Just say No

I know, I know, it has been quite a while since I last blogged. I'm sorry, but I've been busy. Ok, truthfully now, I haven't blogged because as many of you know, I knock up these illiterate ramblings during my working hours whilst my boss is picking the kids up from school, placing her full trust and confidence into her team that we are all responsible enough to carry on with our daily duties uninterrupted by her absence. Obviously, this trust is somewhat misplaced, and I have been what you could call "busted". I don't call it busted, as I haven't actually been caught out yet on account of my self believed incredible slyness, however I am now forced in a routine of having to document every task I've done complete with start / end times and detail of task. I guess I'll have to start writing these in my own free time like everyone else, just until she gives up trying to catch me out, or I'm sacked, which ever. Said boss however, has phoned in sick today (bless) so it's back to business as usual for me (hoorah!).


Well, while the cat's away, and all that…

Annoyingly, now that I have the opportunity to blog away uninterrupted without expectations of doing some actual work getting in the way, I find myself with little to write / rant about, even though I have been involved in not one but two, TWO separate but almost equally strange "road rage" incidents over the last couple of days (since when did they start handing out driving licenses to the blind and retarded?) but alas, I am without enough mental material in which to form a lengthy rant about. Strange, since I actually enjoy these instances usually, and even allow extra time on my journeys to engage in such opportunities where presented. No, I haven't been taking valium, before you ask.

All this talk of work, plus some annoying bint this morning attempting to engage with me in conversation by means of informing me that there are only 12 days 'til Christmas (yes, I know, I've opened the door on my advent calendar this morning, now fuck off. Conversation declined.) reminds me that this week brings the arrival of the office Christmas party plus the much suffered Team Meal. Neither of which I will be going to. I recently overheard a colleague say "my husband doesn't let me go to work Christmas parties, he says they are just overflowing cauldrons of sexual tension which has been built up all year". This woman's husband must really love his wife, even if she did inadvertently share his dominance and trust issues with all in earshot, as he clearly (and rather wrongly) believes that somebody would wish to not only take the drunken opportunity to crack on to her at the Christmas party / orgy, but actually finds her remotely attractive whilst of a sober disposition the rest of the year. He may very well view her through rose tinted glasses and see the woman he first met all those years ago, where as I have the benefit of not being so deluded, and can see her as the rest of the world does; she's not pretty. Not only is she pear shaped, she is actually shaped like a pear, literally. Her backside is so spectacular, when I picture her in my mind (which I inadvertently find myself doing as I write this) there are no legs in my image, as she has the tapered form of some sort of illegitimate love child of a Russian doll (the big one, obviously) and a Weeble. I'd like to be given the opportunity to reassure this woman's husbands that she will be very safe from having to beat them off with a stick, so to speak, as not only will there be no stick, I can absolutely guarantee there will be no "them".

Fears of having to beat off the drunken advances from the departments 'women' folk and fight my way out from smothering under a pile of bingo wings and floral polyester frocks whilst my eyes burn with the stinging musky fragrance of the best perfume Avon has to offer, although sickening to even contemplate regardless of how highly unrealistic the scenario, is not the reason I am not attending this years corporate festivities. I simply do not want to. Even though it can be quite amusing watching the pervy Finance managers drool all over and eventually approach for the entertainment of all who witness the attractive female staff they hired on the self believed merit of "being in there" based on nothing more than the provocative style of dress adopted for the interview, no amount of stifled hilarity at the expense of other's sexual failings or company paid for alcohol and dried out turkey can persuade me to spend my own free time with the very same dregs of existence that challenge my previous best levels of despair whom I tolerate surprisingly well for 7.5 hours a day Monday to Friday. There are a few individuals within the company who I do enjoy chewing the fat with and putting the world to rights over a free pint*, but unfortunately this number is miniscule in comparison to those who I just cannot justify to myself breathing the same air as where avoidable, so until this number is balanced a little more evenly, my answer remains as No. Just no. Whilst disappointingly there was no option on the reply to the email invitation to the additional team meal out for "you cannot possibly imagine the immensity of my sheer lack of desire to witness you chew food" I had to make do with simply Yes or No. I made up for this by hitting the "No" button firmly, four times, just to get my point across.

I have however, surprisingly to some it would seem judging by the stereo chorus of "You're in the secret Santa? You're in the secret Santa?", opted in for the office (you guessed it) Secret Santa event, and as blind luck would have it, I pulled the name of someone from the hat which I actually quite like (and by "like" I mean I once smashed her to the floor at a works bowling night) although admittedly I'm a little disappointed to miss out on the previously thought out opportunity to purchase and gift somebody a dog turd in a bread bun (there is actually a website that will do this for you, fact!) safe in the knowledge of the scheme being "secret" as the name suggests, although by process of elimination / nosey gossips who haven't participated but insist on bugging the crap out of everyone by persisting to ask "who did you get then?", I'd probably be found out, and would have to rely on the excuse of my "sick" sense of humour to get me out of the shit.



Because nothing says Merry Christmas like "Eat Shit"



The question now is, what do I buy someone I quite like / don't hate for the sum of £5.00?



*Disclaimer: In the unlikely event that someone from work is reading this, I am probably not referring to you.



I'm a fire starter...

Just a quick one today as I type this on a touchscreen phone whilst sat on the bus, so is as frustratingly clumsy as a pissed unicyclist with Parkinson's trying to optimistically ride out an earthquake. Plus I am without spell check, so I fear my real lack of literacy skills will be revealed, but I'll blame that on the phone.

The reason I am in this rather pungent situation is that I am on my way to meet up with my better half and to watch a massive bonfire being lit whilst wearing enough layers to conceal a self-denying teenage pregnancy, and drink neat liquor from a hip flask like an upmarket tramp desperately trying to cling on to an ounce of dignity rather than accepting fact and chugging from the bag. I don't really care for the fire myself as I expelled all my pent up pyromaniacy as a teen, but it's an excuse to stand in a field and drink myself into stupor as I spent my later teen years, which ironically is where I originally got the "setting fire to shit" phase out of my system. An added bonus to this of course it witnessing enough fireworks to cover the national deficit of a small eastern block country be blasted into the air, which Ive never really got into myself as it quite literally is like setting fire to bank notes, or as close as you can legally get without risking beheading for treason, or being thrown into an asylum le mental, but I'll happy watch others piss their money away whilst making all the appropriate "oooohhh" and "aaahhh" noises like all the other dumbfounded fucks in my way of keeping warm from the fire.

Plus, it beats staying in the house and listening to the blitzkrieg and fire engine / ambulance sirens outside, where in Bradford, bonfire night is celebrated simply by the arsonistic torching of roadside fly-tipping spots without fear of imagined reprisal by the law.

Now, must dash, I might even have a sparkler to light.

Who you gonna call?

In absence of motivational occurrences to rant about this week, and (perhaps pointlessly) not wanting to disrupt the recent pattern of weekly postings I've somehow achieved, whilst obviously and more importantly not wanting to let my friend Hazel down (wave Haze!) I'll try to knock up an off-the-cuff "what I've done" type blog, so apologies in advance if this lacks somewhat in lengthy rants about petty and trivial events that seem to have (exaggeratively) plagued me, but with my seemingly natural ability to digress beyond all recognition maybe this will inadvertently turn into what I do best. I have come to the realisation that I have a tendency to go on a bit too, so maybe the lack of rant material might be a blessing and will perhaps keep the word count down a bit too, but I'm promising nothing at this stage, baring in mind I'm up to well over 100 words already.


This weekend was one of my favourite events of the calendar (no, not the celebration of the admittance of Nevada as the 36th sate in 1864), Hallowe'en, which still even as a "grown man" is eagerly looked forward to by me every year, ever since I was first allowed to legitimately go begging for E-numbers and loose change round the posh bits of the village (much to their annoyance I'm sure) whilst wearing a 'costume', by which I mean a bin liner with arm holes cut in it complete with cheap plastic mask that made my face moist with my own condensed saliva, under the guise of celebrating a ye olde tradition that I'm not convinced even now I could properly explain without the help of good old Mr Google. Of course I'm a little too tall to get away with that these days, plus I dare say if I knocked on any of the residents doors round these parts they'd either ring the police, or more likely, set their pit bulls on me, so instead I take this as an opportunity to don make up of my own and go get royally trollied whilst most importantly, not be in the house to answer the door to the hordes of kids, whose idea of 'trick' is half a brick through the living room window, and 'treat' is nothing less than tenner. Well, it beats staying at home and sitting upstairs in the dark whilst pretending not to be in and wondering if I should ring the fire brigade in advance or wait until I can smell the smoke of my smouldering car. As it turns out, the kids came round on Sunday, and my plans fell on Saturday, so I didn't actually manage to avoid this as planned at all, but I seem to have a bit of a reputation with the kids round here (edit: hang on, that sounds all kinds of wrong!) but I suppose that's what happens when your introduction to the neighbours is "Hi I'm Dan, I've just moved in at number 12, and by the way, if your kids go missing, it's because I've caught them in my garden again, and locked them in my shed". I shit you not. As a result, we only had two visitors all night, one of which was too impatient to wait for James (my housemate) to answer the door, or maybe was scared off by the sound of me shouting at James to hurry up and answer the fucking door, and another girl called Chelsea who obviously thought I was kidding when I moved in, who when James did answer the door (even though we said we'd take it in turns, but the first one didn't count as he didn’t get there in time) responded not with "trick or treeeaat" but instead with "where's the other one", meaning me. Joy.

The choice of venue for this years fancy dress shenanigans was, originally, the same as last years, FAB Café, as not only are their fancy dress bashes legendary, but they sell Wham bars and Sherbet Fountains behind the bar (all year round, might I add) and have a food menu which includes culinary masterpieces such as fish finger sandwiches, and a bowl of Rusks with warm milk. I don't work for FAB, by the way, I'm just pointing out it's awesometicity (yeah, made up words, I'm that down with the kids) as my own opinion. Everyone goes all out for Halowe'en at FAB with the vast majority of the people all dressed up for the occasion. Well, I suppose a large cash prize for best costume will have this effect, but it really makes for an interesting night which I look forward to all year, minus the hangover days from the previous event. I rather foolishly had gone out for a "quiet drink" with my good friend Sarah the night before which rapidly turned into a full on session, meaning come the day of the big night its self, I was feeling a little rough, to say the least - damn you Revs and your very reasonably priced racks of novelty vodkas, cocktails and lack of dress code / drunk code - but after vegging out on my mums sofa all day it was time to think about getting ready, even if enthusiasm for poisoning myself further was severely lacking at this point. A quick power nap on the sofa, a promise to my better half that we "won't have a late one" (famous last words) and a swift double Jager on arrival soon sorted us out and set the pace for the rest of the night though.



You can literally see the enthusiasm on my face here


For some reason I quite like acting like a big kid and getting all dressed up for the occasion, even if this does seem to surprise people - to quote my friend "You don't strike me as the dressing up type" and upon inquiring why, was told "you're a miserable old man", which is nice (I'm sorry Leah, I won't quote you again for a while I promise) - but I do, although I can't put my finger on one particular reason without resorting to simply saying "it's a bit of a laugh" which although true, lacks definition. Maybe it has something to do with childhood nostalgia, or the feeling of taking part in an event, or the element of competition maybe, I am quite competitive, I'm told. Mainly it's just an excuse to go out, have a giggle at my own expense, and chat complete shit with absolute strangers, although the fancy dress aspect does seem to provide opportunity to some quite questionable characters that have "lost" (never had in the first place) their friends to tag along for a little bit. I'm usually pretty transparent in terms of making it absolutely clear I have no interest in exchanging pleasantries with piss annoying loners, but for some reason this ability seems to be partly lost whilst in fancy dress get up, so I have to try that little bit harder at this time of the year, without been blunt, of course. One aspect I do enjoy is being able to get away with, no, express my god given right, to judge compete strangers based purely on appearance. A lot of people put huge amounts of time and effort into their costumes for the night and I applaud them for it, and whilst there are a fair few strange choices of characters - The Dude, Vincent Vega, and Papa Lazarou for example… ok I'll give you the latter, but my point on the first two remains - over all the motley crew of costumes is pretty impressive. There is a flip side to this however (and listen up girls of Leeds because I'm probably talking about you here), whilst overall the collection of costumes is very respectable, there are of course the few examples of less respectable "efforts" that have turned up to take the opportunity of justifying to their boyfriends dressing more "provocatively" than can be spotted on the corner of Spencer Street. Having actually put a little effort in my self I'm perfectly entitled to get on my soap box about this bit, even if by "effort" I actually mean "rummage round the house for the bits of costume I've worn for the last three years running" (I'll go as something else next year I swear). Whilst turning up wearing cat ears and black lipstick with matching feather boa and knickers, or 'sexy' devil horns and ill-fitting red sequin hot pants might be classed as fancy dress down at Oceana, and might even contribute to you getting laid even if you are too fat for that nurses dress, it's not quite up to par with FAB's standards it seems. The apparent motto of "if in doubt, tits out" unfortunately won't get you in the photo archives of til-late.com here at least, so you may as well fuck off over the road to Yates and clear some space at the bar for those with massively oversized cardboard heads where you stand a much better chance. But thanks for coming all the same, and see (hopefully less of) you next year.

Eventually, and until next year, the random conversations with film characters came to an end, and it was time to try and flag down a rather bemused taxi driver (because there was absolutely no way I was walking down the road to the rank looking like this), after being wished fare well by Stay-Puffed with the parting words of "you best get yourself off home mate, you look like death!"

Budum-tsshh.

Oh and for those interested, the winner of £150 was a chap dressed as a life size Lego man. No, I don't get what this has to do with Hallowe'en either, but it was impressive all the same.

Perhaps "fuck off" might be too kind.

Not my words, but those of lyrically clever Alex Turner of Arctic Monkeys fame, but stolen as my own. I digress, already, before I've even made reference to the point. That must be a personal achievement! Score. Anyway, my point today, is about that online popularity contest, Facebook, which has been inspired today after reading this which was posted on Facebook by my friend, who ironically, I'm going to delete for posting shit like this several times a day. Kidding Luke, kidding. I'm going to delete you for being a pretentious tit. Kidding, again. (Obviously I don't read Marie-Claire, by the way).

Not even glass eyes are sacred from product placement. Bastards.


I love my Facebook, and rather surprisingly perhaps to some people, I actually have friends on there. For some reason, people choose to advertise their association with me and admit that, rather than just some bloke they loosely know through an unfortunate chain of mutual acquaintances, we are "friends". Just last week in fact, someone who I was quite happy to correct any assumptions people may have had, said on this very blog "you can call me your friend". Quite why she would choose to potentially slurry her reputation held by others is beyond me, but it racks up my advertised number of friends, so I'll not question her motive. Not that I'm implying she has a motive to question, of course. For a long time though I steered well clear of Facebook altogether, I just saw this as yet another site for which slightly vein or socially insecure teenagers took time out from standing in the mirror and worrying about how fat they aren't or dragging a compass across their wrist to leave "realistic" self harming marks to 'hide' attempted to participate in a blatant popularity contest poorly masquerading as a 'social networking' website, which would inevitably follow the pattern of previous contenders (MySpace et al) and practically implode after having 'it's day', making way for the next in the line. Eventually, after begrudgingly accepting that Facebook was becoming more than just a passing phase, and that "it's day" was now turning into years, and more importantly, after getting sick of hearing "you're not on Facebook??" being shrieked at me in utter disbelief as if intentionally not having a Facebook account is as insane as not having a TV in the corner of your living room, I succumbed to peer pressure and signed away any ounce of privacy (and a little self respect) I may have once believed I had. I still stand by my original beef though; interestingly, Facebook finds that your number of friends is a vital piece of information about your identity, and without giving you the option to hide this, displays your popularity score friend count right underneath your basic information. The next time I'm giving my particulars to someone, not only am I going to give them my name, address, date of birth and ethnicity, they are getting my friend count too. I know this information of hand, as, in protest of this contest, I specifically keep this number to exactly 100 (note to all; I am fully aware that currently I'm at 104. This will be remedied). Well, 99 just seemed a little too much like I was trying to reach 100, and anything more fails to illustrate my point - just because no one is aware I'm making a point doesn’t mean that there isn't one being made! The point is, and similarly to the point I made for years during school PE, is that if I'm going to lose at a game I don't even want to play, I'll lose by my own terms, and I'll take as many of you down with me as I can. Pick me at your peril.

Ok, so as a relative newcomer to the big book of faces, after admitting that it does indeed have it's uses, and although I'm actually pretty good at keeping in touch with people (mainly via emails sent / received at work) and make the time to catch up with mates fairly frequently without reliance of my computer, yes, Facebook makes this a little easier, especially since texting on a touch screen phone is frustratingly clumsy and a little like trying to walk in a straight line after a "quick one after work" [James: Sports bar?]. I'll also state that the photo hosting aspect is quite handy, especially for short tempered cretins such as myself that just can't be bothered going through the rather condescending "Forgotten your password? Again?" link on Photobucket / Picasa etc, even if not getting the option to approve photos my mates have tagged me in where mid sentence I appear to be taking part in a gurning competition so I have to routinely go through and "untag" myself from gets a bit annoying. Don't even get me started on Farmville and Mafia Wars, but I do particularly enjoy / abuse having a little bit of space to vent spleen from time to time (daily) and share my shorter trivial thoughts that don't end up on this blog with the lucky 100 "friends" fortunate enough to see my 'updates'. The upkeep of the golden 100 is the cherry on the social networking cake though, this is why I really love Facebook: Every time I accept a new friend, I have to find some really nit-picky reason to delete someone I have no / didn’t have any particular ill feelings about, and this is where we get back to the link to the Marie Claire article. I'll delete someone for what ever reason I see fit, I don’t need to justify or excuse this, I don’t even need to hide this, sometimes I'll even go a little out of my way to inform them as to why I've deleted them. "I c dat u hav deltd me y?" That's why. Racist / sexist / homophobic opinion / "joke"? Deleted. Every status update this week been about what you've had / are having / wish you were having for tea? Deleted. Been watching shitty music videos for hours on end on YouTube and linking every single one as an update for us all have you? Deleted. Relationship status change several times a day? You need to grow the fuck up. Oh, by the way, deleted.

You see, Facebook is nothing more than just another platform to extend my real life behaviour and for me to be a dismissive and arrogant cunt to anyone and everyone I see fit, for whatever reason I see fit, and this opportunity could not be passed, even if it does mean I have to swallow a little pride and enjoy the practicalities it provides as an added bonus. I was recently described as "acting like I own the monopoly on friendship" in a derogatory tone of voice. Hate to piss on that fire, but that's not an insult, it's as much fact as it is to call me ginger, I do (act, that is, not actually own, although that would be quite profitable I imagine). Nothing, and I do mean nothing, during my working hours, gives me as much self gratifying entertainment whilst at the same time providing me with that smug twat glow as receiving a notification to inform me I have a new "friend" request, looking to see who it is, hovering over the 'Accept' button, then clicking 'Ignore'. Feeling a little selfish and rather selflessly in an attempt to reduce these instances, I purposely keep my profile set to 'open' and have released a few statements in the past to inform potential friend requesters of the likelihood of acceptance, such as "If I went to school with you and have not been in touch with you since, it's probably because you're a twat" and also "saying 'alright' to me, back in '98, when you thought I was someone else, does not make us friends". I feel a little ripped off that this button is labelled as "Ignore" though. I'd quite like it to say "Declined". In fact, further to that, I want it to say "Declined" and inform the requester that they have had their request denied, rather than simply and in my opinion, more politely, ignored. Even better, it would be priceless if the declined notification provided a little box for me to fill in and inform them as to my thought process immediately before hitting the fictitious decline button, which would either be a quote from the good Alex Turner himself, or, depending on the nature of knowledge of one another's existence, would read something along the lines of "You were a prick in 1996, and unlike perhaps a fine wine, I somehow doubt you have the ability to have matured with age. Congratulations, you've been outdone by rotting grapes. Declined".

So, and considering the only place I post the link to this blog is Facebook there stands to be a chance some of you whom I am referring to are reading this, if I do have you as a friend on Facebook, it's because (and congratulations, you are one of few) I genuinely like you. Or you're the partner of someone I like. Or we're related.

Now, I must get on with deleting 4 of you.


PS: Spell check reveals I have typed the word Facebook (including this sentence) no fewer than 14 times. Reckon that will get me on Google? [edit] No then. Shame.

'Tis the season...

To be jolly, apparently. I'm not too sure when it was decided that the season began in the second week of October, or quite who it is that has the authority to determine the start of the season, but nether the less, we are now in the season. I have of course heard one or two people whinge "It'll soon be Christmas", but have previously dismissed these as the mumblings of sad old fuckers that quite literally have nothing else to look forward to moaning about. It was during my lunch today however, which on this occasion was 'enjoyed' in the finest of eateries, McDonalds, that I came to the realisation that it is, apparently, nearly Christmas, despite it still been October. This realisation was served in the form of been forced to suffer the same four Christmas songs played on repeat, curtsey of whoever it is at McDonalds HQ has the extremely important job of selecting the playlist for the chain of restaurants and gets to decide when they are played (perhaps this is the man that decides when Christmas starts!). After hearing the timeless sounds of Slade declare it's Christmas there really is little left to deny. God bless Noddy Holder, I hope he never dies. Not because I even remotely like the pork pie looking Brummie retard, but because upon his death, I will undoubtedly be forced to hear his gravelly trade mark rasping continuously for weeks on end. They might even manage to piss Cowell off and get a Christmas number 1 out of his rather selfish demise. This will have me resorting to inserting a 6 inch nail into each ear hole, and purposely allowing a lift door to close on my head, in an attempt to end the torture. Anyway, he's on my list of Celebrity Vampires so I'm sure I'll never have to get all melodramatic about it (I genuinely do have this list, I'm not making this up for comedic effect here, the list comprises entirely of celebrities that despite having the appearance of being constructed from cellotape then melted with a lighter and pubes hair sprinkled on top, refuse to kick the bucket. I present to you exhibit A: Bruce Forsyth. Ever seen him in daylight? It's because he's a sun fearing immortal, clearly).

I rest my case. Pervert Vampire.

I'd like to clarify at this stage, just to eliminate any incorrect assumptions, I do not hate Christmas. I actually quite like it, which seems to surprise most people, for some reason. I get the vague impression that some people think I'm grumpy. Just last week in fact, my friend (well, technically, my girlfriends friend, but despite our continued exchanges of sarcasm, I actually quite like this girl so I'm going to refer to her as "my friend". This way I appear to have more friends than I actually do, so everyone's a winner… apart from the girl in question, perhaps) said, and I quote "You strike me as a miserable old man". Charming. Now couple this with my blatant hatred of anyone under the age of 21 years and my absolute fear of anyone under the age of 21 months, I can see why people jump to the conclusion that I may be very against the public celebration of our Lords birthday (I almost said that without sounding sarcastic didn't I?), but again, just to clarify, I'm not. Thoughtful presents, less thoughtful (but equally appreciated) money in cards, time off from work, festive massacring of escaping British prisoners of war on telly? What's not to like!?

I find that generally society is far more tolerant and nicer to each other around Christmas as there is definitely a festive spirit in the air, so long as you don't wish to breath this air whilst trying to walk anywhere / stand anywhere / queue for anything. In the interest of preserving this possibly imagined perception of festive cheer, I try to avoid the aforementioned as much as is possible, as well as reading the news about how local burglaries have taken a sharp rise this year, speaking to the neighbours about the stolen goods they have bought and how "if I'm after anything they'll sort me out", and most of all opening the front door to the groups of carol singers - and of course by carol singers I do mean gangs of hooded teenage chavs braying the crap out of my door at 10:00pm who then proceed to mutter the only line of Away in a Manger they can remember whilst trying to sneak a peak of how big my telly is or if there any decent size boxes under my Christmas tree, all for the reasonable sum of a fiver. Or the offer of a beating with the fat end of a pool cue which I rather handily keep behind my front door for such occasions, whichever.

Unfortunately the determining of the start of the season has not yet spread to my place of work, as I found out when informing my college of the soundtrack to my lunchtime and being overheard by other colleagues. The witches corner took this news as an opportunity to break out into tandem moaning (I should point out that these are the same sad old fuckers I mentioned earlier on) - which to my surprise was not about how everywhere is really busy, the fuss, or how much it all costs, but the overwhelming abundance of food. Long ago in my very first blog I promised to never write about work, and I'm not, but I am about to write about a colleague, who for fear of incriminating myself or setting myself up for an industrial bullying claim I'll refer only to as Kath. Now Kath is a self proclaimed health freak who feels the need to question everyone as to how many calories are in whatever they are seen eating with a look of judgment on her sagging face, and lives solely on a diet of dry brown toast, bananas, and cups of warm water. The warm water thing puzzled me, so I googled it - turns out warm water is a natural laxative. Lovely. Despite Kath's "healthy" diet, and contrary to her self belief, she looks like shit. Actually I take that back, at least shit has substance. She looks like what I imagine Skeletor would look like if he had an eating disorder, wore foundation, and underneath that hood had the hair of Worzel Gummage. No doubt my announcing of the commence of the season has set Kath into worrying that she may be pressured into eating a sprout on Christmas day. She disappeared for a while after she'd finished fretting about people bringing in mince pies to share around. Probably to worship Armitage Shanks after going crazy with the toast that day. I don't know how I keep this festive cheer up sometimes.

Christmas does for me determine a definite use of having a girlfriend. That came out wrong, I'm not saying my girlfriend is useless, just that as a fully grown man, her main use will prove itself at Christmas. Oh for gods sake, that came out even worse than the first time! Fuck it, it's staying. Remembering that my mum reads this crap, I'll choose my words carefully here, in fact, I'll exclude her all together from this next statement [note; mum - this does not include you]. You see, the thing is and I'm sure you'll agree, as an adult, Christmas morning sucks. If it wasn't for having a significant other, I'm pretty sure I'd have the equivalent of bugger all to open on Christmas morning. In fact I'd have worse than bugger all, I'd have what I do have; completely useless presents which have been purchased without an ounce of thought other than "must get him something / anything". I'm not talking about generic gifts like socks, for the want and joy of socks, at least I'd wear those! I'm talking about the kind of gift that will definitely be resigned to the cupboard of crap, a specific spot reserved for various useless items acquired over the years. Example - last year, after presenting my father with a jumper which I'd very carefully and rather thoughtfully purchased for him from George no less, he issued me with my present, wrapped in actual wrapping paper and everything, as opposed to being left in the carrier bag complete with receipt. I could tell from the size and weight this was a DVD box set of some description. Before I was able to even begin to get any hopes up it that it might be something I'd actually appreciate, he stated "I don't know if you're into 'owt like that" whilst I was still in the process of unwrapping it, begging the thought "why the hell did you think of buying it for me then?". This is the worst bit of Christmas, having to convincingly pretend to be grateful whilst clutching a DVD box set of The Alien Files, and sporting an insincere smile / grimace that resembles the face pulled by my mates when they insist on risking a hernia and forcing out a fart for 'entertainment' purposes. Actually, the worst bit is finding somewhere to stash something I'm blatantly never going to watch (it's a documentary series following the "adventures" of a group of amateur UFO spotters, in case you were wondering), as I can't throw it away, it was present after all. It can go in the same place as my remote control sumo wrestlers from the previous year. Having a girlfriend will at least ensure that I have something to open which I actually want, as no doubt I'll think what this is any day now and hint / tell her constantly between now and the big day. I'm not completely selfish; I'll obviously buy whatever she tells me to buy for her!

I suppose all this somewhat premature talk of festivities is my own fault really, I brought it on myself no doubt for having a Christmas pudding that I spotted hiding on top of the cupboard for tea. Yes "for" tea. Well, I had some custard that was going out of date. Waste not want not, and all that. Again, it's not that I don’t like Christmas (reiterated for those that my be missing the point here) it's just that I don't like thinking about Christmas as early as October, especially when there are other events that come before it on the calendar such as Hallowe'en (complete with appropriate apostrophe to satisfy the grammar Gestapo), the annual celebration of a foiled terrorist burned at the stake (one for the kids, that), and more importantly, my own birthday, which comes before Jesus' every year but for some reason is not celebrated to the same degree.

Well, the playlist at McDonalds says it's so, so I guess it's so, even if it is still 10 whole weeks away. So let me be the first so say to you all, Merry Christmas, fuckers. Oh, and by the way, a little while ago I read something of interest that I thought I'd share with you; statically, you're more likely to have an accident in your own home than anywhere else, and the odds shoot through the roof on Christmas day. Interestingly, the most common cause of injuries treated at A+E is not through mum's insisting on using a steak knife as a screwdriver to fit batteries to a kids toy and inadvertently impaling their palm, or even gung-ho dad's lopping off a digit whilst hazardously carving the turkey tanked up on brandy to try and make the day more bearable. No, the most common injury on Christmas day is children with broken limbs from falling down the stairs whilst wearing novelty slippers. Tra-la-la-la-laa, la-la-la-laa.



PS: Sorry dad, if by some unfortunate miracle and much to my embarrassment you've found and read this, but can we stick to socks this year please. Or a BigTrak! Or a BMX!! Or a Skalextrix!!! So, socks then.

A Town Called Malice

Having given London a bit of a hard time in my last blog, you may be under the impression that I am of the belief that my "neck of the woods" is somehow superior. I am not, because it is not, so I think it only fair to give you a little insight into life on my doorstep. I am informed that there is a travel writer type chap by the name of Bill Bryson that mentions Bradford once or twice and can undoubtedly do a better job of it than I, although having never read his books I can't possibly comment on his opinion of the City, but I was sent this recently which made me chuckle, so I'll blatantly plagiarise this to validate my point:

16 Reasons Bradford is so Shit?

1. The M606 is the only dead-end motorway in Britain not to have a beach or a funfair at the end of it.
2. The Kirkgate Shopping Centre is there solely as a meeting place for crap parents to batter their crap kids without incurring the wrath of crap Social Services.
3. Heroin is not a drug in Bradford, its Breakfast, Dinner and Lunch.
4. Regeneration amounts to demolition and a giant crater that just keeps getting bigger. If this is the case, don’t stop at BD1, do every BD postcode (and HX3 just to be on the safe side).
5. Bradford police are just a call centre for providing crime reference numbers for insurance purposes. They are scared of the dark and have no legs or authority.
6. Only one person in your extended family needs a drivers licence, it just gets shared. Highway codes and traffic laws are optional.
7. You shouldn’t get a taxi in Bradford unless YOU know the way to where you’re going, Bradford cabbies couldn’t find a dog turd at Crufts.
8. Outside Bradford ‘Rita Sue and Bob Too’ is a film, inside Bradford it’s a fly-on-the-wall documentary.
9. G-G-Gareth Gates is from Bradford.
10. Peter Sutcliffe is the city’s most famous person and the reason No More Nails was invented.
11. If you sign on the dole in Bradford and DON’T own a Range Rover, you obviously haven’t filled the forms in properly.
12. The lingering impression Bradfordians have that the city is a rival to Leeds. Is it fuck, its not even close.
13. Nobody under the age of 70 will remember when Bradford actually had ANYTHING going for it. And even then it’s only because there was a war on and they got evacuated from Bradford to the countryside.
14. There's a constant need to examine your shoes for dog muck until you realise its just generally how Bradford smells.
15. When people say “Can you smell take-away?”, its actually the offal plant and the wind is blowing south-westerly.
16. Rupert Austin.

Having only in recent years moved to Bradford I can agree quite strongly with some of the "reasons" above (especially #15 - I actually work inside the "abattoir triangle". Lovely.) as I am not influenced by some sort of completely unjustified local pride, and I can only imagine the original writer of the above is of the same misfortune, and if I had to guess, I'd say this wasn't by choice and he is less than happy about it (step aside, Sigman). I am however a little disappointed that only 16 observations have been included in the list. Without even putting my mind to it I could offer a few more, such as how every plot of council owned grassy land has a horse tethered to it, how both my green wheelie bin and black wheelie bin are collected by the same bin man and are taken to the same landfill site, the fact that my neighbours think I'm a "hippy" because I recycle my glass bottles, my local Working Men's Club contains no working men - unless flogging copied DVD's or stealing to order can be classed as occupations, and that only in Bradford is "sorry I'm late, I was stuck behind a horse and cart on the roundabout" accepted as a legitimate reason for lateness by my boss. But I'll save these for another day.

Plus I have a weird OCD thing, particularly with numbers, and 16, although technically even, seems odd.


Oh, and as you may have noticed, as promised, I've changed the name of this blog. Well, if I am to keep up my squatting of this miniscule plot of the internet real estate, I think it's only fair that I at least hint at what the hell I'm actually waffling about, rather than what I originally intended to waffle about. After asking my friend Hazel what to call it, although her suggestions were all good and true ("Rant of the Day", "I Hate You All", and "Your Existence is Merely Tolerated") I decided to be a little less Emo and instead make reference to a point I made a couple of posts ago. "Simples", as I believe all the cool kids are saying these days.

London's calling...

It was my friend Steve's stag do last weekend, and quite how he managed to convince another human being to marry him without any form of internet ordering or vast quantities of money changing hands is beyond me, but the stag do definitely could not be missed, even if it was in London. My other friend, Tom of blogging fame (he gets paid to write his blog, in actual sterling pounds!) who was also going to the stag do had very kindly offered to put me up at his house for the weekend, just leaving me to take care of the task of actually getting to London. As the ritualistic humiliation known as stag do was scheduled to commence on the afternoon of the Saturday we'd decided it would be wise to drive down on the Friday, and as Tom was working the day, I decided to go into work for the morning, drive down in the afternoon, and meet him in the evening. The only problem with this plan was that it meant hitting the notorious M25 slap bang in the middle of rush 'hour', which made my mates make a noise like a plumber assessing a leak upon hearing of my plan.

The M1 leg of the journey was remarkably uneventful, aside from my amazement at how many people don't understand the term 'Average Speed' - I'll try to give you dickheads a quick lesson in basic maths: It's a fucking average speed, basically calculated as distance travelled divided by time taken. If point A to point B is achieved faster than the assigned average as determined by the number in the big red circle, It's because you were speeding, no if's, and not but's. Ploughing through the 50 zone at 80mph then stamping on the brakes when you see the yellow cameras will achieve fuck all, enjoy your three points, a day rider will set you back the best part of a fiver. Whilst we're on the subject, although you will be relieved of £60 for doing 10 miles an hour over the speed limit, this is not in turn gifted to those that do 10 miles an hour under the limit as some sort of incentive or reward , that's not quite how the world works, so you may as well hurry the fuck up. Lesson over. Turning the corner onto the M25 was so clichéd it was almost funny, I was literally greeted by a wall of traffic, in which I proceeded to spend the next two hours of my life pumping the clutch pedal like a retard at a barn dance. I was quite amused at the rather optimistic variable speed limits along the various sections though, I was beginning to have fond memories of 40 miles per hour, and if the gear stick didn't have a little picture on it telling me where 3rd was I may have never found it again. It all became too much for one chap who I passed, casually mid piss against the central reservation for all to witness, who then had to begin jogging to catch his partner up. Unfortunately for him, traffic began to move a little faster at the moment his bladder could take no more, so it was a good mile or so before he managed to catch up with his partner, who was sat in the hard shoulder waiting for him. I'd have offered him a lift seen as he was jogging behind me the entire way, but then I'd have had to find some other way to amuse myself, plus I'm not that generous. I occupied myself for the remainder of the jam with traditional road trip games such as 'block the under taker', 'spot the wanker in the Pryus' [It's Pry-us, not Pree-us and don't even get me started as to what my beef is with the morons that actually believe the marketing guff in the brochure, because I'll start quoting Einstein at you, and it'll get messy] and my personal favourite 'carve up the Beamer'. This kept me entertained until the stroke of 7:00pm, where traffic seemed to simply evaporate and I could once again find 5th and take my trusty steed up to full speed - I say steed as a horse would have actually been better suited to the road surface which seemed to have been cobbled as a cheaper alternative to tarmac. Coming from my part of the world I'm quite familiar with cobbled streets, but I don’t usually tend to do 70mph down them! My head was nodding so violently I felt like the Churchill dog, on speed, at a rave.

 

"Insurance - Av iiitt!"

I did learn a couple of things in the eternity spent sat in traffic though;

• Londonites don't use their indicators to give me a clue that they are about to turn my stopping distance into a crumple zone, but only do so to request that I let them in. Request denied - although, coming from Bradford, this is actually an improvement to what I'm used to, where they majority of the population don’t even have a driving license or insurance so have no need to use the stalk on the left.
• Motorcyclists have the God given right to clip my wing mirror with their handlebars whilst squeezing through traffic, but interestingly, I have absolutely no right what so ever to offer to have a shit in their helmets.
• Starburst are not an appropriate driving sweet, unless you happen to like picking soggy bits of paper from between your teeth. I myself do not.

Eventually arriving at Toms I was rewarded with a couple of beers and an early night, after been introduced to his 6 week old son, George. George did not take my hand when offered it, which I thought was a bit rude really, so we silently agreed to disagree at that point. I believe his father took some taking to me when we first met actually. Must be one of these North / South divide things I hear about on the news...


Since I only see Tom about once a year, and since the stag do didn't kick off until 3:00pm, we'd said that if I sling my bike in the car and fetch it down with me, we'd get up early and go out for a ride, so that's exactly what we did. Up, dressed, quick bowl of cereal and out of the door for what was to be my first jaunt on a bike since last October.  Part way through we did the whole "you can have a go on mine if I can have a go of yours" swap, which left Tom describing my bike a being "a bit like a Rolls-Royce", which I think was more a reference to it's weight and bulk than build quality and luxury. My speedo wasn't working for most of it but Tom assures me we did 8.35 miles in around two hours, which wasn't bad considering this was pretty much all off road and up some fairly long and rough hills, and the fact we had to repair a massive puncture in my back tyre due to getting a bit lost in some pretty savage overgrowth. Overall it was an enjoyable and completely made up run out, although I was glad to see the home stretch as my quads and calves were burning a fair bit, but this is to be expected really as a result of sitting on my backside for the best part of a year. When we arrived back, Tom wheeled out his pride and joy to show off - Project Yolkie: The Fixie - a fancy pants pushbike to you and me, which he built himself. "Want a go?" well, it would have been rude not to really, but I was soiling myself a little bit, you see, Tom is more proud of this bike than he is of his first born son, and I was shitting myself more at the prospect of scratching it than I was at dropping George. Having Tom push me off like a child riding a bike without stabilisers for the first time must have looked quite funny to his neighbours, thinking about it now. I was pleased to hand it back unmarked, as I'm sure this would have resulted in the offer of temporary accommodation being revoked.

A quick shower and change of clothes and it was time to head over to Greenwich to meet up with the stag, which meant spending about an hour on various trains. London used to be 'home' to me for a little while, and as much as I have some fond memories of aspects and made a couple of good friends in my brief time there, I don't miss it, especially travelling around in any form other than on foot. Why people in the capital have never adopted the British tradition of actually queueing is beyond me, forcing me to have to do the exact same, but, when in Rome I guess. After an hour of overhearing a couple of girls hold a conversation that involved "like" used between every other word and all sentences ending in "or whatevor", plus witnessing not one but two lads wearing glasses with no lenses in them (must be a trend thing, because I don't get it) I was glad to get off, although listening to Tom singing "Abba's Waterloo" quietly to himself did tickle me for some reason.
Arriving ''fashionably'' late we walked into the stag do in full swing, and spotted the stag wearing a hat that said "half man / half badger" on it - I don't get it either, something to do with a childhood nickname or something. It became apparent that the stag had a list of thirty challenges / dares to carry out during the 'do, and just to make absolutely sure none were forgotten, the best man had printed a full list off for each of the guests, so I did the decent thing and assisted where ever possible in ensuring as many as possible could be ticked off. I arrived just in time for the start of challenge number 11 where he had to approach 5 strangers and ask them if a pair of underpants that he had "found" [purchased in advance for the occasion] belonged to them, resulting in some strange looks. The one challenge Steve (the stag, keep up) made the biggest fuss over was challenge number 3: doing a Tequila slammer. He was absolutely adamant that he was not doing this one as, apparently, the last time he did one he "nearly died" (his words, not mine) repeated at least eighty two times. The "last time" he was referring to was 1995, when he was 18, and had drank a skin full before attempting the 4 slammers, and "nearly died" was actually a bit of an exaggeration - he was tended to by those voluntary busybodies with fuck all better to do and absolutely zero medical qualifications, the St. Johns ambulance, as he threw up. Life threatening. A few sighs of despair from all and comments such as "worst stag do ever" soon took care of that, a tray of slammers was ordered, and Steve downed a shot of the stagnant cactus juice for the first time since his near death experience. It was nice to know Steve could be heavily influenced with a little peer pressure and the fear of being a disappointment to those that turned up for the event. This was knowledge was to be exploited as the night went on. After a while was time to leave Greenwich and head down river to Covent Garden via a boat, with another quick challenge thrown in - Challenge Number 8: Stand on Greenwich docks wearing a sailor hat holding a sign which says "For Rent". So, looking a little bit like our favourite 80's paedophile (no, not Timmy Mallet) Captain Birdseye, we waited for our vessel to arrive, attracting some strange looks from the local residents and tourists around, although this was probably more to do with the fact we were all wearing badger masks than the good Captain offering his services.

'Captain' Birdseye; fucking terrifying!

Once all aboard the ship, and taking Steve's impromptu toilet trip as an opportunity for childish shenanigans, we switched seats and hid from the stag, with the rest of the passengers on the boat seemingly in on the gag too. I don't believe it was my idea to hide so I don't feel remotely guilty at Steve's public embarrassment as he returned from the loo to find us gone and proceeded to stare at the seats we had previously occupied with a great deal of obvious confusion on his face and some comedy beard scratching (still wearing his Captains hat, may I add), as if he'd maybe imagined our existence, or we'd vanished into thin air. Although it does sound like something I would do... Anyway, we alerted him to our presence just as he was about to step off the boat a good few stops too early, to the unanimous laughter of many of the tourists aboard.

The order of the remaining events of the evening are a little hazy in my mind after this point, although I do remember a few more challenges been carried out a various points of the night, including buttocks being signed, a bellydance being performed, and a riverdance being.. well, danced, again all encouraged with "worst. stag do. ever" been used as encouragement. Well, that and alcohol. We all went for a curry at some point, and been sat at the end of the table I quietly entertained myself with what I can only describe as the opportunistic bullying of someone I'd outed as a complete cunt earlier in the evening.

Anyone who knows me knows I have never read "How To Win Friends and Influence People" as is obvious by my ability to alienate just about anyone, you see I'm a little bit too sincere for my own good really, and coupled with the fact that I seem to just attract absolute wankers, this makes for some 'interesting' social situations. I'd spotted this particular smug faced, expensive shoe wearing tit earlier in the day, and knew instantly we'd clash (or at least, his chubby dial would clash with the sole of my cheap boot) if we were left alone to shoot the shit for too long, so figured it would be best for all concerned if I just avoided him all together, which meant at times just walking off or turning to face the other way as he was mid statement at me. Eventually he corned me and came out with the feared statement of "How do you know Steve then". No, I don't mean question, and I didn't miss out a question mark from the end, this was not a question from him, just an opening statement to which my responses was of no interest, is simply served as an opportunity to speak once it was his turn again. I didn't bother justifying my acquaintance with the stag, instead once I'd realised there was indeed no way out of this situation, I skipped straight to providing him his opportunity to talk about himself for a bit. "Well back when I was on Grange Hill I got Steve the job working for my mum...". Excuse me? "I used to be on Grange Hill". Right, and quite what that had to do with how he knew the stag is somewhat questionable, if I cared, which I of course didn't, but for some reason he felt the need to inform me. Thankfully, Steve heard this and came over to unintentionally provide sufficient distraction for me to escape, and informed me he was actually an extra on Grange Hill for all of nine episodes. Extra. This was priceless.

For the remainder of the night, every time this pompous mummy's boy whose name I don't believe I was ever informed of / successfully paid no attention to interrupted my conversation with someone else or blurted out some irrelevant statement of the drunken variety over the top of me, I'd take the opportunity to throw some form of pisstakery in his face, which rather surprisingly seemed to be at the approval of his "friends". I can't remember now exactly what I said to him that he took particular exception to, although he did corner me later on in another bar with what I believe was intended in his head at least to be a threat thought out in advance but fucked up severely on delivery, to which I informed him how pleased I was to meet him and how I was looking forward to telling my mates back up North I'd been talking to an actual celebrity because all I'd ever met before was amateur actors with overly pushy parents that once did an advert to be aired on the shopping channel at 4:00am as a child and still put this on their CV's. He seemed to disappear all together after this conversation, which I probably should feel a little bit guilty about, being the stags mate and everything, but in my defence, he should have never approached me, as I'm not exactly renowned for my people skills. Not that he was to know this of course, but for anyone with an ounce of social awareness it is about a obvious as I can make it without hanging a sign from around my neck with some form of pre prepared statement on it. I'd like to point out that I'm never rude to people for no reason however, just people who have either given me or I've found an excuse to be rude to. So most people then.

Eventually it was time for the off, as it was quite late, I have no idea what time the last trains are but the prospect of missing it and paying for a cab was not an option, Tom was tired due to interrupted sleep á la George, I was knackered from the mornings bike ride and was struggling to stand up for too long, and to be fair, none of us are 21 any more, so homewards bound at a respectable hour it was.

The following morning it was time to load up the car, say goodbye to George, and head Northwards fuelled with a cup of fancy coffee and one of the best full English breakfasts I've had in a long time courtesy of Tom, after (despite my protests to the contrary) the best stag do I've been on yet. Or like, whatevor.

PS: I understand I may have possibly offended some people with some of the points made above, so I'll issue this statement; if you are a BMW driver, a motorcyclist, a Pryus driving moron, a lenseless spectacle wearing trendy kid, a Londonite, a St. Johns ambulance loser volunteer, Captain Birdseye, or a fat dough faced "actor" and feel I am either wrong or completely out of order in any of my statements, please feel free to debate your point in the comments box below, which I'll strongly contest as being complete bollocks, or if you have a point I can't contest, I'll delete. What? You want democracy, fuck off to China... oh, hang on...

Short and to the Pointless

For those of you that may have recently become accustomed to my recent spate of rants ending in a 'witty' punch line, or an entire blog about something so trivial it really could have been summarised in a single sentence but I've somehow managed to digress and digress beyond all recognition, you may wish to stop reading at this point, as there will be none of that today, so you may as well save yourself the effort and hit the "next blog" link instead as, if you're really lucky, you might find what you're looking for there, and good luck to you.

Still here? Joy. Well, the astute amongst you may have noticed my blatant overuse of the word "you" at this point, I've written it literally several times at this point already, to the point where the word itself is beginning to loose all meaning and I'm even starting to question the spelling. I'm sure it's right though. Anyway, the point is, there will be no point, or purpose, or punch line to this blog, as the subject today, in essence, is you, my "readers". You see, the thing is, up until a few days ago, I had no idea that "you" (that's the last time I put you in inverted commas, I promise) existed - I knew you existed, as in society, the general public, obviously, I mean people that actually read my inane ramblings poorly entitled "blogs" - I thought the only people that read this guff were me, Tom when he's bored, a few other people that have followed a link on their skives lunch break, and my mum. And that was absolutely fine by me, as the truth is, I don’t write these for you, I write these for me, as a means to keep my mind occupied or just to kill the time whilst I'm rotting here at my desk. A few days ago however, I happened to click on the little tab on Dashboard (bit dramatic isn't it, "Dashboard"?) called "Stats". I'd seen this before but never really paid much attention to it, it's stats for Gods sake, it really can’t be that interesting, afterall, 62% of all statistics are made up on the spot! (Haa haa, I made a geeky statistics joke, I'm so funny). For some unknown reason that I can only associate with severe work related boredom, I clicked on this Stats tab and was alarmed to find that in actual fact, quite a lot of you people out their have been reading this stuff, and it's all a bit unnerving really. "So people are reading your blogs, that's a good thing, right?" Well, it's a bit like singing, I mean, just about everyone does it in private without even thinking about it, when they're sure they can't be heard, like in the shower or stuck in traffic for example. That's absolutely fine, nobody can hear you, and most people will stop immediately when they realise someone can hear them, out of embarrassment usually. The only people this doesn't apply to (apart from actual singers) is those wankers sat a few seats back on the bus that insist in sharing their 'talent' with us all, whether we want to hear them, or more often, not. These people drive me to some pretty disturbing thoughts of gratuitous violence, aspirations of gratuitous violence, or a firm "tut" and slight shake of the head. Anyway, I digress, once again.

The point I think I'm trying to make in a round about fashion, is that in this instance, ignorance really is bliss. Before I was aware of you, I could  quite happily spew shite until the cows came home (not literally of course, although that would be a pretty awesome and equally disgusting party trick but would require that I own cows, which I do not), as I'm sure a few of you will agree, and occasionally write about the running I haven't done and the cycling I've thought about doing, but now that I know you're there, I find myself a little lost for words, which is unusual for me. The problem is two fold you see. Firstly there's a touch of shyness or the pressure to deliver something actually worth reading. The second problem is your own assumption - I've had a few comments recently from people which almost make me feel guilty for leading them to believe an untruth or two; comments such as (and please excuse the slashes as I try to incorporate these into just two sentences) "So do you / did you do English Literature / Media Studies / Creative Writing (or some other pisspot £15k degree to be wasted in a career of administration) at Uni / Collage or anything then" and "Your writing style is very similar to [insert author / columnist here], do you read a lot of his / her stuff?". I've deleted these comments where made on my blog as it's a bit embarrassing having to answer to complete strangers really, no offence, but I'll respond here instead: I achieved a C in GCSE English and certainly have not furthered my education in that respect, I'm pretty sure I use the term "being" in the wrong context frequently, and I haven't read a single book in my adult life, and further to that the only internet reading I do is a couple of friends blogs, the BBC News website, and Facebook. That's a slight lie, I read Slash's autobiography a couple of years ago, and I'm not even a massive Guns 'n' Roses fan, ironically. Well I have that at least - I know the difference between irony and coincidence, so if all else fails, I may try to educate my American readers as to the blatant differences. I think I'm actually going to put this statement into my Profile (no not the American irony confusion thing, the lack of reading history / education thing), since it is distinctly lacking in content, and at least that way, I can't be blamed for leading people to the wrong impression, or hopefully people will stop thinking "oh he's trying to be like so-and-so" (Yes, "so-and-so", because as we've established, I don’t know who to reference). My friend Tom, whom I have a definite and mutual lack of bro-mance in our friendship with, did however say, and I'll copy this straight from his email to prove I'm not making this up or so he can't retract it, "you're quite a funny guy" [see, in your own handwriting and everything]. This was definitely a compliment, so I guess I have that too, if the purpose of writing a blog is to seek peer approval or demonstrate how hilarious I am. Which it's not, and I'm not, but still, it's nice to be nice.

I guess if absolutely nothing else,I demonstrate the fact that anyone with the ability to bash a keyboard, a short attention span, a spell checker and a boss who leaves early to pick the kids up from school can write a blog about just about anything, and people, if for no other reason than terminal boredom, will read it. That's as close to a point as I can get, but as promised, no punch line.

Oh, by the way, I have found a solution to my annoying "toilet friend" which seems to have been working quite nicely for the last couple of days;

Seems to do the trick, the door hasn't been tried once thus far. Result.

A Long Slow Comfortable Screw Against the Wall (teehee!)

Some years ago, quite a few years ago in fact (I'd say "back in the day" but I'm not sure I'm quite old enough to pull that off. Oh go on then) back in the day when the novelty of being served alcohol legally and without need for 'convincing' fake I.D. [purchased by a friend from the back of FHM, photocopied with my bus pass picture stuck to it] was still fresh, myself and a couple of friends decided it would be a wise investment to partake in the mid week offer of "2-4-1" cocktails at a relatively respectable establishment for the evening. I say respectable as I didn't personally know of anyone who had been either spiked or stabbed in there, and I say "relatively" as the bouncers would still grant me entrance in my cream jeans and Ben Sherman shirt (ironed by my mum of course). As there were three of us, the mathematics of the drinks offer didn't quite work out favourably, which inevitably left one of us having to drink the remainder of the equation each time - some form of brightly coloured and equally sickly beverage usually topped with whipped cream and, if really lucky, a cherry. Manly. This, more often than not, was yours truly. Well, my friends were both bigger than me, I had to make up for this by drinking more than them, obviously.


As the night rolled on more and more of these liquefied deserts were ordered, which in true cliché conformity obviously came with the added bonus of uttering suggestive remarks or making obscene requests to the fairly attractive barmaid under the innocence of simply ordering a drink, whilst of course giggling uncontrollably each time like a schoolboy - which to be fair, we pretty much were. Occasionally my gag reflex would be in urgent need of a rest so we'd take a break every now and then and order a proper drink; a Smirnoff Ice or maybe even an Irn Bru WKD. Just the one though, then back on to the 'good stuff' once my saliva glands had resumed normal service.

Inevitably, the night came to an end, or at least, our funds did. Even more inevitably, and provoked by the fresh air hitting my lungs, vomiting ensued, which was of course rewarded by my mates with a noise that can best be described as "WAAAAAAYY!!". I vividly remember being both shocked and impressed at my 'street art' which was like a visual orchestra of primary colours composed on a paving slab. You really had to be there to appreciate it, and since I was, this particular pavement decoration (of which there have been a few over the years) has etched itself into my memory, enabling me to recall my production in full glory.

I was reminded of this today thanks to my colleagues choice of blouse. It is simply spectacular.

It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life...

In some, the arrival of dawn and the sight of the rising run inspires motivational, poetic or even philosophical thoughts. I'm sure the answer to many of life's great problems have been solved with nothing more than a fresh mind, a hard think and a long stare out of a window at the break of the new day. Some may see the early morning sun as a fresh start, a blessing, or just simply take the opportunity to embrace life itself.

In my highly complex and intricate mind, waking up to the sight of the morning daylight flooding in through the skylight and gradually opening my eyes to the natural illumination of my bedroom provokes such deep and meaningful thoughts as; I really need to buy a fucking blind.

Hello? Is it me you're looking for?

The eagle-eyed amongst you may have noticed I missed out Number Eight. So here it is; (8) … .. Ah balls to it, make up your own, it'll probably be more interesting. Well it's the end of week 7, and I still haven't caved, but the truth is, I'm even starting to bore myself with this now, so followers (hello Tom, wave!) that's the last I have to say on the matter. For now, at least.


Now that's out of the way, I find myself with little constructive to say, so I'll share with you a little conundrum which both puzzles and infuriates me on a daily basis; Why is it that when ever I use a certain toilet (the same toilet I may add, I'm a little stuck in my ways you see) at my place of work, without fail, someone - and I assume this to be the same person - will try the door, realise it is locked, and then defying all logic and common sense, try it again almost immediately afterwards!? I'm not expecting an answer here, to be clear, the question is rhetorical. But if we completely forget that they needn't have tried it in the first place if they'd paid attention to the little coloured tab on the handle that changes from white when vacant, to red when engaged (clever stuff!), why would the door be open when quite literally just beforehand it was locked?

Perhaps they thought they'd "done it wrong" the first time and just to be absolutely sure they figured they try it again, I mean, I myself have on occasion had difficulty in operating a door, but that is usually those fancy arse doors they have on the public toilets on the new trains - on the outside they are quite simple, one brightly illuminated LED button in an assuring shade of green, not too dissimilar to that of a Granny Smith apple, for 'Open', and another almost identical in design with the exception of colour (red this time, obviously) and the fact it is this time labelled 'Close'. Nothing to worry about there, it's all quite simple really. It's when we throw caution to the wind and venture inwards that things get complicated. Inside we are greeted with the same arrangement, one for 'Open', and one for 'Close', except this time we have another button, labelled as 'Lock'. It even has a picture of a key on it to assist in its description. It would be safe to assume that you enter, press Close, then press this new button, 'Lock'. Or so I thought. I did things in the correct order, and was rewarded by the Lock button flashing at me to tell me the door is successfully locked. Fancy. Or does this mean there's a problem indicating I've done something wrong? Panic ensues, and to be sure, I decide to test the doors locked state by pressing open; if the door is indeed successfully locked, it won't open, surely? Oh look, the Star Trek inspired door is opening. Fantastic. "Shit, Close, Close!" Oh I see, the door has to fully open before the action of closing is allowed, just to make sure that the smirking twats stood in the vestibule area can fully compare the shade of my face to that of the 'Close' button which I'm frantically bashing uninterrupted. I may also have pushed a 'Pull' door once, maybe. Mistakes happen. Well, I am human after all, despite my slight and completely unjustified superiority complex.

My point is however, this is not a Star Trek inspired electronically operated sliding door, nor are there an arrangement of brightly lit LED buttons designed specifically to confuse uncomplicated matters. This is a regular door, constructed from some sort of wood chip laminated in authentic looking "wood" veneer, hung on actual hinges, and operated by a regular door handle which I believe is detailed in the tradesman's catalogue as "plastic"; a quite frankly archaic design despite it's modern appearance and a quality of construction that could at best be described as "shit", which has remained pretty much unaltered in function through time. Not a great deal you could get wrong really. Didn't open the first time? It's because it's fucking locked, now jog on.

Or try again, you know, just to make doubly sure. There we go.

Perhaps I'm not giving my infuriator [spell-check reveals this is not a real word. I'll invent it. The instigating party in an act of extreme annoyance. See 'infuriatee'] enough credit, maybe this reoccurring annoyance reveals a more sinister psychological issue within my 'toilet friend'. If we forget for one minute that a simple door handle cannot really be operated improperly (unless you really put your mind to it), we get back to the construction of the door itself. I can hear everything that's going on on the other side of the door (and often the other side of the wall too; the adjacent toilet. The women's toilet. Grim) so we'll assume he - and I assume "he" as it's the men's toilet I occupy, in this scenario at least - can hear everything that's going on on my side of the door, which is quite blatantly and rather crudely someone [me, keep up] in the middle of having a piss. Sorry to be so vulgar, but I had to point that out as I didn't want you picturing me doing the other thing I do there; flexing in front of the mirror. No one wants to picture that. Whilst we're on the subject, I don’t do anything else in there either, ever. Because of the AIDS, obviously.

You're singing it, don't pretend you're not singing it,

I know you're singing it.

To get back on track, again, this leads me to speculate quite heavily as to exactly why this mentalist insists on trying the door a second time when [a] as we've established, it's locked, and [b] I know full well he can hear me conducting my business. Perhaps this [insert preferred derogatory-term-for-person-of poor-psychological-health here] envisages some sort of secret garden on the other side of the door, and the sound of 'running water' is actually a Charley Dimmock-esque water feature, and that entry to this flowery wonderland is dictated not only by the purity of ones soul, but also by trying the door handle twice at very specific intervals. 0.7 seconds not doing the trick today? Try 0.6 seconds tomorrow.

The mind boggles. I am however intrigued as to who the chap is, but am unsure as to how I can trap the culprit without resorting to "cutting off" mid act and flinging the door open, as you could absolutely guarantee it would be some senior manager type person, and the indecent exposing of myself would surely lead to a lengthy period of time off. I'm putting my money on a colleague we'll refer to as Super Gaz. He's retarded enough to push a 'Pull' door twice. He also does an awesome Alan Partridge impression when I'm in the middle of a conversation with someone else and he has something he just needs to get off his chest, because clearly basic manners are too much to expect from a man-child who finds the picking of ones nose in full view of the office perfectly acceptable behaviour.

Partridge; persistent.

I am at this stage left feeling a little guilty for using what started off as a legitimate series of blogs about my progress of keeping fit as a platform to vent spleen, and not for the first time. I'll have to get off my arse and do something about that to make up for it.

I'll change the name of the blog.

Things I've noticed...

...since I stopped smoking:

1)I never have any change in my pockets.
2)I never go to the cash machine.
3)I never see Mr Patel.
4)I've started saying "I don't smoke" rather than "I've stopped smoking". When did this happen?
5)I don't see my neighbours anymore.
6)I clock-watch less.
7)Both my hands now look the same [one was a slightly different colour].
9)Smokers are very negatively opinionated on my efforts to stop smoking, whereas;
10)None smokers are quite positively opinionated / supportive. Which is nice.
11)I'm less fidgety. Still quite impatient though.
12)My workmates forget to invite me along on their fag breaks. Yes, I know I don't smoke, but I still get bored and like to get away from my desk from time to time.
13)I'm going off mayonnaise.
14)I can taste the difference between a good pint of Guinness, and a not quite as good pint.
15)Other people claim they are going to stop smoking when I mention I've stopped, although when asked "when", they can't answer.
16)I'm drinking more cups of coffee at work than usual.
17)I can smell smoke on people or trails of smoke really strongly.
18)More women smoke than men. I could be imagining this.
19)I have an annoying tickly cough, particularly on a morning.
20)I bite my fingernails less.

So there we go. On Monday it will have been three full weeks without a cigarette, no cheating or lying or anything, not so much as a drag. I've been a good boy, I'm quite proud of myself, and am clearly owed some form of reward. Might go for a pint tonight, since by the time Monday arrives, I will have saved £94.50

Scary isn't it!

I'm sorry Mr Patel..

Mr Patel is the very friendly chap that runs the corner shop across the street from me, and instinctively upon seeing me walk into his shop, reaches behind him for 20 Regal King Size. Saves on unnecessary conversation you see. I of course have to explain to him that this won't be required any more, so today it'll just be a pint of milk please. "You'll be buying a bloody cow next" he replied.

Well, first week over, and in all honesty, it's been pretty uneventful really. My last cigarette smoked was on Monday night, and I can't really say I've had any strong cravings either, a few mood swings here and there, but that's pretty much business as usual with me. This is turning out to be much easier than I both imagined, and remember it been from the last time I "stopped". One thing that may have made life a little easier is not been at work for a few days this week, which took care of the routine side of things.
Admittedly however, there have been a few moments where I've forgotten that I don't smoke any more and have thought to myself "might go for a fag" and then remembered what I'm doing. Well, I guess old habits die hard, but it could be and probably should be a lot harder than just "forgetting" from time to time.

I've been noticing a few things recently since I stopped smoking too, some good, some not so good, such as I can taste and smell things a little bit more (not always a good thing, especially when travelling on public transport), I can smell smoke on other people really strongly (again, not good, as that's how I used to smell), I'm noticing other people smoking a lot where ever I seem to go. It's a little early just yet to start talking about benefits to my health that I'm noticing, plus I was struck down with manfluenza last night, which I seem to remember getting the last time I stopped smoking too; must be some weird immune system thing from depriving my body of a shed load of chemicals that it's been accustomed to for the last ten years.

On a financial note, I notice that I go to cash machines less frequently, and as I'm no longer handing over a ten pound note to Mr Patel every couple of days, I never seem have any change in my pockets any more, which will begin to annoy the ladies in my works canteen I'm sure. Whilst we're on the subject of money, I've also been keeping track of how much money I've saved since I first stopped, based roughly on the days of the week I'd usually buy a packet of fags, times by roughly the cost of a 20 deck. So far I've saved a whopping £31.50!! This both surprises me and doesn't surprise me at the same time - it's a lot of money when I actually stop and think about how much £6 here and there adds up to, but then again as I mentioned in my last post, the last time I stopped I saved enough to fund my snowboarding [note to self: must do more snowboarding].

I also mentioned in my last post that I roughly worked out that the cost of smoking, and in turn the money saved by stopping smoking, roughly equated to the repayments on a small car. So, to combat the feeling I often get of money burning a hole in my pocket, the above is exactly what I've just done; I've gone and bought this:
So after a conversation with a salesman that went something along the lines of "Hello sir, can I help you?" - "Well, I'd like a car please, but I've got no money, so I don't know, can you help me?", I am now the relatively pleased owner of a 2006 Fiesta "Style", and yes, that really is the colour I've gone for. Lovely. Well, it beats the colour of rust that I'd become used to with my last trusty steed. So, no turning back now, my fag money will be paying for this for the next four years.

And on that bombshell, goodnight!

From the Big Smoke to the No Smoke

Forgive me Bloggers and Bloggees alike as I have sinned, it has been a while since my last confession. A long while in fact. The last time I wrote was last year, back in October, as I whinged on and on about a little run I'd gotten myself all worked up about. As that was last year now, I'm not about to re-enact the events in the form of witty literature, mainly as I can't be witty, and I can't remember a lot of it.

So at this stage you may be asking yourself "hang on, if he's not here to tell tales of blood, sweat, tears and vomit from last year, does he have another ridiculous fitness challenge ahead of him?". Well since you ask, no, of course I don't, I did my run, what do you want from me? I'll be honest, I've not done a single bit of running since October last year. Well that's not quite true, I ran across a road on my way home from work this evening, but that's pretty much it. Oh and by the way, as to be clear on this; no, I have not started walking the 1.3 miles to work and back. I would drive, and have done pretty much every day since last October, but my car ran out of MOT at the weekend, and it's not a case of 'if' it fails, it quite categorically will fail, it's just a matter of how badly. So until I find some replacement wheels, I'll be walking, but to counter this inconvenient lack of petrol powered transport, I've booked some time off work. Yes, I'm that lazy. So, as we've established, absolutely no running done, and as little walking as possible. Oh, no cycling either, but that's mainly down to a problem with my bike which I've not got round to fixing yet, but I actually do quite like cycling, off road obviously. It's not all bad however, I have kept up to doing a few weights here and there, and since I last wrote I have a new housemate, whose bedroom we've turned into a quite respectable gym complete with some form of multi-gym lat pulldown / peck deck affair, and a weights bench. Anyway I'm detracting from the point quite severely, so I'll get back to it now;

THE POINT
As we've established at this point, I don't have a ridiculous fitness related challenge ahead, but I do have a challenge of sorts ahead (well, I say ahead, I'm actually a day late writing this blog; I've started already), and once again I'm using this blog as an outlet to vent spleen, to motivate myself if it starts getting tough, and most importantly, because I'll have to admit failure if I do (fail, that is) and I do not like admitting defeat. So, the challenge: I'm stopping smoking.
Yes, that's right, stop laughing and pay attention. I say "stopping", I've actually stopped. As from now. Right now. There are lots of reasons to stop smoking, the main ones are the obvious ones; the cost, and the implications to my health. There are lots of less obvious reasons and more personal reasons I'm choosing to stop; the fact that it's far less sociable these days to smoke that it was when I picked up the habit, in all honesty its a fairly unsociable and quite frankly disgusting habit, and I don't like the fact that my girlfriend has to kiss what must taste and smell like an ashtray, and it's an amalgamation of these that have driven me to this decision. Overall, there are lots of reasons to give up smoking, but one very important reason to not quit: Smoking is cool. Fact. Just ask this handsome and perfectly healthy fellow;





























Homoerotic. Probably best you don't ask this man however;



















Lovely. The throaty mess I mean, not the chaps spectacular facial hair arrangement. So with this indisputable fact in mind, you may well be wondering why I've chosen to quit, and why this exact moment to quit, after all, I've had the last ten years (give or take) to quit. Well firstly, this hasn't been a rushed decision, I've thought about it a lot over the years, and I find myself thinking about it more frequently as I get older. As I mentioned above, there are many very good reasons to quit smoking (with the list getting longer the more I think about it). The decision for me to stop at this moment was actually made by my housemate - He has also made the decision to stop. "Aaahh" I hear / imagine you say, "now he's making sense".

Yes fellow bloggers, that's correct, I'm back, and changed I mostly certainly have not, nor have I grown up since I last wrote. I still enjoy a good challenge, I'm still as pointlessly competitive as ever, and more importantly, I will still cut off my nose to spite someone else's

Fast forward five or so years and we end up somewhere roughly about, well, now. But lets go back a few days [yes, we do have to]. A few months ago a new housemate moved in with me, and since then we've been talking about throwing a house party. We eventually got round to doing this last weekend, but a few days before the weekend James uttered the immortal words "I think I'm going to stop smoking". We've all been there. I don't believe there's a smoker out there that hasn't at some stage in their life taken the sacred vow, at least once or twice. Rather sensibly, James decided to postpone the quitting to the day after the house party, knowing full well there was not a chance he could be surrounded by smokers at his own house and stand firm on his decision. This was a wise move. Somewhere towards the end of the evening I enquired if James was still intending to commit to his bold claims, to which he confirmed he was, in the morning. Excellent, a challenge, I'm in. Sacred oath uttered, and I'm signed up for quitting, with the added bonus of an element of competition (even if I have invented it). Now I should point out at this stage that I'm not stating or promising to never have a cigarette ever again, because that would be a lie. When I talk about quitting I mean I'm quitting the routine smoking, the habit smoking, the boredom smoking, the excuse smoking, the smoking through the day, or at home smoking, and the smoking for the sake of smoking… smoking. I dare say I'll partake in having a crafty fag with my mates at the pub now and again, and that I'm absolutely fine with, and don't have any intentions of either making false promises about or making excuses for. It's the full time commitment to smoking that I'm concerned with quitting.

So now we've covered the history of stopping, the oath of stopping and the reasons for stopping once more, we get to the actual act of stopping. I'm a little late in writing this blog now, so allow me to quickly recap the last couple of days:

DAY ONE (well, day 0.5 really)
Bang on schedule, the morning after the night before, Sunday arrives. Quitting day. James rears his head at some stage in the morning to be greeted with such cheery sights as a broken chair, stale breadcakes [yes, "breadcakes", it's the proper word, and we're not getting into this argument now] and empty beer cans everywhere, and me, obviously, which to my delight I remind him of this being stopping day. James grunts something about how he has a few fags left from yesterday and will stop once those are gone. To be honest, this suits me just fine as I've got a couple left too, and I don’t want to be wasteful and throw perfectly good fags away - it's a sin after all. Plus there's no way I'm going to test myself by stashing them away. Just no. No matter, a quick trip into town and these are soon gone anyway, with the last one smoked somewhere around lunchtime. Now it begins.
Rather disappointingly, the rest of Sunday was somewhat uneventful. No real stories to tell here I'm afraid. No cold sweats, no irritability, no temper tantrums, no persistent nail biting, no nothing. How terribly dull of me. I feel somewhat of a disappointment at this stage, having no tales of woe to tell for the purposes of your entertainment. I did manage to entertain myself throughout the day by winding James up, by persistently asking him "dying for a fag yet?" at frequent intervals. Well, it amused me. I'll be honest, there were a few occasions where I thought to myself "could do with a fag" but this was purely the habit talking, and was easily ignored.
By the end of day 0.5, I was feeling more disappointed than triumphant, like I'd geared myself up for some massive challenge but was instead delivered a bit of an anti-climax, of sorts. Ah well, not to worry, Monday usually follows Sunday, which means a return to work; a place where my smoking is more routine than ever.

THE REAL DAY ONE
This, for me, was where the real challenge would begin, the challenge with myself to break the routine fags, the fags I have at such precise times of the day you could set your watch by them, and my management actually purposely schedule any meetings I need to attend to conflict with these times. It's true. The working day would usually start with a swift fag on my back doorstep before setting off for work. Not today though, as I am without car at the moment, so walked to work, and without a cigarette in my hand. I'll be honest, I did actually miss smoking at this stage, something to make the walk to work a little more enjoyable, in a miniscule and quite frankly disgusting way.
I did however obtain a new goal on the walk to work, well maybe, I need to put pen to paper and figure out the feasibility really, but as mentioned, I am without car at present, so am keeping my eyes peeled for a replacement steed. On my short walk to work there are quite a lot of car forecourts, and I just happened to spot a little Mazda something or other plastered in vinyl stickers that said something about "No deposit, £125 a month". That, rather disturbingly when you work it out, is roughly what I spend on packets of cigarettes a month. Frightening isn’t it, that's £1500 a year! Now I just happen to have 'No Deposit' and by knocking fags on the head, I could technically have £125 a month too. Hmmm.
The rest of Monday went without incident really, I even went on a couple of smoke breaks with my workmate, and didn't have a fag or even particularly miss having a fag. Doing well here. I decided to entertain myself through the day by winding James up via the joys of email, with such conversations as;

From: Davis, Daniel [mailto:Daniel.Davis2@virginmedia.co.uk] Sent: 26 July 2010 10:11
To: James Davies
Subject:
Had a fag yet?

From: James Davies [mailto:James.Davies@stivesdirect.com] Sent: 26 July 2010 10:11
To: Davis, Daniel
Subject: RE:
Nope and hadn’t thought about it till you mentioned it. Have you?

From: Davis, Daniel [mailto:Daniel.Davis2@virginmedia.co.uk] Sent: 26 July 2010 10:14
To: James Davies
Subject: RE:
Nah, just been out for a fag break with my mate but didn't have a fag. Piece of piss this stopping business ;)

This kept me going, although to be honest, I did have a few moments throughout the day, such as lunchtime and the walk home from work, where if I'd have had a sneaky cigarette stashed away somewhere, I may have cheated and had one, but I didn't, so I didn't, and that's really all there is to it. I'd been looking forward to a beer all day at work, and as soon as I was in the front door, the jacket was hung up and a bottle of San Miguel left over from the house party was cracked open, "just to take the edge off" I joked with myself as I drank alone.

I'd arranged for a friend to come over earlier in the day. A recently stopped-smoking friend. More accurately, a recently stopped-smoking friend that had struck a deal with herself to only smoke socially. Apparently, having a few drinks at my house and splitting a pizza is classed as 'social', therefore smoking was permitted. This was bad. At about 9.30pm, she declared she was off for a fag. I followed, and also had a crafty fag. Once again, this was something of an anti-climax however, the whole deal was very unremarkable. I didn't wheeze out a smoky sigh of delight upon inhaling the blue fumes of smouldering foliage, nor did I hang my head in shame at accepting defeat, as I'd already stated that I was prepared to make exception for occasional social fags. It was very something and nothing, and all in all, it made absolutely no difference to anything either way. The only thing that having the crafty fag seemed to make a difference to was I'd have to reset my counter since I last had a fag. Shame as I'd gone a whole 33hours. I was so disappointed with the complete lack of anything at all that I actually declined the next offer of a cigarette, I couldn’t really see the point to be fair. What is happening to me? Why is this massive challenge I'd geared myself up for such a dissapointment? I know it's only day one, but still, I expected something, something more than just a little anxiety. This is just pathetic to be blunt. If I had a dummy, I'd spit it out at this stage.

Of course, I've not yet informed James of my late night smoke last night. It's for his own good you see, can't have him using my extremely dissapointing smoke as an excuse for him to have one. Anyway, it's day two tomorrow, so maybe that will be more "fun".