you leave the jogging just this once. No. Tell no-one and then no-one will know if you've slipped up, given up or just plain got bored with it.

And finally my third little trick for surviving the whole New Year resolution minefield (and i'm rather proud of this little gem of wisdom) is don't start them on January 1st. Rather, try and start them on December 1st. That way, you've got a good run up until the New Year, time to get used to the notion of giving up EastEnders or promising to iron your partner's knickers long before the actual resolution launch date. Sure you'll slip up a few times, especially if they're food based, but it doesn't matter, because you haven't actually started yet, so no guilt. But come the fireworks and the traditional televised blowing up of the London Eye whilst making up words to the tune of Auld Lang Syne, you'll be a dab hand at walking your poodle every morning at 5 o'clock or reading poetry to you lover while they're on the toilet or whatever crazy promises you've made.

I have nothing much to say, except ...

2009-12-22T23:37:00.016Z

It occurs to me that I have been rather amiss in my Bloggatory undertakings of late, i believe the last missive was over three months ago and oh, how you’ve revelled in the stillness of my quill. But since the majority of quill feathers are plucked from either the goose or the already much-suffering turkey, i felt that now, during this season of frantic turkey chasing, would be an ideal time to sneak up upon one of the little darlings and metaphorically wrench a large one from it.

You see my very dear listener, during this self-imposed lexical interregnum, my fingers have not been idle (oh do stop tittering at the back, this isn’t a Carry On lock in)! No. I have kept by my side, almost constantly, my little red Moleskine notebook. I’m sure i must have mentioned that i’m a bit of a Moleskine whore, i mean fan. The quality and reliability of their range being second to none don’t you know! Now true, a first glance through the recently penned pages does reveal a variety of seemingly uninteresting trivia :

The beagles’ email addresses (i kid you not);
A note to reply to a letter from the highly respected “Polite Society” of London;
The wording on the side of a highway infrastructure maintenance vehicle which caught my eye by advertising themselves as being perfectly capable of carrying out “Manhole Rehabilitation” (i see the sniggerers are still here);
A list of the times when my gymnasium would kindly be able to offer me something called “Circuit training” (none of which were convenient, clashing as they did with various dinner engagements and cake tastings);
A note of a rather catchy line that i thought would go rather well on my Cheese Art website “Cheese Art, it’s spreading like Dairylea” (i may change my mind on that one);
My renewed affirmation that the word “forsooth” should be used far more that it is presently;
A list containing the venues “British Library”, “South Bank Centre”, “Westminster Abbey”, “The Dana Centre”, “The Wellcome Collection” and “The Science Museum”, being as they are, purveyors of some of the best cake in London whilst simultaneously offering excellent WiFi facilities;
A reminder to examine in detail the duties and responsibilities of an “Exhumer”;
A growing list of things to take with me on my next visit to the naturist club of which i am a member (this list including but not limited to such things as “a long screwdriver”, “trellis” and “Wasp-ease”);
Another list with entries such as “Howard Goodall” (Classic FM’s composer in residence) and “The Pet Shop Boys” (and no i’m not divulging what this list refers to);
And a constantly evolving shopping list, recent entries to which include “MDF” and “Twinings Lapsang Souchong”, or bonfire tea as a delightful friend refers to it – do try it, it’s delicious and smells like .... well i’m sure you can figure that out for yourselves.

And believe me there’s more. But no, aside from these noteletts of sometimes puerile trivia and scribbling, there are pages of notes relating to potential blog topics. And perhaps, over the Christmas repose, I shall make the time to sharpen my quill and dip it into the dross of thoughts which i have collected. Many will, thankfully (and you’ll want to bless me for this) never see the light of day (or the light of your laptop screens anyway).

As some of you know, I shall be served my Christmas dinner at approximately forty thousand feet as I fly to the home city of The Coca-Cola Company, UPS and Delta Airlines. Yes I am Christmassing in Atlanta in the state which is the largest producer of pecans in the world, Georgia. Well i say “Atlanta”, in reality my home for the four day retreat will be Union City, where according to City Ordinance section 10.103, it is illegal for anyone under seventeen to loiter or eat in any public place between 11pm and 6am (12midnight Fridays and Saturdays) and anyone wanting to work for the city has to undergo a polygraph test.

So fear not, i shall not be relaxing in the hotel swimming pool too often, besides it shuts at 11pm, presumably to prevent the under seventeens of the area loitering in it! No instead i shall be thinking of you all and banging my brain to try to come up with something vaguely interesting to say.

So until then, I wish you all a most merry and memorably festive holiday season. May you never run out of mince pies and may your mistletoe antics pay off spectacularly.

Good Crimble.

You're all invited ....

2009-09-08T00:20:00.005+01:00

To my daethbed party. Yes you did indeed read that right. But maybe i shold explain.

You see right now, i'm in the middle of one of the nastiest cluster headaches that i've had for a long while. However ... in a sick twist of introverted pyschology, i've decided to enjoy it and look at the positives rather than dwell on the pain. I should perhaps also point out, that i've had a shovel-load of painkillers about an hour ago and in the words of the song "...it's gone right to my head". So i'm chemically pissed you see my dears.

)Actually I just went back and added the hyphen between "shovel" and "load" so as you can see, i'm actually remarkably incoherant for someone who's a little way out there)!

Where was i? Oh yes. My deathbed.

Picture the scene (as radion four would say "if you wiil") me, all dressed in white, lying neatly under folded sheet, a group of close friends all standing round whispering or weeping. Well i want none of that. So i've decided that i want a death-bed party. I'm determined that the last thing to leave me will be my sense of humour. And I have left instructions.

I'd like someone to make areally sick banner to hang up, something along the lines of "Congratulations on your death". Seriously, it'll be a laugh. We'll have party games (volunterr organisers please). No idea what, but pass the parcel with an urn in it should be a hoot! The sicker the better please. Ask Rory to help, he's a sick b*gger with a wicked imagination.

I'm hoping Trish will organise most of this (it'll keep her mind off any morbid aspects you see). I'd love it if Beautiful Baby Jo cold be there (she'll need a cheeky rosé or three though).

And Beautiful Baby Jules too, she'll love the chance of some medical play! I'd be so happy if my beatiful little Emily (RiC) was there too, one of the best huggist around and with a filthy glint in her vey beatiful eyes. Speaking of beautiful eyes, if the one i call my beautiful little Ruthe could be there, i'd love that too. (God this is so selfish. These people might not want to be there). And if someone could invite my very pretty friend Roxxy too plaese. She's secretly a really filthy bitch who's quickly becoming less secret about her inner filth. Take her to your hearts (and to your parties) she's a wonderful person. And no partyt would be complete without Ben and Lilly. Ang and Kieron have often featured in my little sordid fantasies, but we've never the chance to act them out, so if they fancied coming alongand teasing me with what might have beem, it'd be lovely to see them. So now we have the makings of a dirty little get-together.

I have to paws here because i've got the sensation of rats inside my forehead trying to get outand i've a mind to let them.

So as well as alcohol, do bring nibbles, party food, but not those 'orrible little sausages. No-one actally likes them.

Oh i've just had a little Pecan Pie that Trish brought back from Atlanta. Very very morish, but i'm watching my weight. Imagine the shame of hearing the coffin carriers groan and call for backup!!

Obviously at some point during the afirementioned (oh check me out using big wordsd whilst chemilly sozzled)!! What? Oh yes, at some point, i'll probaboy die. No need to go, in fact, rather like a bride and groom leaving for the two-week shag-fest, that's usually when the party really gets going. Feel free to stick silly things in my mouth and take a picrure, i won't mind in the slightest. I don't want any of this "paying your last respects" rubbish.

Have a laugh. Take the piss. Get drunk. Have lots of very filthy sex. And drink to my ... well anything but health!!

Sorry, you can't travel on 'My' tube network

2009-08-26T02:46:00.005+01:00

There are many places today where that mass of commoners known as 'the general public' are allowed to enter and use. But equally, wherever one such place exists, we tend to have some sort of list of exclusions. There is a process of deselection in place. A set of criteria are published against which, those who wish to enter, are judged.

If one of these 'general public' persons wishes to board a flight, they are judged against a set of criteria. Do they have a ticket? Are they carrying things which they shouldn't? Are they intoxicated?

Similarly if one of the masses wishes to enter a night club, again they are judged against a set of criteria: do they look right for that club? Are they carrying chewing gum or bringing in drink?

Attempts to join golf clubs are equally met by a set of judgement criteria. Do they look wealthy? Do they dress stupidly enough? Are they the right sort of people?

Even restaurants exercise their right to deselect potential patrons on the basis of dress sense, lack of tie etc.

So why on earth is there no such judgement criteria to deselect certain members of the 'general public' from using the London Underground? I mean where is the quality control? It seems that just about anyone can travel on the tube network, much to the disgust, discomfort and annoyance of everyone else.

Well this has to stop. I shall be applying to run the tube network and as soon as i'm in charge, the following members of the 'general public' will be politely but firmly turned away, or quite possibly, made to travel all together in a separate special compartment :

The smelly and the sweaty
Those with flatulence issues
Those who cough
Those who sneeze
Those who grunt
Those who snarl
Those who look like rodents
Those who look around and 'tut' (except me)
Those who grimace
Those who have big noses
Those who cannot fold newspapers either neatly or quietly
Those who find it necessary to sniff
Those who take up too much space (they need to walk more anyway)
Those who have beards (and other unhygienic facial features)
The badly dressed
Those whose facial expressions resemble those of a trout
The chewing gum masticators

Of course i reserve the right to add to this set of criteria as and when it's necessary, but in the meantime, feel free to add your own.

A trio of dreams in one night??

2009-08-25T18:11:00.010+01:00

Now as a rule, I don't blog about dreams. I mean, what's the point? They don't mean anything, they're not warnings from the spirits, they're not telling us we've eaten too much cheese and they certainly aren't anything that we should pin any importance on. Dreams are just the brain's way of sweeping up the rubbish that's swirling around in our heads.

But last night was a bit weird. I had not one, but THREE distinct and memorable dreams during the course of my slumbers.

So first off, i was the deputy commander on a nuclear submarine. My 'captain' was a very hot looking woman, but unfortunately she was having a fling with a guy on an enemy sub. Every now and again she'd go over to the enemy submarine for 'peace talks' and then come back hours later looking dishevelled but happy.

Then a couple of hours later, I was driving Barack Obama around Derby in his big car and i was guiding him through the back streets and taking short cuts. Before long we had sneaked into the basement of a school where he proceeded to start stealing really big reels of string. After a while i twigged what he was up to and started helping him. He was going to be giving a speech at some award ceremony and i could tell that he was going to use a lot of string as some sort of visual aid.

Finally, I was stood round the piano with a group of friends which included the Queen. And we were all singing along to David Essex songs and passing a microphone around. I was insisting that the Queen join in. She blushed and joked that I could kiss good-bye to my knighthood but joined in anyway and had a good time.

And the meaning? Well of corse it's all rubbish, but I do wish my brain was this active when i was awake!!

Exhibiting lexophiliac tendencies

2009-08-10T02:38:00.006+01:00

Every once in a while, one is fortunate enough to encounter a word which excites the senses in a new, interesting and sometimes even erotic way. It might almost ooze its own honey-like nectar as it drips slowly from the mouth. Or it might tingle the eardrums like the percussion section of John Rutter's Magnificat.

I make no apology for the fact that i can reach near orgasmic states when reading almost anything by either of my two favourite authors, Lynne Truss and Stephen Fry. Either of these brilliantly creative lexophiles are easily able to get me into a hot, sticky and perfectly moist state merely by penning even the shortest of essays.

And so I've decided to record here, within this very blog entry, those words which tickle either my fancy or stimulate me in some other near pornographic way. If you too are a lexophiliac, you might like to have a peruse of this site or possibly, this site.

So let's begin :

(Newest addition at the top of the list. Links open in a new tab.)

propinquitous
- in relation to, a nearness

forsooth
- verily, indeed

prithee
- a polite request

quotidian
- daily or commonplace occurrence

solipsistic
- believing only oneself to be be real

verisimilitude
- appearing to be true

quondam
- once was or former

vomworthy
- not strictly a word, but an excellent example of its use can be found here

grandiloquent
- using pompous or unnecessarily complicated language

atavistic
- an inherited trait that reappears in an individual after being absent

anile
- like an old woman

nefarious
- extremely wicked

effulgence
- brilliant radiance

A most fitting ceremony

2009-08-01T01:12:00.010+01:00

At a time when the fiscal policies of our government are increasingly judged to be unwise, our overseas military operations perceived by many to be ill-founded and the behaviour of those who govern our land deemed so often to be unsuitable, it is easy to pour scorn and criticism on any aspect of British life which reflects upon the establishment.

Yet on Thursday 30th July 2009 Britain did something very proper, very right and very dignified. Henry Allingham had died some twelve days earlier. A decorated veteran of the First World War, he was with the Royal Naval Air Service and later with the Royal Air Force. When he died at the age of 113 he was actually the world’s oldest man. He served his country well and honourably and later, by all accounts, his local community too, often talking to young children about his experiences and about the awfulness of war.

His funeral was of course a family affair. After all he had sixteen great-grandchildren, two of whom carried his war medals. But it was also an opportunity for a nation, a government and a monarchy to express their thanks and appreciation of a man who by all accounts, was very humble and very quiet. As such, the Duchess of Gloucester attended, together with very senior figures from the RN and RAF and a crowd of (apparently) hundreds watched the service outside on a big screen, such was the popularity of the man locally.

And how fitting a tribute that the ceremony to mark his life was followed by a flypast of five replica WWI aircraft before the veteran was buried with full military honours.

The elderly are often treated with little dignity and little respect in this country, but on this occasion, just this once, Britain did something right and made me proud to be British.

The BBC’s full report of his funeral can be read here.

Musical stimuli

2009-07-31T01:46:00.005+01:00

I've decide that I want a place to list the pieces of music that either appeal to me or have some special significance, as and when I come across them. In other words, it'll grow as and when i find a new one to add. So let's get started :
(Newest addition at the top of the list. Links open in a new tab.)

Gaps in our history?

2009-07-31T00:33:00.008+01:00

Good evening.

I was never a big fan of history when i was at school. That might have been something to do with the way it was presented. We studied both “History” and something called “Civilisation” and i was never really sure where one ended and the other began. All i do know, is that it all seemed rather tedious and a little boring at the time.

But maturity and years of thwarted attempts to learn the Macarena, give one a different outlook on life.

I was today reading a brief account of the goings on of one Queen Boudicca (and you can pronounce that however you like, i really don’t care). Now as every English school-boy knows, this red-haired, feisty woman was queen of the tribe known as the Iceni who inhabited, well effectively it was Norfolk. However when her hubby died and passed the throne on to their two daughters, the newly arrived nasty Romans (NANRs) would hear none of it. Instead they publicly raped the daughters, flogged queen B and generally helped themselves to, well effectively it was Norfolk.

Of course history recounts that Mrs B and the daughters were more than a little hacked off about all of this and so raised up an army and indeed they initially beat the NANRs away team 3-0 (Colchester, London and St.Albans) before the NANRs got the upper hand, took control of the game and won in extra time. Mrs. B (we are told) died of poisoning (presumably self-administered).

Now as i said at the top of the piece, i’m not really a big fan of history, but as many a friend and even more outraged fathers will tell you, i am a big fan of other people’s daughters and so i want to know what happened to Boudicca’s. History (as presumably recorded by the aforementioned NANRs) doesn’t really tell us a lot, even their names are uncertain. It is widely suggested that they too took their own lives, but there is no hard evidence for this. There seems to be no concrete reporting of their fate at all. And i think that that’s a shame. I’d like to remember them and give them their due place in English history.

So if you’ve been affected by any of the issues raised in this piece, or indeed if you’re from Norfolk and therefore just need someone to talk to, or if you think that you’re directly descended from either of Queen Boudicca’s daughters, do please get in touch.

Oh and there’s a reward of course. It’s called the throne of England. Comes with a house, a bit of land, some swans, you’ll love it.

Good-bye.

A complaint to the good people at Kellogg

2009-07-16T05:10:00.031+01:00

Now i shall be honest with you (well it's only fair) and inform you right away that this is my recollection of an event that happened many years ago, long before "blogging" became the national preoccupation.

Back in those days, i had a friend and we'll call him Peter, since that was actually his name. Peter was a nice chap, an ordinary chap. The sort of reliable friendly chap to whom nothing really remarkable ever happened. Until that is, the day he visited the local corner shop. His purchase, on that otherwise un-noteworthy of days, was a Mars bar. You'll remember that those are the confectionery items which William Dagnall (writer of the famous slogan as a competition tie breaker in 1966) and the Mars Company marketing people (rather optimistically i always thought) heralded would help us to "work, rest and play", but only on the very specific condition that we bought one every single day. The exact science behind the claim was never fully explained to us, certainly not to the degree which say, a shampoo would have been.

Well. Not two bites into the aforementioned work, rest and play aide and things took a nasty turn. For there, lurking within the soft nougat and caramel covered in milk chocolate, was a "foreign body". Now sadly, age, years of naturism and a debilitating addiction to the music of Abba, render me unable to accurately remember the exact object that Peter found within his Mars bar (and if you're ever starving in Ely, there's one buried behind the stonework of the Cathedral) but i believe it was a bit of glass, or a nail or possibly a trombone. It matters not though really. The point is, that he read the small print on the wrapper and complained by sending the half-eaten chocolate complete with non-confectionery ingredient, back to the Mars company complaints department, stating when and where he purchased it. At this point surely we should spare a thought for the people who work in those departments who regularly receive half-eaten products, complete with dead mice, masonry items and the odd musical instrument. I'd like to think that they have some sort of Wall of Shame where these foreign objects are displayed, presumably behind thick, odour-proof glass.

Anyway the point is that the Mars company were very sorry for his unfortunate 'find' and by way of compensation, they sent him a wholesale box of 48 Mars bars. Oh yes, there was certainly no stopping either his working, his resting or indeed his playing for at least seven long calorie-infused weeks.

"Well that's all very fine and dandy and possibly quite tooth decaying, but what has that got to do with 'Kellogg'?" i hear you demand forcefully as if your very lives depended upon it. And as you've been good enough to read this far, I think that you deserve to be told straight away.

I love Kellogg's Corn Flakes. Always have done since i was a little boy. Corn Flakes with cold milk in the warm months for breakfast and porridge in the winter, with just the occasional foray into the snapping, crackling and popping world of Rice Krispies on holy days and birthdays. And as any Corn Flakes connoisseur will tell you, you occasionally get a burnt flake of corn within your breakfast bowl. But one day, not long after Peter's calorie-laden delivery from Slough (where apparently they make 3,000,000 (three million) Mars bars every day) i had the most shocking of breakfast experiences. For there, within my Tony the Tiger bowl (one free with six coupons from special packs) was not one, but TWO burnt Corn Flakes. This was unheard of. I first of all checked to see if they fitted together - for surely this was simply one burnt Corn Flakes that had broken in two. But no. There were TWO distinct and separate burnt flakes of corn.

And i had an idea.

I would write to Kellogg. Not only that, but i would send them the evidence and no doubt within a matter of days, they would send me a whole truck laden with pallets full of the largest size boxes of Corn Flakes. I'd never again have to queue in a supermarket for my breakfast cereal. Oh sure i'd probably have to build a special shed to store the lifetime's supply in, but it would be well worth it.

So my letter to the good people of Kellogg, went something like this :

Dear Kellogg's complaint department,

Firstly may i take this opportunity to say how delighted i am to finally correspond with your excellent company. I have been a devoted fan of your Corn Flakes ever since i was a little boy when we had Corn Flakes with cold milk in the warm months for breakfast and porridge in the winter, with just the occasional foray into the snapping, crackling and popping world of Rice Krispies on holy days and birthdays.

Yours is a most excellent breakfast cereal and it is always a pleasure to start the day with a bowl of your delicious golden flakes of corn.

I am particularly impressed with the very high standards of quality which you obviously insist on throughout the manufacturing process. Every box seems to be have made with individual care and attention to detail. You must all be very proud of your most famous flagship product.

So imagine if you will, my immense disappointment recently when i rushed down for what i expected to be a bowl full of golden sunshine cereal, only to discover not one, but TWO burnt Corn Flakes falling into my bowl! As everyone knows, there is the occasional burnt flake in a box, and we expect that. It's not something to get excited about. But TWO?? Well that's just unheard of. I cannot imagine how your normally high standards of quality and care slipped so far as to enable these two offending items to make their way into a box bearing your company name and logo. I felt sure that you would want this highly unusual slip to be brought to your attention immediately. This shocking event was very upsetting and totally spoilt my breakfast experience that day.

You will find that i have enclosed, a matchbox, lined carefully with cotton-wool, within which are the TWO offending burnt Corn Flakes. I imagine you'll want to forensically examine them and conduct an internal quality audit. But please remember that everyone is human and entitled to a second chance. I'd hate to think that any of your employees were dismissed for what is i'm sure, a very rare slip indeed.

Yours most faithfully,

Mr. James McCann Esq.

And as explained, i carefully wrapped the TWO burnt Corn Flakes in cotton-wool, popped them into a matchbox and sent them off to the good people at Kellogg. Now i'm not saying that my excitement was growing, but i remember asking a couple of neighbours not to park their cars outside as i was expecting a very large truck to make a delivery within the next few days. I cleared the driveway and made space for the pallets of Corn Flakes boxes to be off-loaded, although of course i had no idea exactly how many tons they would send.

Well time passed and after a week i still hadn't heard anything. And then i received this letter :

Dear Mr McCann,

Thank you so very much for your recent kind letter. It is a real pleasure for us at Kellogg when loyal customers such as yourself, take the time out of their busy day to write to us.

You are right in that we do take great pride in the quality of our products, particularly our flagship product, the Corn Flakes. You cannot imagine how truly upset we all were to learn of your most unfortunate and distressing experience at the breakfast table on the day when you had to suffer, not one but TWO burnt Corn Flakes. We simply cannot imagine how this could have happened. We can completely understand that this shocking event must have been very upsetting and would i'm sure, have totally spoilt your breakfast experience that day.

On behalf of the entire company, may i take this opportunity to offer to you ... {here it comes i thought - clear the driveway} ... our most sincere and deepest apologies and to send to you with our compliments TWO replacement Corn Flakes which i hope will add to your next breakfast experience.

Yours sincerely,

Kelloggs customer services.

You guessed it. I got my matchbox back, carefully packed with cotton-wool, containing two replacement Corn Flakes!!

Inspector Charles Fleury ...

2009-07-14T12:48:00.015+01:00

is (allegedly) a member of the Metropolitan Police Service
has a warrant card but is not happy for it to undergo close scrutiny
is a rather short man and would certainly never have been accepted for police training twenty years ago
does not like to be photographed in the execution of his public duties
forgets that he is a public servant
forgets that those officers serving under him are also paid by me
forgets that what happens on a public street is quite likely to be witnessed by the public
forgets that if six of his officers are piled and sitting on one other individual, that that might well constitute a public interest story
forgets that as yet, there is no law whatsoever to prevent a member of the public taking a photograph of a public order incident
really doesn't want anyone near enough to be (as the IPCC website specifies) "close enough to see or hear the inappropriate conduct"
clearly hasn't read Home Secretary Jacqui Smith's written reply that there is "no legal restriction on taking photographs in public places", which is why she will shortly be issuing police with updated guidelines

Brain to mouth, come in please, over?

2009-07-12T00:40:00.006+01:00

There are times when the various bits of my body work in perfect unison. Like a mystical planetary alignment, with everything falling into place at the allotted moment. The limbs and brain working in synchronicity. It's a wonder to behold i tell you, it really is. The brain and mouth emulating the great cognitive genius of Shakespeare and Einstein, emitting wondrous prose and giant leaps of logic.

And then there's days like today. You see earlier today I fell victim to a hair ruffler. Not a grievous bodily assault i'll admit, but one nonetheless that caused me angst and concern, having recently combed my gorgeous locks of enlightenment.

My brain sprang into action. A command must be issued. We'll use the mouth and issue an audible command, a warning against future ruffling. This perfect specimen of man must be revered and respected. Yes that's it, "respect the physique" that should do it. The command was authorised and approved and sent to the mouth for immediate dispatch.

And normally this seamless link in the chain would be flawless, the mouth immediately obeying the brain's well thought-out and cohesively structured directives. So imagine my surprise when the mouth, entirely on a whim of its own, came out with....

"Respect the fromage"!!

My suspicion is that i lost a tiny bit of credibility and authority at that moment. What do you think?

A challenge - name three of your neighbours!

2009-07-03T20:36:00.014+01:00

Go on, i'm serious. Try and name out loud, three of your neightbours. If you struggled to name even one of your neighbours, why not do something about it this summer? With warm weather in abundance, it's time for barbeques, gardening, over-the-fence chinwags, or perhaps making a small offering of some of your garden's produce!

We all value and protect our privacy to some degree or other, but are we also losing the nack of being 'neighbourly'? As Stephen Fry says, we live "...in a world where we're used to knowing more about our television personalities than our neighbours". Ask yourself this : If your neighbour's burglar or car alarm went off, would you know if they'd gone away for a holiday? Do you use the cliché "oh they keep themselves very much to themselves" as an excuse to avoid them?

Today I read this story from Edinburgh : "Body may have lain for five years" and i ask myself, "Who was to blame? Well of course no-one was really. Or maybe, everyone. You see, she didn't live in an isolated farmhouse twenty miles from anywhere, but rather in a block of tenament flats. She had neighbours less than twenty feet to the side of her and below her. I felt so angry to read one neighbour quoted as saying "In all the 18 years we lived there, Ms Purves never had one visitor, it was a wee shame." So why the fuck didn't you knock on the door and say 'hello' then?

When i was at junior school, i used to walk past an "old-lady's" house every day. She always seemed so sad and lonely, spending hours just looking out as the world passed by. So one day, i got a little soft fairy cake (i'd heard that little old ladies sometime couldn't chew very well) stuck a candle in the top, knocked on her door and said "Hello. Excuse me for interrupting you. I've no idea when your birthday is, so how about we celebrate it today - Happy Birthday". I'll never ever forget her face as it lit up (and it wasn't from the single unlit candle either). It turned out that i was her only visitor except for her daughter who lived over three hundred miles away. We became firm friends for many years.

So if you failed the challenge i set you, don't worry, there's no losers in this game, just an opportunity to make friends that you haven't met yet. So go and do something nice for one of them. And here's the best bit : it'll actually feel rather good as well. And you might get some cake!!

My Toybox. Part 1 - Gmail

2009-06-25T02:30:00.004+01:00

Good morning.

The last few weeks have seen something of an epiphany within my life. I fear that i may have inadvertantly, become a bit of a geek.

Now, i've never been a stranger to technology - i used to play with various radar associated 'toys' for a living and was often involved in testing new software. But it ended there. I never really wore the 'Geek' badge. Until now that is.

Googlemail (Gmail)

It all started when i changed my email address. Circumstances dictated that i switched to a webmail based email account and i chose Googlemail (or Gmail as it's known almost everywhere else). And Gmail, comes with 'toys'. Google calls them 'Labs' because in theory, they're experimental. So i dived in and enjoyed playing with many of them :

There's one to incorporate Tasks (a to-do list into Gmail).
There's one to show a video preview whenever you receive a YouTube link in an email.
There's one to show photo previews whenever you receive a Picasa link in an email.
There's one that gives you a 1-click access to any bookmarkable URL in Gmail, which is useful for saving frequent searches, important individual messages etc.
There's one that adds a host of additional star markers.
There's one that displays the timezone of the senders email, handy if you want to work out whether they'll see you reply now or in several hours.
There's one that enables you to have a whole bunch of what it calls 'canned responses'.
There's a neat one which tells you if you forget to add an attachment (we've all done it)!
There's one to specify start and end dates for your Out of Office reply.
There's one to chose the colours of your message labels, handy for making the important ones stand out.
There's one to add a 'Mark as Read' button.
There's one to show you a preview of the inbox before Gmail has even loaded.
There's one that allows you to create a Google Document from an email conversation.
There's one to import or export all of your filters.
There's one to undo the action of hitting send, so that if you realise you've made a mistake you can unsend it.
And loads more.

Gmail also presented me with a bit of sea-change. It doesn't use folders, but instead, allows you to assign tags ('labels') to a message. And each message can have none, one or more than one label. The the process of applying labels to each incoming message can be automated by the creation of 'filters' - and this is where Gmail suddenly becomes an incredibly powerful tool. At first i was a little wary and unsure about the whole concept of not being able to store emails into various folders, but now i love the whole tag/label approach. And i wouldn't switch back. Many of the filter possibilities are not really documented so you can have great fun experimenting, but i now have a library of home-grown filters, some quite complex, others really simple.

Early mornings are really rather interesting

2009-06-24T05:55:00.007+01:00

I have of late, found myself still being awake through to the early hours of the morning. A mixture of bad sleeping, headaches and way of life have conspired to extend the end of my day until everyone is getting up for work. But i'm beginning to see an advantage.
Instead of spending all of the early hours in front of the telly or hunched over the laptop like some illuminating monk, i've taken to making a hot drink and sitting out in the garden, often with the cat, but increasingly (and i admit this dear listener with just a tinge of guilt and betrayal) with one of our neighbour's cats!

For I'm discovering that that hour between four and five o'clock in the morning is something rather pleasant. It's rather inspiring. By five o'clock there are the beginnings of human activity (the distant sound of cars and trains and the rare but highly intrusive roar of a motorbike) but before then, it's perfect peace and tranquillity. The only sounds are the sounds of nature.

So far this morning i've been treated to the strange geographical and political disputes between neighbouring families of squirrels. They either come and steal from the bird table or dash about through the trees above me or hide away and squeak to each other and quite possibly, to me. Obviously i've no idea what they're saying, but as they hang onto the tip of the top-most branches, i like to think that they're teasing me with a little "I bet you wish you could do this, and look, i didn't even drop my nuts".

Of birds i'm not at all versed in their genus, but i know a robin from a crow and we seem to have both. And one particularly large tree seems to be the local wood pigeon swingers club where all the best shagging takes place. It's a noisy 'affair' with plenty of branch swaying and leaf disruption. Clearly 'spooning' has yet to reach wood pigeon society.

And how bizarre that even on mornings like today, when i'm feeling quite considerably unwell, i somehow manage to sit out here for a hour or so and soon feel inspired to write? To write rubbish as usual obviously, but to write and be a little creative nonetheless.

I'm seriously thinking of having a very early morning jaunt onto Wimbledon Common one day soon, quite possibly with laptop (running Google Notebook) to record my encounters and to share the joys of the dawn chorus ... well Twitter would be the ideal tool i guess.

Have a good day.

Sadler's Wells - Company of Elders

2009-06-23T23:46:00.005+01:00

From time to time, one finds oneself watching a television programme that one wouldn't ordinarily, choose to watch. And so it was by accident that i found myself watching BBC1's "Imagine...Save the Last Dance For Me" a few moments ago, introduced by Alan Yentob.

The programme followed a group of pensioners who last year, took up contemporary dance for the first time. As the Sadler's Wells' website says :

Constantly inspiring, Sadler’s Wells' Company of Elders is the jewel in the crown of the theatre's Connect programme. Drawn from our local community, this group of 25 performers discovered dance late in life and now enjoy the immense social and physical benefits of dance. Established in 1992, Company of Elders grew out of the Sadler’s Wells afternoon over 60s club.

This remarkable group of men and women, draw upon their own experiences of life, including the war years, to present a passionate and fluidity of movement and expression that many dance students of today would be envious of. Their dedication in overcoming the whole spectrum of age-related conditions is a marvellous testament to their enthusiasm and dedication. They were truly inspiring and i felt i had to watch it through to see their performance on the world-famous Sadler's Wells stage.

The programme is available to view until 11.24pm on Tuesday 30th June 2009 on BBC iPlayer here.

This thing called 'me'

2009-05-27T01:57:00.016+01:00

It's (never) worth coming back and looking at this from time to time, you never know what i might have added!!

I doubt that i've ever done anything deftly since my conception. And strictly speaking, i can't really take all the credit for that!
I am prepared for amazing things to happen. I can handle it.
I am currently a certain number of years old (although i expect that that will change soon, certainly within the next twelve months or so).
I am a child of the 60s (although my only real memory of the fashion of that era was my short school trousers).
I was born in the twentieth century and will die (presumably) in the twenty-first.
I have lived in Birkenhead, Manchester, Derby, Ilkeston, Shoreham-by-Sea, Worthing, Southampton, Cedar Rapids (Iowa), Reading, Chorley Wood, Harrow and Wimbledon.
I am happiest in a sleepy hamlet or on a quiet beach (my favourite spot on the planet is a tiny, quiet harbour in Sweden).
I eat sushi, cake, a lot of toast, quite a lot of Corn Flakes (but never chocolate).
I hate going to the gym (although the girl in the coffee bar is quite cute).
I love going to the cinema (but don't get to see nearly enough movies).
I drink a lot of tea and coffee (but usually only decaffeinated).
I have worked in aviation (you'd be surprised at what i'm legally allowed to drive around and park); medicine (nothing beats the thrill of holding a human heart in your hand, while it's still working) and IT (if i ever think of anything interesting to say here, you'll be the first to know).
I’ve not worked in the pornography industry (and some of my friends may find that surprising, given my exhibitionist streak and modelling work).
I thought that President George W. Bush was an embarrassment to the American people and it proved that the election of a US president was too important an issue to be left to the Americans to sort out alone.
I don’t have a high pain threshold (although my screams are incredibly manly).
I have a low boredom threshold (thick people bore me almost instantly).
I put off having to replace clothes for as long as possible (I have jumpers that are twenty years old).
I hate cooking (but love eating the results of someone else’s).
I like watching the morning sunrise (but hate getting up for it. I'd rather STAY up for it - and then go to bed)!
My ideal woman would be a mixture of Mary-Louise Parker, Lily Allen, Kim Thompson, Gail Trimble and Gillian Anderson.
My desert island woman (for sex) would be (Mary-Louise Parker).
My desert island woman (for conversation) would be (Gail Trimble).
Being a dessert island, I'd hope they'd both be happy to switch roles now and then.
No matter how many hours I work and how tired I am, my insomnia keeps me awake (and then i’ll sleep for ten hours, go figure).
I hardly ever wear underwear (in case i need to get naked in an emergency).
Although I have shopped at Agent Provocateur.
I decided that by writing some of my thoughts down it might free up my mind a little (it hasn’t).
I secretly like lots of Christmas songs.

So what products should the Pope endorse?

2009-05-26T16:34:00.005+01:00

Good afternoon.

Well the headline writers will enjoy the news today from Rome, that Vatican Radio, in a bid to help meet spiralling costs, is to start airing advertisements. Vatican Radio has a long and respected history amongst the world's broadcasters, being one of the first radio stations and with a transmitter originally designed by a chap called 'Marconi' who knew a thing or two about radio when nobody else did.

So apart from the soap powder adverts promising to get your "Whites whiter than white" and perhaps a vineyard or two, who else would want to advertise their wares on "The Voice of the Pope"?

BBC News

Shhh! It's coming home, but keep it to yourself!

2009-05-26T14:51:00.005+01:00

Good afternoon.

Yes it's only the second entry on my blog and we're talking about football already. Don't get me wrong, i'm not a fanatical football supporter, but when it comes to international matches, well i'm an England supporter through and through.

And now we have the chance to show the world. We, the English nation, can host the World Cup. Yes, football's coming home, but with one tiny proviso. We're not allowed to tell anyone. We're not allowed to proclaim to the world that "football's coming home". England is where football was born, along with rugby, cricket and tennis. Yes, we're really really good at inventing games and then teaching the rest of the world how to play them. But are we allowed to celebrate the fact that football's coming home? No. Apparently that's perceived as being too arrogant by other nations (and by that i guess they mean Germany).

So for goodness sake keep it quiet. Don't tell anyone.

But yes. Football's coming home.

Free Lesbian Porn !!

2009-05-14T16:33:00.001+01:00

Good evening.

As those of you who know me quite well can testify, I'm a normal everyday guy who's actually rather posh. I therefore only live in posh areas, like Harrow and now Wimbledon.

And so it came to pass that i was on my way home from the railway station today, where i had been travelling amongst the common folk. Thankfully, Wimbledon is at the end of the line and so most of the passengers actually live in Wimbledon and therefore of course don't smell.

But i digress. During my walk home I passed my local and rather posh, department store. (For those of you who take an interest in these things, they sell French knickers, wedding hats and doilies).

But today it was one of the store's windows which grabbed my attention. For there, within full view of the passing pedestrians was a display of pure lesbian filth. Now i'm sure i'm not the only red-blooded male who has looked at many of the shop window manikins, dressed in their little flowing summer dresses or in a selection from the nightwear department and thought just how hot they looked. These smooth-skinned, slightly tanned and petite-breasted ladies, who always have a smile on their faces, a twinkle in their eye and the slight hint that it's impossible to actually get their knees together. Well I find them very erotic and i know most of you do too. I mean, it's hardly likely to be just me is it?

Anyway. As i passed the window, two of the young female sales staff were engaged in the rearrangement of the window display (or at least that's how i'm sure the court papers will describe it). What i saw, were two very pretty ladies wrestling with a rather lovely red-headed manikin, or to be precise, with the gorgeous satin nightie that she was wearing. I have no idea whether they were trying to get it off her, or to put in on her, or whether they were simply caught up as i was, in the lustful ambiance of the occasion, but i just had to stop and watch. The intertwining of six arms and six legs, the frequent display of thigh, sometime skin, sometimes plastic, was just so erotic. The straps slipping of those smooth shoulders, the merest hint of those satin-covered nipples, merely inches away from my nose, pressed as it was, against the rapidly misting-up glass pane.

Pedestrians passed me by, some, bizarrely, keeping quite a distance. Eventually the two lovely ladies realised that i was watching the whole filthy episode. Thankfully, i'd fought the urge to get my mobile 'phone out and film the whole sordid display. Unfortunately i'd completely forgotten to take both of my hands out of my pockets and i fear that the stupid grin i had on my face may not have helped me feign innocence. But I'm sure it looked worse that it was.

I decided to leave anyway, just in case the police turned up (well i do have my public reputation to think of).

But i might go back tomorrow - or maybe in the night

Goodbye.

Kensington Palace Gardens

2009-05-13T15:56:00.001+01:00

So I had to attend a meeting, in London, just behind Kensington Palace. And as it was a nice day, i thought i'd have a wander, through the palace grounds afterwards. Just me. Well ok so it's just me, several hundred other people and my camera-'phone. Now I hadn't intended to take any photographs, but sometimes something just grabs you eye.

Like this line of trees. I've no idea what they are, or why they're shaped the way they are.

A prediction

2009-04-24T21:02:00.001+01:00

To quote that great social commentator, Peter Griffin, during his brief (but I thought, triumphal) media career, "Do you know what really grinds my gears"?

It's when i hear people say "Oh i knew that was going to happen" or "Oh yes, of course, i was expecting that to happen". Whilst i really want to believe them and admire their insight or forethought, most of the time i just think "yea right, and my name's Pepé Le Pew"!

So (and at someone's suggestion) I am going to make a prediction. I am going to make this prediction publicly. And i may well make a complete tit of myself if i'm wrong. But would you notice? Probably not. But if i'm correct, you'll think i'm rather brilliant and want to form an orderly queue so as to perform wet and messy sexual acts with me, just so that you can boast to your friends "I've 'ad 'im y'know". (Yes i mingle with the common folk now and again).

Now, one of my hobbies, which stems from an earlier career, is high-altitude meteorology. I don't mean the stuff that pretty ladies on ITV tell you about, but the stuff that's happening ten or twenty miles above it. Based on some observations I have made and some data which i've researched, I'm going to stick my neck out and make the following prediction :

It will snow, in Great Britain, during June of this year. Yes i know, you think i'm barking mad. But oh, what fun if i'm right.

Anyone else care to come out with a bizarre prediction?

Healthy and Safety in the home - a tale of everyday folk!!

2009-02-06T21:07:00.001Z

Now when it comes to matters of Health and Safety, well i practically invented it. I've done every course and been writing risk assessments since before I could wire a plug or do up my own nappy pins.

If Ingrid is about to do something dangerous, i'll stop her, say something superior and suitably patronising and then make her make the situation safer before allowing her to proceed (unless she's cooking and then we just abandon all caution)!

So after having a painful back for a week or so, i decided that i was now fit enough to tackle the vacuum cleaning. Living, as i do, in what is known locally as "The House of Four Beagles" (two canine, one feline and one .... well, Ingrid) the carpets soon turn from blue to Beagle coloured, especially as one of the mutts (Basil, the brains in the house) does nothing else but eat food and then immediately turn it into dog hair - i've no idea how he does it.

Now as those of you who are posh enough to have stairs but poor enough to have to vacuum them yourselves will know, that is the most difficult part to do. We have a variety of vacuum cleaning devices (none of the parts of which are interchangeable ) with one of the machines being light enough to carry in one hand whilst holding the hose and today's chosen attachment in the other.

It was going very well. I was impressed with the progress that i was making. The effects (because i hadn't done it for a while) were instantly gratifying. Oh yes dear listener, i am a domestic god.

And then Bertie, a Beagle of quite an inquisitive nature, decides that this is some kind of game that i'm playing, or at the very least will make an interesting diversion from his busy social schedule. Being a generous soul, he brings toys to the party, which over time, he thinks he's trained me to throw for his amusement. At about the same time, the cat decides that all this noise is a little too much for him and, in a display of daring and courageous athleticism, makes to leap across vacuum cleaner, Beagle, toy and me. Now in fairness his mistake was one of timing, because as i lifted the toy to throw up to the top of the landing, the Beagle, who's always way ahead of any of my plans, was sprinting up the stairs. The mid-air collision (as Newton could have predicted) obeyed all the normal rules of physics. Beagle tries some last minute aerial acrobatic collision avoidance manoeuvre, but he's no spitfire and lands amidst the rapidly blurring mass which is me, vacuum hose and cable.

I, quite naturally, decide to step back out of the way at exactly the same moment that Mr Newton pops up again to remind me of a little thing called gravity (an invention that he's rather pleased with as it saves him having to pick his own apples).

Thankfully i do have the aerial acrobatic manoeuvrability of a spitfire (ok so it's more like a bouncing bomb) and i decided not to argue with Mr Newton, but to gracefully give in to the rather tedious and painful demands of this gravity thing (which i'm sure will never catch on).

After bouncing down several stairs, i came to rest (not quite the right way up) but with no noticeable injuries other than my back hurts again.

The Beagle (who from hereafter shall be known as 'Paxo-boy the assassin dog' on account of him being stuffed come Thanksgiving) was, bizarrely, not at all displeased with the turnout of events and immediately demanded that we play this excellent new game again. I declined his kind invitation and suggested he make the tea.

I almost hesitate to mention the fact that at some point during my flight, the vacuum cleaner hose went up my trouser leg, for fear of ridicule and quite possibly, disbelief. But it did. Well it could have been worse. Remember the cat who was, at some point in mid-air? This whole tale could have turned out very differently with me having to explain to Beagle Number 4 (or Ingrid as she's known to some) why the cat was looking out at her from inside the Dyson 'viewing bowl'.

So, bugger this. Who's going to offer to come and do our stairs next time? I feel the need to acquire a maid.

As i'm a man of science....

2008-12-28T21:10:00.001Z

it occures to me that i should unertake a lirrtle experiemcent.

Now early yesterday, i started to have the mother of all clusters, this was one that was fully intent on kicking my head around house and was making it very hard indeed to come up with a comedy quote.

And this ihappening on tghe back of a weird cold wichixh is making my back really resenitive, my kidneys ache and so do my balls - it's a very disconcertinghn.

24 hours later it's still in full swing, but this time, i'ver been given some really strong pain killers - and a little research shows that i might have taken one too many - nothing serious, just enough to be interesting.

So whilst i'm not completely in touch with what uyou folk call planet earth, i've decided to write a blog, which i'll read bACK LATER to see how it sounds.

The first thing to say it that we seem to have a small plague in the house, a morording mixture of aligaters, paper clips and people calle Jekkyyll. I'm not idea where they came from from, nut everyone in the house is called Jekkyl for some reason that i can#t put my finger on.

Oh shit, am i writing this in thw right place? If it's in the wrong place i hope Mr and Mrs Admin and all the admin babies will more it to th required place - propbably the dusrtbin.

I shall satop now and read this back later, but onyl when thee would has stopped doing it's lobsided spinny thing that it does when you want to stand up but the world doesn't wanto let you.

Good night. evertone. xxxx

Apparently i'm not qualified to dig an 'ole!

2008-12-04T16:43:00.001Z

Like a (sadly growing) number of people on here, I'm looking for alternative work prospects and seeing where my future fortune lies, or at least next week's peanut butter ration.

So i regularly search a wide variety of job vacancies and have a number of specialised feeds supplying me with job listings, in the hope that just the ideal position will leap out at me.

Along the way, i often come across other jobs which I have no interest or ability in. However today, i came across one job vacancy - for a Grave Digger - and thought "Well, if nothing else ever comes up, at least i could do that". You see, i know, that people have been dying in this country for well over a hundred years, possibly more. There has always been a need for grave diggers - and there always will - you could say it's a job for life!

And let's face it, it's not rocket science. You just dig an 'ole. Roughly coffin shaped, little bit bigger, deep enough to stand up in, not so deep you can't get out again, try and avoid the gas main and the 'lecky cable and that's it. Even a really stupid person could do that. I mean, what's the worst that could happen? Not that i want to become a Grave Digger you understand. There are far too many people who would happily shove me into the first one that i dig.

But then i read the small print. Apparently even if i wanted to apply for it, i couldn't. I would be rejected for the post of Grave Digger. You see, it transpires that one must hold the Cemetery Operatives Training Scheme (COTS) qualification. It's digging a bloody hole for God's sake!! Further investigation led me to to the ICCM website (that's the Institute of Cemetery and Cremation Management) who, for those wishing to qualify in the noble art of diggin' an 'ole in the ground, offer "...on site training"!! No shit Sherlock!! What, no home study distant learning scheme? No Open University tie-in programmes? It gets better. One can attend a training course at the Berkshire College of Agriculture, where a mock cemetery has been created (i so wanna attend the end of course parties there).

So, wherever my future lies, it certainly isn't six foot under.

Which idiot ....

2008-11-30T16:41:00.001Z

... put the dishwasher rinse aid next to the spare bottle of washing up liquid? And they look similar. It could easily confuse a really stupid person!!!

USA'08. So, now we've heard from them all.

2008-09-05T00:53:00.001+01:00

A Mrs. Beeswax from Ilfracombe writes :

"Young man. It's all very well you making fun of everyone and everything you encounter: butternut squash, The Vatican and goats, but want i want to know is, are you capable of making any serious comments?"

Well Mrs. Earwax, judge for yourself...

Good evening. Across the Atlantic the main convention speeches are over and my fortnight of nightly oglings of Philippa Thomas have ended. Last week was the Democratic party's National Convention in Denver and we heard from Barack Obama and Joe Biden as well as many supporting speakers such as Michelle Obama, Edward Kennedy and Hillary Clinton.

And just a few hours ago, came the finale of the Republican party's National Convention in St.Paul where over the past four days we've heard from Sarah Palin and John McCain, as well as many supporting speakers including Laura Bush, Cindy McCain and Rudy Giuliani.

Of the four people on the two party tickets, Joe Biden, was for me, the least convincing, the weakest and the person whom, given the chance, i would "vote off" whilst presenting them with the dubious award of "The one there merely to make up the numbers". A harsh indictment i know, but i felt a total lack of anything new. i felt that i could have predicted his speech almost line for line and he really had nothing to say for himself. i felt that he had resigned himself to four years of invisibility.

In my third place and therefore forcing a rather neat sense of symmetry, for me would be John McCain. Certainly a patriot, certainly a man with an enormous following. Certainly a man whose war record is a vital part of his credibility and popularity. But charisma? Leadership? Identity? I felt he was lacking in all of these. It just seemed that his only way of making a name for himself as a possible Commander In Chief, would be to distance himself from the current administration. George W barely got a passing mention. He stands out from the other speakers, solely in his adamant commitment to continue operations in Iraq.

My second place goes to Barack Obama. When he spoke, he had the unenviable job of living up to huge expectations. So much had been written and spoken about him and even more so, since his narrow defeat of Hillary Clinton. Her support of him, seemed at least, entirely genuine although I think he was right not to pick her as his VP, her ambition might just have proved to be his undoing in the long run. At least in Joe Biden, it seems he has a potential VP who will do his bidding, carry out his orders and do things the Obama way. Barack though, made many many promises and all of them expensive. He was truly charismatic. He said all the things that many Americans would want to hear. Affordable quality education for all. Twice the number of teachers. Affordable quality healthcare for all and a reduction in taxes for 90 per cent of Americans. Now i'm no expert on American fiscal matters, but even i know, that what he delivered was a rousing speech, but it was not a balanced budget declaration. He says he will bring the US troops home as soon as possible, but even so, the fiscal burden of their operations in Iraq and Afghanistan will continue to drain Congress' coffers for many a year. But i liked the majority of what i heard, I just have no idea how he can make it all happen in four years or how he'll manage to pay for it.

Which leaves for me at least, Sarah Palin in my top spot (oh look, he's gone for the girl you one-track minded cynics yell). But for me, she came across as the one most likely to be good for America. If there was ever a time in the past few weeks when John McCain thought he was as risk of not having the necessary popularity, then it was a moment of genius to get Sarah Palin on board. My suspicion, is that he might just have bitten off more than he can chew. I don't think she'll play the Washington game. I don't think she'll accept the tried and accepted ways of doing business. I suspect, that if the McCain/Palin team win in November, that an awful lot of powerful lobbyists and Senators are going to get a nasty shock.

So i find myself in the disturbing position of knowing that i can't have the team i'd like. For me, an Obama/Palin ticket would be unstoppable - if you forget the simple matter of persuading one of them to switch parties.

But what of it? I hear many people say that American politics are boring and have nothing to do with us and i can see why some might feel that to be so. I decided to take a keen interest in both conventions because i believe that more and more aspects of global life are effected and influenced by, events in the United States.

Before this fortnight convention season began, i had a very clear idea in my head of which party i felt would be best for America. I now have a very clear idea in my own mind about which party would be the best from Britain's point of view. Unfortunately, they are not the same party.

I think American politics is about to get very interesting indeed. Whoever gets the keys to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW Washington, DC 20500, it is going to be an administration like no other before it and Mrs. Beeswax should keep an eye on them with interest.

Likes & Dislikes

2008-09-03T21:27:00.003+01:00

Likes :

Milk (from a bottle, from a milkman)
Cracking a crème brûlée with a spoon
Family Guy
Coffee shops (I'm a Starbuck's whore, where coffee and cheesecake is only £5)
Being naked (in the sunshine)
Bananas (with optional custard)
Being naked in the sea (any sea, any month)
Passionate kissing
Stephen Fry (i want his brain)
Gail Trimble (i want her babies, or her brain)
Loyalty
Tea (a good strong brew)
Pantomime (i've worked on many)
Baby polar bears (i want this one as a pet)
Crunchy Nut Cornflakes (seriously large bowl required)
Snow (proper white that's deep and fluffy)
My Tonka truck (it's big, it's green and it easily fits a girl and a double mattress in the back)
Bullet point lists
Peanut butter (crunchy of course)
National Geographic channel (230 on VM)
Feeling like a whore
Moleskine notebooks

Dislikes :

People who say "it's me" on the telephone (it rarely is)
Noisy, loud or uncouth people
Chocolate (for 'tis the devil's plop plops)
Bad teeth (poor dental hygiene spoils full on snogging)
Over-possessive Dommes (you know who you are)
Weak tea (even Earl Grey can be brewed for five minutes)
Those who use blogs and Twitter to bang on about their business (you know the sort)
Reality TV and the plethora of 'phone voting shows
People who cannot spell or punctuate
Thick people and farters
Americans who can't pronounce 'noir' or 'ballet'

Wasabi Bombs !!

2007-03-14T20:41:00.000Z

Now, ever since i was a little child, which, hard as it might seem, was not actually last week, I have been fascinated with the harnessing and controlled release of, potential energy.

In other words, I've always enjoyed blowing things up. If, in my day to day life, I come across some article which is inflated or somehow under pressure, I delight myself with the notion that perhaps, just perhaps, I might be able to increase the contained pressure, until there is some sort of very satisfying result. A big bang will suffice, but a big bang and big mess is preferable.

Of course, as a responsible adult, I rarely give vent to my secret fascination with everyday household explosive entities.

However today was different.

I have, of late, become accustom to the modern trend of eating sushi at lunchtime. Several of the local supermarkets cater for this trend and produce a small “variety pack” of assorted sushi. And with these packs, come accessories

Usually one gets three additional ingredients, in individual sachets, so as to “add to taste”. There is a sachet of ginger, a small sachet of Wasabi paste and a small container of soy sauce, which, for reasons best known to the manufacturers, is dispensed from a plastic bottle, fashioned into the shape of a fish.

The first and last of these are not relevant at this time, but rest assured that they do not go to waste. However following an unfortunate incident with a tube of Wasabi paste during a session of bondage, i now have a slight distrust of this green horseradish product. And so i have, once or twice omitted it from my lunch and left the packet, unopened on my desk.

Today i realised that two such packets, had in fact, been sitting on my desk for nearly three weeks. And things had begun to happen. These tiny little green sachets were positively bulging, with, i assume, bacteria-producing gas. The surface of the sachet was really tight, and i felt that it would take, only the slightest of pressure for the sachet to burst.

In other words, it was a bomb and it had started to tick.

So, a small select covert group of us, went outside with the sachets, some gaffer tape, a drawing pin and a stick.

Having fastened the sachet by its edge to the brick wall with gaffer tape, we prepared the detonator. In this case, a drawing pin, held onto the end of a stick with bluetac.

We started with the lesser taught of the two sachets, just in case there were any unforeseen dangerous results. A sharp poke with the pin, resulted in a most pleasing 'POP' and a suitable green splodge on the wall.

It was time for the big one. We donned protective goggles and waders.

This was a mother of a sachet. It had ballooned way beyond its expected tolerances and was ripe for exploding.

We wished each other 'good luck'.

I was going in. They were all stepping back.

BANG!!!

Dollops of Wasabi snot shot in all directions. The ferocity of the bang really surprised us and even made passers-by turn their heads. And then the smell hit us. We had, accidentally discovered the green Wasabi snot-like stink bomb.

The others rushed forward to congratulate me, but then began to slink away again, making grotesque facial gestures.

But science had prevailed, yet again and another successful experiment conducted.

When simple technology lets you down

2007-02-20T20:36:00.000Z

I've been shopping at the same branch of Sainsbury's now for a little over 300 years. When i first started going there one could bump into many a local celebrity: Moses was stocking up on tablets, Napoleon was looking for a quick ready meal and a good book and yes, Dale was on the checkout doing his “beep-beep” thing, even though the checkouts weren't actually electric yet.

But they had “Automatic Doors” and they've never changed. Over the 400 years that i've been shopping there, i've learnt how to gauge exactly, the correct speed to approach them in order for them to open wide enough to let me through, without me having to slow down and wait for them.

They've been reliable. Opening every day, steadily, sensibly, never too quickly, never too slowly, telling the time, for Trumpton.

Sorry, reminisced for a moment there. Anyway, they've always opened, just at the same time, just at the same speed for well over 500 years.

And so over the intervening six centuries i've been able to load myself up with boxes and groceries, completely blocking my view of the doors, but it mattered not. I know from the moment i set foot on the mat, the precise speed at which to walk, in order for the doors to part at the crucial moment, as if i was stepping through the curtains of the Theatre Royal to take a bow.

So imagine my discombobulation therefore, when today, laden as i was with all the essential elements for a good pancake evening: microwave ovens, garden sheds, eggs, flour, gherkins and masses of toilet paper etc., only to discover that things have changed.

Strode i, manfully and purposefully, and it has to be said, a little cockily (having nearly 700 years of Sainsbury's Automatic Door Opening System Knowledge under my belt) stepping onto the mat, my speed already set and predetermined to coincide with the exact moment of door whooshing.......

No whoosh.

A very big clatter.

Suddenly, I am without cocky look, without elegant and purposeful poise and without shopping.

So my question is (well you didn't think i was just rambling on did you)? My question is, what simple piece of technology has let you down with embarrassing results?

How Acupuncture helped me find my vagina

2007-02-13T16:28:00.003Z

OK. Before you read any further, it would be remiss of me to not make you aware of a couple of things. Firstly, although this a true account, it is written slightly tongue-in-cheek. Secondly, I am and always have been, a male.

I have for a long while, suffered from something called “Cluster Headaches” and i recently had a really bad weekend, where i kinda lost the plot a bit and wrote a blog.

Well many people were kind enough to respond. Some with kind words and thoughts of sympathy, others with helpful suggestions from their own experiences. All of the responses were very gratefully received and carefully read.

Amongst them, was the suggestion to try Acupuncture. I knew nothing about Acupuncture although I'd had a couple of Acupuncture needles used on me in needle play and knew they were not painful. So, what could possibly go wrong?

On Monday morning i went to work, not really fully recovered and in fact during the morning became more and more ill. Knowing that I was stuck at work and wouldn't be able to drive home I was desperate and in a lot of pain. So i decided to seek out some local Acupuncture treatment. I didn't know if it would help, but i was seriously desperate and would willing try anything at that point. I was seriously thinking of asking someone who practices shiatsu if she would take a train out to me in Aylesbury.

So a quick web search shows a little Chinese medicine shop which offers treatments. So in i walk, in a fair amount of pain and feeling very ill.

I start to tell the lady what ails me and she immediately replies “Ah headaches, come this way”. In total, the consultation prior to treatment, lasted about one minute, during which time she looked at my tongue. But hey, i was desperate, i didn't want to chat.

Shirt off and sitting on a stool, resting my head in front of me, she started to find out where it hurt the most. Her technique (or that of her art) was certainly not subtle. She buried her knuckle into my neck in a dozen different places. Most of them were very painful. A few had me reeling in agony since she'd 'hit the spot'. It occurred to me that Acupuncture was indeed quite a brutal treatment. Maybe it was actually a martial art?

Having established her 'targets', she inserted a few Acupuncture needles. After inserting three into my neck, one on the top of my head, one on the opposite side of my neck, she put one each into each hand at the join of the thumb and first finger. Then she produces what was effectively, a tens box. She wired up two pairs of needles and started to pass a current, one down my neck and another just below it. She turned it up until it was at the maximum that i could stand. Then she got an old heat ray lamp and stood that so as to heat up the back of my neck and head. All in all, it was quite uncomfortable, but ... i was desperate and had no idea what to expect. Then she told me she would leave me for 20 minutes, i was to keep still and call out if i needed her. I suppose i was a bit surprised to be left on my own. I wasn't sure if i was going to remain conscious, but i figured, it'd do my best. I don't like to disappoint.

After the allotted 20 minutes she returned and wired up another pair of needles, cranked up the 'zap' dial and toddled off for another 20 minute Chinese tea break. As anyone who's played with a tens box will know, you eventually, and quite quickly, get used to the current and it's hardly noticeable after a while. I'm not sure i can say the same about the turkey grill i was underneath though. “Thank god i don't use an inflammable hair spray” i thought.

Time passed, i sizzled and eventually she came back to disconnect me from the National Grid and at the same time unpluck my Acu-bristles.

And then it happened.

Oh my great galloping mothers of all that's holy and comestible.

Just to make sure that i really was totally cured, the knuckle grinding started again. Burying and screwing her knuckle into the side of my neck, each time asking if it was now better.

The fact that i was bouncing off the ceiling, screaming in agony and generally undergoing several simultaneous bodily functions, should have given her a clue, that perhaps, i was not completely healed. In other words, it felt no better at all, and her knuckle 'ministrations' seemed more evil than anything any Domme has ever done to me, including Mistress Eve and her Blue Peter “lets' glue everything together” game.

Eventually she tired of this as an entertainment and deemed me better and ready to dress and pay up. Before going however, he reported that my tongue had told her that i a kidney disorder (which actually i sort of do – a bit). My Yin and my Yang were apparently unbalanced but she could sell me tablets that would sort that out. So i bought some and left.

Later, back at work, i of course decided to see what was in the tablets and so i consulted the geek gods of Wooki and Giggle. The tablets are a mixture of six ingredients. The first of which, would apparently resolve my vaginal dryness issues (which was initially a worry, as i didn't realise that i had a vagina). The second ingredient would help to cure my heavy menstrual bleeding problems (presumerably a common problem amongst newly discovered vagini). The third ingredient was used in 17th century Japan as a gay male lube. This was clearly not going to be of any use to me, since i had no intention of visiting Japan and in any case, i now had a new vagina to play with.

I have no idea whether the whole episode helped or not. This was the third day of a long cluster and was well overdue to end anyway. I'd also taken a lot of tablets of various sorts during the morning. So it was hardly a scientific test. But it might have helped, i don't know. Certainly her tongue verdict i can easily understand since the tongue is a very good indication of all sorts of issues.

Would i go again? Probably not. The last thing i need when my neck and head are in pain, is someone burying their knuckles into them with all their might. I have no idea if that is typical Acupuncture practice, but I'm kinda nervous about trying it again. But at least I've tried it.

And I'll keep taking the tables, because i suspect she was certainly correct about the imbalance.

Now, anyone want to play with my new vagina?

What a horrible f***ing weekend

2007-02-12T21:22:00.001Z

I'm beginning to really resent the way that my headaches are ruling my life. I try not to let them, but the sheer volume of pain and the length of time they go for sometimes, are finally beginning to get me down.

I've had this current cluster now since Friday night, over 48 hours. Nothing helps because that is the nature of cluster headsches, there's no cure. It's stolen a whole weekend. Up until a few hours ago, i could hardly function. At times i can't use the 'phone, the pc and certainly not drive. At one point a can-opener defeated me.

I've had them for 20 yrs and I've had enough. And they're getting a lot worse. I've really had enough. I don't get 'down' over money or relationships or anything else, but these buggers have finally beaten me. I want an end to them, somehow. I'm fed up of spending a whole day or two or sometimes three, exhausted from crying with pain.

I'm supposed to be back at work in the morning having had no weekend, no rest, no relaxation. I've not left the flat all weekend, i've seen no-one since i left work. I can't go on like this.

£1.39 - for a life - isn't very much

2007-02-07T21:24:00.000Z

Now, i must put my cards on the table right away. I am not a vegetarian. I don't eat a lot of meat, but i am quite partial to the odd steak pie. Even though i don't really drink, a good steak and ale pie has been known to disappear rather quickly from my dinner plate, or indeed anyone else's who has the misfortune to try and eat one in front of me.

So i do sometimes eat meat. But i also have a love and respect of animals. I'm especially fond of dogs and cats and have owned and loved a few over the years.

So, I was a little surprised at my rather bizarre feeling earlier this evening, when i was shopping in Tesco's. It was a large store and i was taking my time, strolling around and making all sorts of useful purchases.

And then it happened that i passed the big in-store rotating chicken cooker thingy. You know the thing that looks like it was invented by the Romans as a most efficient method of dispatching several seditious peasants in one go.

Run three through at once with a long skewer, then mount several skewers on a large rotating rack and cook slowly until 'done'.

I noticed that by the side of this monstrous machine of slow torture, was evidence of some sort of Valerie Singleton homage, in that they had several that “had been prepared earlier”.

And there lay the problem. They lay there, cooked through, unwanted and therefore “Reduced”.

I picked up a skewered, cooked and bagged chicken for all of £1.39.

Not much for a life. So ok, it was only the life of a chicken, but i was surprised at how sad i felt. That's all the life of that bird was worth, £1.39

I promised myself that i'd enjoy it, and relish it and be grateful for it.

Am i going mad or senile or soft?

As my grasp on life (and reality) slips from me ...

2007-01-04T21:27:00.000Z

Good evening.

Now, it occurs to me, that once we are dead, it would appear that we have very little control over either our epitaphs or our obituaries.

It is true, that i might recover. Miracles do still occur. But i must face facts and so must you, my dear, brave listeners. The next door that i knock upon, is most likely to be Death's. And if i don't knock first, the Grim Reaper himself will be calling round this evening, or possibly, if i hang on to life by a thread, in the early hours of the morning.

So far, there has been no comment from the Vatican.

You see dear listener, i am dying. Wow, how i am dying. Typing this in my weak and frail condition, is indeed an effort. But i sense your gratitude and it almost humbles me, almost.

Hardly a sentence goes by, without me having to pause and give way to one of my many symptoms. I could list them, but no, how selfish that would be. My bravery alone is all you need to know at this difficult time. In this day of on-line everything, i enlisted the help of the All-Knowing One, the god Google. And the collected wisdom of this multi-billion dollar brain? Well I seem to have all the fevers – Lassa Fever, Scarlet Fever, even Saturday Night Fever.

I will continue to leak profusely from many orifices, until there is more of me outside, than there is inside. (Sorry, were you taking tea)?

And so it befalls on me at this time, to leave you with some parting words. Understandably, there will probably be a spontaneous and near hysterical out-pouring of public grief – i think three days of official public mourning should do it, don't you? As for my Lying in State, well i suggest that Hades might make a suitable occasion and venue.

We don't need a Book of Condolence, this weblog will suffice, but hopefully some kind soul will start a second one when this one reaches its inevitable maximum.

Well, i can write no more. My frailty overwhelmeth me. Besides which i have to go get more tissues.

This cold's a bugger.

Tidings

2006-12-21T21:45:00.000Z

(I can't claim credit for this, it's going around on the net, but have no idea who to give due credit to).

In today's stupidly over PC society, i'm sure even this will manage to cause offence :

Please accept with no obligation, implied or implicit, my best wishes for an environmentally conscious, socially responsible, low stress, non-addictive, gender neutral celebration of the winter solstice holiday, practiced with the most enjoyable traditions of religious persuasion or secular practices of your choice with respect for the religious/secular persuasions and/or traditions of others, or their choice not to practice religious or secular traditions at all.

I also wish you a fiscally successful, personally fulfilling and medically uncomplicated recognition of the onset of the generally accepted calendar year 2007, but not without due respect for the calendars of choice of other cultures whose contributions to society have helped make our country great (not to imply that England is necessarily greater than any other country) and without regard to the race, creed, colour, age, physical ability, religious faith or sexual preference of the wishee.

By accepting this greeting, you are accepting these terms:

This greeting is subject to clarification or withdrawal. It is freely transferable with no alteration to the original greeting. It implies no promise by the wisher to actually implement any of the wishes for her/himself or others and is void where prohibited by law, and is revocable at the sole discretion of the wisher. This wish is warranted to perform as expected within the usual application of good tidings for a period of one year or until the issuance of a subsequent holiday greeting, whichever comes first, and warranty is limited to replacement of this wish or issuance of a new wish at the sole discretion of the wisher.

Disclaimer: No trees were harmed in the sending of this message; however, a significant number of electrons were slightly inconvenienced.

My X-Factor experiment

2006-12-20T21:48:00.000Z

This year i decided to conduct a little experiment with X-Factor.

Usually the winners of these type of contests dissappear within a short time, never to be heard of again. There are a few exceptions of course, LeMar (?sp) (who of course, didn't even win), Gareth Gates and to a lesser degree, Alex Parks, who has quietly gone about producing albums and touring.

But usually the fans of these winners are the people who have followed their progress and voted for them. And although huge, it's still a limited audience. To make it big, you have to appeal to people who've never heard of you before.

And so to the experiment. I decided to avoid X-Facter this year. I didn't watch a single programme. After the final on Saturday, i couldn't even tell you the name of one single contestant (actually that's not quite true because a couple of friends auditioned and got through to the next round, but alas made it no further).

I wanted to see what i thought of the winner's single. Would the final product, the first single from the winner, appeal to me, someone who knew nothing of the contest and who had no knowledge of the contestants?

And so this morning i downloaded "A moment like this". I know Kelly Clarkson sang it a couple of years ago, but i didn't really remember it. And i have to say i really liked it. Her voice is a little deep for my personal tastes, but she can clearly sing a bit (and i should know, i went out with a singer / songwriter for a few years before she became really famous).

So my highly scientific survey of the huge sample of er .. 1, has decided that she will become a huge success.

There, that should nicely bugger up any hope she has.

Bugger - it's on it's way and i can't stop it

2006-12-03T21:49:00.000Z

The lovely thing about my Cluster Headaches, is the enormous variety of surprises they bring.

Sometime they just pop up, usually in the early hours of the morning, with no warning at all.

And they're the best.

At other times there's a long slow build up. That's agony. It's torture and it's happening now. I wish it would just get on with it. Eventually i'll be writhing in pain and it'll get so bad that i'll just bang my head against the wall until i pass out. That's ok. I can cope with that. Done it before, it's no big deal. But this agonising build up before the main event, I hate it.

I might have to hire a pantomime horse outfit then limp about a bit. At least that way i'll get put down humanely (although knowing my luck, i'd just get buggered by a stallion)!!

British Gas have kidnapped my Goat

2006-11-30T21:33:00.003Z

This is the story of my recent debacle with British Gas, made even more unfortunate, for it is a true tale. So if you are sitting uncomfortably, then I'll begin.

A few weeks ago, I received my gas bill in the post (I don't care for Direct Debits, there's something rather common and mistrusting about them). Enclosed with the bill was a letter and with the letter, there was a sort of coupon or voucher. I learnt from reading the letter, that it was whence forth, to be referred to, as a “Bond”.

Later and with the help of the Hubble Telescope I was able to decipher the microscopically small print on the aforementioned “Bond” and learnt that I would have to spend getting on for £3million worth of gas, in order to get an extra whiff of it for free. In other words, if I used enough gas to heat, say Belgium, they'd give me enough to fill a lighter. So, a mere 2 hours and several Excel spreadsheet calculations later, and I was in a position to realise that this was never going to be worth my while and I opted to bin their “Bond” at the very next opportunity.

Now a few days later and I found myself at the wheel of my motor car, driving along. I was on my way to the establishment at which I work. My merry day-dreaming was interrupted by one of those commercial advertisements that are sometimes played upon the wireless. It was for British Gas and my ears pricked up. Age and years of custard tart abuse prevent me from clearly remembering the precise wording of the advertisement that was played upon the wireless within my motor car, but it was roughly along the following lines.

“Stop what you are doing and pay attention, we are British Gas after all. If you aren't a British Gas customer, you jolly well should be. We are so good to our loyal customers, just listen to our latest special offer.

For centuries now it has been the tradition within our land, that when one wished to bestow a gift upon someone, that you presented them with a goat. It's a tradition that's lasted for hundreds of years and has been passed down from father to son. But we are British Gas. We know better. We know what's good for you. Gone are the old ways. We are sweeping away centuries of culture and tradition. Oh yes citizens. We have decided not to give you anything as worthwhile as a goat. Oh no, because we know best, we have decided to send you a worthless scrap of paper, which you will from henceforth, refer to, as a “Bond”.

You need do very little else. For if you possess the “Bond” all you must do is to try and heat up Belgium and we will send you the equivalent of a lighter full of free gas. Oh our generosity is endless. You may now all bow down before us in homage and gratitude.”

Well it was words to that effect.

Well needless to say, that I was not impressed with this latest poultry marketing offer. And so I decided to communicate my feelings direct to British Gas as I was sure that they would want to hear from me, one of their aforementioned loyal customers, who was, as it happens, still in possession of one their worthless scraps of paper, hitherto referred to, as the “Bond”.

Age and many months of squealing in pain at the hands of violent women, prevent me from recalling the precise wording of my letter (I don't hold with e-mails, there's something terribly impersonal and Taiwanese about them). But this is the thrust of my communication to them.

“Dear British Gas Marketing Department,

I recently had the opportunity to listen attentively to one of your new advertisement communications, transmitted to the wireless within my motor car. I was on my way to the establishment at which I work. If I am to understand the nature of the advertisement which I heard upon the wireless that morning, you have decided to completely do away with a tradition that is countless centuries old. I refer of course, to the age old ritual of the bestowing of a gift, in the form of a goat. In one fell swoop, you are eradicating years of culture and tradition. You are dishonouring the many generations who since time imememorial have seen the goat as a most fitting and suitable gift with which to show favour. And I for one do not hold with such dramatic changes. As you will have no doubt have noticed, I have returned to you the “Bond”, henceforth to be known as “the worthless scrap of paper” and, if it's all the same to you, I'd like my goat instead please.

I can wait in on Wednesday, please let me know whether you can deliver it in the morning or in the afternoon. My house is easy to spot, it's the one without a goat tethered outside.”

Well some time has passed and do you think I've had any response? No of course not. I am now beginning to get worried and quite frankly, I fear the worst. Several things could have happened. One hears such horror stories these days. Has my goat been left in some warehouse by mistake? Has it suffered some bizarre delivery van incident? Or more likely, has my goat been kidnapped by British Gas employees (or their agents) for use in some bizarre British Gas goat ritual? To date there has been no ransom demand.

I'm sick with worry and not a little annoyed. I shall wait only a few more days.

I shall of course, keep you informed if there are any developments.

Good-bye.

Swimming it ain't

2006-11-09T21:57:00.000Z

You think you've got the hang of it. You think you're getting somewhere. You can begin to see the wood for the trees. So many other similes encapsulate your mood.

It's really beginning to happen. You're beginning to swim. You're learning to relax and go with it.

Then from nowhere someone kicks you in the teeth (or slaps you in the face). You're stunned. It came from out of the blue, or out of the sun. Either way, you never saw it coming. Suddenly the once safe environment of the teaching pool becomes shark invested waters. You cannot trust anyone. You dare not.

And if you react or lash out, you only make it worse. Your wounds only serving to feed their appetite. Their lust for blood and pain apparently takes many forms. You're supposed to lie there and take it and let the sharks feed.

Well maybe i will, or maybe i should just get out of the pool. After all, there's a different one in every town.

Everything has conspired to stop me enjoying swimming this week. Pool closures due to mechanical problems, work hours, the constant stress of trying to count lengths and finally tonight some bloke trying to chat me up. Er clue: I was ogling the 18 year cute lifeguard girly – the one with long dark hair and even longer legs.

No, swimming has this week, ceased to be a pleasure.

I hate Sundays

2006-10-29T01:14:00.000+01:00

If you've no family and are single, what are Sunday's for? I hate them. They are a horrible void between whatever I've done on Saturday and work on Monday. I've just wasted another one. I wanted to go out - get some fresh air and maybe have some time in the countryside. But it's not something i want to do alone. I don't want to be alone any more. Whenever i go out on a Sunday i see families together and i see couples together. When you've neither that's really depressing.

I know this is pathetic, but i know i'm spiralling and it's not in the right direction and i don't feel i can stop it.

I'm well aware that it's so unattractive too. I'll never find anyone whilst i'm feeling like this. It's chicken and egg – chicken and egg.

Gee - why am i SOOOO horny today?

2006-10-22T22:42:00.000+01:00

Is my moon rising or something (please no comments about uranus).

But for some reason i am just so horny today. I swear the next woman who walks through my door will be held down and eaten for days.

No idea what's causing this and it's bloody bad timing. But OMG i could happliy bend a nice girl over now and do her some serious damage.

Guess i can always watch he lesbian antics on Torchwood i suppose.

Families

2006-10-08T22:45:00.000+01:00

I recently, through the experiences of someone else, had the opportunity to reflect on the merits of families. They are not something i've had any knowledge off, except when temporarily acquired through girlfriends.

I don't have any family at all. No parents, no siblings and no off-spring. And it's a demon which on the whole, stays dead and buried.

But once every few years it reappears. At the moment i'm going through a bit of 'phase' over the whole issue of families. I guess i want one. I want what i've missed out on all my life. I want a mother and a father. And i'm aware that at the moment, it's actually making me not a very nice person. I'm depressed, moody, grumpy and most of all, very negative about everything. I think it's worse, because i know i've got to deal with it on my own. There isn't anyone that i can talk to or get help from. And now i'm beginning to hear folk talk, quite naturally, of Christmas.

I used to really enjoy Christmas. I was living with a lady and her child for several years. It would usually start with the school play and the carol service, then perhaps more carols as the day drew nearer. We loved doing the whole tree and decorations thing. Leaving the mince pie and carrots out for Santa.

It was so much fun on Christmas morning (usually about 6am) to hear these excited squeals from her room as she found her sack of pressies from Santa. And so much family to visit and share with and eat with and swap pressies with.

All that's gone now. All my life i've loved Christmas, and now it's gone. With no-one special to share it with, it's empty. Last Christmas I was working on a pantomime through Christmas - even ended up standing in for Santa on Christmas Eve at the theatre. Christmas day was the only day off and santa spent it alone for the first time in decades. It's a part of the curse of not having any family.

I know, we're supposed to make the most of things and be grateful for what we have. But i can't help but wish i was just part of a normal family.

But there are people a lot worse off than me. So Christmas Day will just be another day. It won't be a bad day, just another day. I'll have Christmas again one day. One day there'll be a Mrs 'X' and maybe a little 'x' or two. And then Christmas will be perfect again.

At some stage i'll get around to apologising to all the people i'm being rude and grumpy too. But i feel it would be pointless, until i've got over this again – at least until the next time.

At last - A Proper Can of Coca-Cola

2006-09-21T00:45:00.003+01:00

I asked for a can of coke.

I thought it was probaby a silly thing to do. These days there doesn't seem to be a Proper Can of Coke any more. It's either Pepsi or Diet or Caffeine Free or Caffeine Free Diet or Lemon or Pepsi Max or Diet Lemon or Frigging Lemon Caffeine Free Pepsi Max LIGHT.

But then he handed it to me. A red can. Remember those? A Proper Can of Coca-Cola. Sweetened with nothing more sinister than a bit of sugar.

I refuse to put Aspartame into my body which breaks down into Methanol, Aspartic acid and Phenylalanine (but the really good bit is that Methanol then breaks down into Formaldehyde (yummy - NOT)).

So apparently you CAN still buy good old fashioned Proper Coca-Cola (although admittedly, this can was imported from Holland)!

So all's well with the world. Goodnight.

Beachy Head

2006-07-27T02:00:00.002+01:00

Several years ago I filmed a friend and her band as they walked along the shore below Beachy Head. She asked why there was so much glass and twisted metal lying around.

I explained to her that people used this place to kill themselves by driving their cars over the cliff, because the grass on the cliff top was always wet. They knew that even if they slammed on the brakes, they would still go over the edge. It was a certain death.

She asked why I knew so much about this place and I told her of my own demons and fears and experiences of this place.

That evening she and I both wrote songs that summed up how we felt, it was all we could do. This is her song (somebody here asked to see it), thankfully i don't think any copy of mine exists. Her name is Joanne.

Here at my feet,
The metal remains,
Of hopes that died in the air
Here at my feet,
Salt water washes over despair
Was it for fear of the future,
Was it for guilt of the past

And where are the souls,
Oh the sea doesn't know
And where are the souls,
Oh the rocks cannot say
And where are the souls
God only knows,
How you're feeling today

Here in my head,
I see an eagle that flies into the sun
Here in my head I say a prayer,
That You'd save the next one
Is there no-one to watch over this place
To pray this evil away

Looking up at cliffs so white,
Shadows in this evening light
Looking up at sky so blue,
I can only think of You
Of You

A tragic lesson learnt

2006-06-03T14:42:00.002+01:00

Today i learnt a very hard lesson. One of the many many things that i'm bad at, is keeping in touch with friends, or acquaintances.

i am now 43 years old. When i was 14, i was in need of help. i didn't really know it, but life changing and horrible events were happening all around me. i was in hospital and alone. One day a man came into the room where i was sitting in bed alone, probably reading, i'm not sure. He was brief and business like. i was a child.

He simply said (and i can remember his words exactly) “Hello James, my name's Ally, I'm a social worker. Your parents have decided that they don't want you to live at home with them anymore, so I'm going to be arranging somewhere for you to live. I'll be back again tomorrow”.

And he left the room.

My already fragile and disjointed world began to cave in on me. i had no idea where to turn to for help. Days later and i was being hurried out of my home into a car by another social worker who was tutting and frustrated at the amount of 'stuff' that i was wanting to take with me. He was in a hurry. i was driven about ten miles to a children's home and dumped on the doorstep, together with all my things. They were not expecting me. i was clearly a nuisance and an inconvenience to them as well.

It transpired that i would have to stay there until i was eighteen.

At the time, i was heavily involved with a local church and the local cathedral. i was an altar boy, sung in the cathedral choir, did a lot of work in the vestry, and looked after all sorts of things, even helped with the cathedral organ. But i kept the two parts of my life very separate.

Then one day somebody said a remarkable thing. One of the Canons of the cathedral, who was a lovely man, but who i always thought was very severe, told me about his summer students. The cathedral housed him in a big house, in which he used to rattle about on his own. So he used the spare rooms to offer accommodation to overseas students attending the local technical college. Students who were finding it difficult to find somewhere and even harder to find something that they could afford.

He said quite simply, that he had spoken to the people who ran the home. i had no idea that he even knew i was in one. If i wanted to, i could come and live in his house, under his care, until i was old enough to find somewhere of my own. Now these days of course there would have been a mountain of red tape to go through and all sorts of questions asked about a single priest offering to put up a young boy. But there was nothing improper about his offer. He simply saw it as his Christian duty and cared enough to do something about it.

The house was big. i was 14. i had no idea how to cook for myself or do my washing. He (and i suspect his house-keeper) both helped and i learnt. i also gained the most wonderful friendship of his massive dog, called appropriately, Fish. Fish and i became inseparable and looking after Fish was my way of saying 'thank you'.

Well eventually i moved away, got jobs, had careers, but i never forgot the kindness of that man. i must write and thank him i kept saying. But i am deeply ashamed to say, that i never did. This is so painful to write, and i can't believe the tears that this is causing as i try and type.

A couple of days ago, i was wondering about that particular cathedral, which is in Derby. So i looked on the internet and of course there it was, a web-site all of its own. There was a page dedicated to the Cathedral staff, and so i looked. His name wasn't there. Quite right i thought, he must have retired a while ago. i'll email the Cathedral office to enquire about him. From there, i'll drop him a little note to thank him for his kindness and to wish him well. i won't mention Fish. Fish will have died years ago and the memory might be painful for him. i'll simply give him the thanks, which is so overdue.

The office replied very quickly. They regretted to inform me, that he had died, not so very long ago, and that yes, he was a special man who was loved and now missed by many.

i had left it and left it and finally left it too late. i never said 'thank you' to the man who rescued me and gave me some hope and some joy. i never even said 'thank you' and i feel so terribly horrible about it.

All i can do is say to anyone reading is this. If there's a call you've been putting off, a letter you need to write, or a 'thank you' that's overdue, then do it today.

Canon Paul Miller

Your Comments

2000-01-03T14:28:00.001Z

Why blog? Why here? Why now? And where's the cake?

2000-01-02T13:29:00.000Z

Good afternoon.

And welcome to this my first 'proper' collections of bloggings. I envisage that it will very much grow on an ad-hoc basis, with frantic, feverish activity some weeks and then you'll be rewarded with weeks of absolute silence from me in between. Cherish those.

Now, contrary to the teachings of all the great writers and language and communications scholars, i shall start off with a negative. And if you survive and proceed on past the negative, then you are indeed worthy of my admiration, my continued reverence and my frequent attempts to engage in heavy petting with you in the deep end. So strap yourself in, because here it comes :

I'm not a blogger. I'm not a Tweeter and i'm not an IM geek.

There. I've said it and actually it wasn't nearly as painful, heroic or climactic as either of us had expected. I don't know about you, but i feel i've rather let you down. Such a shame and we'd only just met as well. I wonder if the merest hint of 'cake' will tempt you to stay and read on? Let's see shall we?

I'm not one of those people of whom folk are heard to say "oh he's always got a lot to say for himself" or (and rather more cruelly) "well he's very fond of the sound of his own voice" because neither statement would be true. I can quite happily go to a party and sit and listen to the conversations that bombard me and remain a passive bystander (or by-sitter i suppose). An eavesdropper of life you might say - and please do if you'd like to.

But i do have a lot to think. I am very fond of the sound (or often the smell) of my own thoughts and thanks to the availability of something called "weblogs" on another website, i recently began to tap out my thoughts and publish them on the web. And then for some mysterious reason, people began to read them. I regularly attend 'gatherings' where someone will come up to me and assault me with the phrase "oh you're THAT James", "i was reading your blog the other day and couldn't stop laughing". (I usually assume that it was raining 'the other day' and that the shops were shut and that their tellies were broken and they were being forced to read my rubbish by some burglar with a sadistic streak!

But just lately i've undergone a bit of a revelation. I've become a Google geek - i embraced Gmail with open fingers and quickly fell in love with the labels and filters and most of the 'labs' toys. From there it was only a matter of time before i began to rampage through the Reader application and into Blogger and well, here we both are.

So i have decided to start a blog. My blog. And to start off with, i'm going to attempt to bring you up to date with my previous blogging exploits. Over the coming hours or days i shall be copying over to here, some of the blogs that i've written in the past on other sites. But be warned, some of them have a distinctly 'adult' flavour to them and some of them were written with the proverbial tongue in the proverbial cheek (my tongue and usually my cheek).

I should add that i do also have an unhealthy fascination with cake, evident by the numerous references to it which appear from time to time within my blogs. But let's be honest, in the end, it's either cake or death!

2000-01-01T04:13:00.002Z