I wanted Ultra Magnus to be so cool. I finally got him one Christmas.
He was so very shit.
Sunday, 13 December 2009
Transformer Jenks
I wanted Ultra Magnus to be so cool. I finally got him one Christmas.
He was so very shit.
1:51
It's easy to speculate about things that you can never find answers for. I'm afraid that's one of my weaknesses, I often find myself wondering about things that have either happened a long time ago, or something that scares me about the future. I can't help it, I'm a thinker. Not a great one. Not even a good one. But a thinker nonetheless.
My mum was not really in the best of health for most of her life. In my early years, I knew her as a diabetic, a heavy smoker, and quite an impressive drinker. But for a few years before I was born, her health had meant that she was often quite weak or poorly. Because of this, it was decided that it would be dangerous for her to have anymore children. She already had my brother and 2 sisters, from previous relationships before she met my father. The way that it was always told to me while growing up, was this:
The doctors said she wouldn't be able to get pregnant again.
Then they said even if she did, she wouldn't be able to carry them full term.
Finally they said, if she did get pregnant, and carry it full term, then she would almost certainly die giving birth.
I remember being told many times, the story of how I almost killed my mum when she gave birth to me. In fact, a week after my mum died, my nan kindly informed me that she begged my mum to have me aborted because they were convinced she would die. You ever get the feeling that things are against you right from the very start?
Anyway, my mum did get pregnant, she did carry me full term, but she didn't die during my arrival. It messed her up quite badly though. She was in the hospital for about 3 weeks after I was born.
On a side note, my first day out of the hospital, I'm being carried by my nan through the hospital car park, when my sister cuts in front of my nan and accidentally trips her. My nan went flying and I ended up in a hedge.
You ever get the feeling that things are against you as soon as you hit the car park?
My name, while growing up, was Jamie. For school and everything, it was Jamie. For some reason though, my mum called me Jenks. That name seemed to stick with my family and all except my nan and dad, called me Jenks. My dad insisted on calling me Jamie my entire life.
When I was born, my parents had decided on calling me Jamie. Yet for some reason, when the nurse came around to take my name for the birth certificate, my mum told her that my name was James. No harm right? James and Jamie are pretty much the same name, and you can flip back and forth between them. But for some reason, my dad didn't like the name James.
Fast forward to my early teens, and while going through a case of family photos, I find an envelope with "Baby James' grave" written on it. Inside were 2 polaroids of flowers on a small grave, with no headstone. I did ask my mum about it, but all she said was, "Please don't ever get rid of them".
Fast forward to me being 32 and with my mum dead, there is now no real way for me to find out who baby James was. I could ask my nan, but honestly, I've since learnt so much shit about my family, that I don't think I could cope with more secrets and lies. I'm fairly sure that I am who I think I am, and I wasn't some baby stolen from outside the corner shop, to replace poor baby James.
I just find it odd that my mum had photos of a grave, for a baby named James. A baby that I have never heard my family talk about. And I find it odd that we have the same name. And that my dad NEVER called me James.
It doesn't bother me. I just wonder sometimes.
My mum was not really in the best of health for most of her life. In my early years, I knew her as a diabetic, a heavy smoker, and quite an impressive drinker. But for a few years before I was born, her health had meant that she was often quite weak or poorly. Because of this, it was decided that it would be dangerous for her to have anymore children. She already had my brother and 2 sisters, from previous relationships before she met my father. The way that it was always told to me while growing up, was this:
The doctors said she wouldn't be able to get pregnant again.
Then they said even if she did, she wouldn't be able to carry them full term.
Finally they said, if she did get pregnant, and carry it full term, then she would almost certainly die giving birth.
I remember being told many times, the story of how I almost killed my mum when she gave birth to me. In fact, a week after my mum died, my nan kindly informed me that she begged my mum to have me aborted because they were convinced she would die. You ever get the feeling that things are against you right from the very start?
Anyway, my mum did get pregnant, she did carry me full term, but she didn't die during my arrival. It messed her up quite badly though. She was in the hospital for about 3 weeks after I was born.
On a side note, my first day out of the hospital, I'm being carried by my nan through the hospital car park, when my sister cuts in front of my nan and accidentally trips her. My nan went flying and I ended up in a hedge.
You ever get the feeling that things are against you as soon as you hit the car park?
My name, while growing up, was Jamie. For school and everything, it was Jamie. For some reason though, my mum called me Jenks. That name seemed to stick with my family and all except my nan and dad, called me Jenks. My dad insisted on calling me Jamie my entire life.
When I was born, my parents had decided on calling me Jamie. Yet for some reason, when the nurse came around to take my name for the birth certificate, my mum told her that my name was James. No harm right? James and Jamie are pretty much the same name, and you can flip back and forth between them. But for some reason, my dad didn't like the name James.
Fast forward to my early teens, and while going through a case of family photos, I find an envelope with "Baby James' grave" written on it. Inside were 2 polaroids of flowers on a small grave, with no headstone. I did ask my mum about it, but all she said was, "Please don't ever get rid of them".
Fast forward to me being 32 and with my mum dead, there is now no real way for me to find out who baby James was. I could ask my nan, but honestly, I've since learnt so much shit about my family, that I don't think I could cope with more secrets and lies. I'm fairly sure that I am who I think I am, and I wasn't some baby stolen from outside the corner shop, to replace poor baby James.
I just find it odd that my mum had photos of a grave, for a baby named James. A baby that I have never heard my family talk about. And I find it odd that we have the same name. And that my dad NEVER called me James.
It doesn't bother me. I just wonder sometimes.
Wednesday, 18 November 2009
150g
is the weight of the bar of chocolate sat in front of me.
I want something.
I alone can't obtain it though.
The worst type of failure is when you've done nothing wrong, but your best just isn't what's going to do it.
Because then that isn't a case of you making a mistake, or changing, or fixing something.
This cuts to the heart of you as a person.
I'm still going to try though.
Jan 2011 is the Best Before date on the bar of chocolate sat in front of me.
I want something.
I alone can't obtain it though.
The worst type of failure is when you've done nothing wrong, but your best just isn't what's going to do it.
Because then that isn't a case of you making a mistake, or changing, or fixing something.
This cuts to the heart of you as a person.
I'm still going to try though.
Jan 2011 is the Best Before date on the bar of chocolate sat in front of me.
Friday, 13 November 2009
Improv Friday Poem
Was gravity the killer
that day your rope died?
tragically cut short by my pocket knife
that always had it in for your rope.
We all saw it coming,
well, not you anyway.
unless you were suicidal?
But I never thought that of you.
I can't tell if you liked the ground
or if the ground liked you?
either way
you rushed to meet
on a bed of red.
Who would have thought though
That things would turn out that way?
That you'd survive the fall?
I'm still shocked to this day.
I'd have sworn that fall would have killed you
It did in my head
when I planned the trip that wednesday
I'd have put money on you being dead-
by thursday,
I did!
In fact
20 quid
I should have bet each way
Who could have seen this coming?
A vampire you say?
I should have guessed
They're all the rage
movies and books
all aimed at teenage-
audiences and goths
Well not for me
I'm a mountain climbing serial killer
and I know what I like
people that die when I ask them to
And not some star of Twilight.
that day your rope died?
tragically cut short by my pocket knife
that always had it in for your rope.
We all saw it coming,
well, not you anyway.
unless you were suicidal?
But I never thought that of you.
I can't tell if you liked the ground
or if the ground liked you?
either way
you rushed to meet
on a bed of red.
Who would have thought though
That things would turn out that way?
That you'd survive the fall?
I'm still shocked to this day.
I'd have sworn that fall would have killed you
It did in my head
when I planned the trip that wednesday
I'd have put money on you being dead-
by thursday,
I did!
In fact
20 quid
I should have bet each way
Who could have seen this coming?
A vampire you say?
I should have guessed
They're all the rage
movies and books
all aimed at teenage-
audiences and goths
Well not for me
I'm a mountain climbing serial killer
and I know what I like
people that die when I ask them to
And not some star of Twilight.
Saturday, 7 November 2009
Is There Life On Mars?
Probably not. But I fucking hope we find it somewhere soon. Nasa is working on several probes "giggle" to search for aquatic aliens out there on a couple of moons. If we can get them there without carrying bacterial life from Earth and fucking up whatever is there, then I really think we could do with finding life, any life, about now. If only to prove how we're nothing special to the Universe. I know it won't stop the God botherers, but maybe, just maybe, we will realise that we're not that unique, and the Universe won't miss us when we're gone.
1 2 3 BANG!
I can get just 3 channels on my tv.
I just flipped through them.
I can have football.
Rugby.
Horse racing.
Excuse me, I'm just off to top myself.
I just flipped through them.
I can have football.
Rugby.
Horse racing.
Excuse me, I'm just off to top myself.
Saturday Poem
Here I am, sat here in yesterday's underpants
worrying if they're clean
enough to prove me a decent, repectable
human being.
If that lorry hits me
will I really care
when they strip me in the mortuary
and see my underwear?
Will mum rise from her grave and shout
I TOLD YOU SO!
Will I rise from mine
just to die of shame
or will she meet me up in heaven
clutching a fresh pair.
worrying if they're clean
enough to prove me a decent, repectable
human being.
If that lorry hits me
will I really care
when they strip me in the mortuary
and see my underwear?
Will mum rise from her grave and shout
I TOLD YOU SO!
Will I rise from mine
just to die of shame
or will she meet me up in heaven
clutching a fresh pair.
Thursday, 5 November 2009
Bonfire Night Update
Two girls, pushing another girl in a shopping trolley just rang my bell, doing the old "Penny for the guy" thing.
First, they have no guy.
Secondly, they have none of my money.
Thirdly, I didn't even answer the door.
Fourthly, my lights are on, and they probably saw me sat at the computer.
Fifthly, they looked about 18.
Sixthly, isn't the guy meant to be thrown onto a bonfire?
First, they have no guy.
Secondly, they have none of my money.
Thirdly, I didn't even answer the door.
Fourthly, my lights are on, and they probably saw me sat at the computer.
Fifthly, they looked about 18.
Sixthly, isn't the guy meant to be thrown onto a bonfire?
Damp squib
Today is Bonfire Night. Traditionally the time when we gather round to ooh and aah at fireworks, while also burning effigies, made from our mum's stockings, and dad's old suit on top of great big piles of rubbish. If we're lucky, some hoodies come to our doorstep's and scream "Penny for the guy!" at us, knowing full well that they want a damn sight more than just a penny. Try giving one of these creative little rascals a penny, and they're likely to shove homemade fireworks through your letterbox. Kids today are a clever bunch. Lazy, but clever. They're always thinking of new and exciting ways to rob you. But I might be generalising a whole generation or two here.
One of the other great traditions of November the 5th is getting pissed on by nature. And I don't mean animals. I mean clouds and stuff. It loves to rain on Bonfire night. It's like nature is furious at us for setting trees on fire, burning shit, and launching missiles into its sky. So, it does its best to drown us every year. I went into town today, and got caught in the rain. It wasn't raining when I went into Poundland, but you can tell something is awry with the weather when people won't let you leave whatever store you are in. You try to get through the doors and its just a wall of people. All pressing themselves into any and all shop doorways. And they couldn't give a fuck if you're trying to get out. If you want to get wet, that's your business, but they are not moving for you. And there's always one SOB with a bike. Wtf? Lengthways, across the doors.
One time, instead of walking around the guy with the bike, I theatrically stepped over his crossbar, woefully misjudging how tall I was. And how long my feet are. And where his bike's saddle was in relation to my oversized foot. The trailing leg was a killer. The whole thing was a mess and I looked like a cross between a blind hurdler and the world's most uncertain bike thief. If it takes you longer than 6-7 seconds to step over somebody's bike, then it becomes a farce. The guy was pretty good about it. He couldn't give a f_ck as long as he was dry.
Tonight's rain was a pain in the arse. I wasn't prepared for it. To be honest, I had completely forgotten that tonight was bonfire night. It's a bit like the school holidays. When I was at school, I knew exactly when, where, and how each school holiday was on the calender. But the second I left school, all that got deleted. Now, when somebody asks me "There's a lot of kids about today, have they broken up?", I really haven't got a clue.
It's a bit like that with bonfire night now. I associate that with being something that I did when I was younger. I still love fireworks, but my desire to watch pallets and old sofas burn has long since left me. I have no idea when exactly, but it probably left about the same time that I gave up wearing a school tie.
Tonight's rain was the bad kind. The bigger than normal kind. The extra fat droplets.
And cold too. The colder than normal rain. The kind that soaks you through, goes down the back of your neck, and makes little streams trickle down your nose. I took shelter in the supermarket, went into the washroom and found a teenage boy wetting his hair wtf? It's pissing it down outside and he's wetting his hair??? I looked in the mirror, and apart from the two water droplets hanging from my earlobes like earrings, I didn't look too bad. Sorta like a glamorous drowned rat.
Now I'm sat here.
My clothes are drying, before I put them to wash. (Don't).
I'm bound sure to get a cold.
And to really take the mickey, I have fireworks going off in every direction except the one that all my windows face. So.....if I want to watch the fireworks tonight, I'm gonna have to get wet again. Nature has a twisted sense of humour.
Happy Bonfire Night everyone.
One of the other great traditions of November the 5th is getting pissed on by nature. And I don't mean animals. I mean clouds and stuff. It loves to rain on Bonfire night. It's like nature is furious at us for setting trees on fire, burning shit, and launching missiles into its sky. So, it does its best to drown us every year. I went into town today, and got caught in the rain. It wasn't raining when I went into Poundland, but you can tell something is awry with the weather when people won't let you leave whatever store you are in. You try to get through the doors and its just a wall of people. All pressing themselves into any and all shop doorways. And they couldn't give a fuck if you're trying to get out. If you want to get wet, that's your business, but they are not moving for you. And there's always one SOB with a bike. Wtf? Lengthways, across the doors.
One time, instead of walking around the guy with the bike, I theatrically stepped over his crossbar, woefully misjudging how tall I was. And how long my feet are. And where his bike's saddle was in relation to my oversized foot. The trailing leg was a killer. The whole thing was a mess and I looked like a cross between a blind hurdler and the world's most uncertain bike thief. If it takes you longer than 6-7 seconds to step over somebody's bike, then it becomes a farce. The guy was pretty good about it. He couldn't give a f_ck as long as he was dry.
Tonight's rain was a pain in the arse. I wasn't prepared for it. To be honest, I had completely forgotten that tonight was bonfire night. It's a bit like the school holidays. When I was at school, I knew exactly when, where, and how each school holiday was on the calender. But the second I left school, all that got deleted. Now, when somebody asks me "There's a lot of kids about today, have they broken up?", I really haven't got a clue.
It's a bit like that with bonfire night now. I associate that with being something that I did when I was younger. I still love fireworks, but my desire to watch pallets and old sofas burn has long since left me. I have no idea when exactly, but it probably left about the same time that I gave up wearing a school tie.
Tonight's rain was the bad kind. The bigger than normal kind. The extra fat droplets.
And cold too. The colder than normal rain. The kind that soaks you through, goes down the back of your neck, and makes little streams trickle down your nose. I took shelter in the supermarket, went into the washroom and found a teenage boy wetting his hair wtf? It's pissing it down outside and he's wetting his hair??? I looked in the mirror, and apart from the two water droplets hanging from my earlobes like earrings, I didn't look too bad. Sorta like a glamorous drowned rat.
Now I'm sat here.
My clothes are drying, before I put them to wash. (Don't).
I'm bound sure to get a cold.
And to really take the mickey, I have fireworks going off in every direction except the one that all my windows face. So.....if I want to watch the fireworks tonight, I'm gonna have to get wet again. Nature has a twisted sense of humour.
Happy Bonfire Night everyone.
Thursday, 8 October 2009
Sheet Music
I was in a washroom today. And not locked in, for once. Actually, I'm in the UK now, so I'll call it a bathroom. Names for bathrooms/washrooms change as you get older. I'm pretty sure that when I was younger, they were called by whatever you had to use them for. Like, "Mum! I need the toilet!"
Or
"Jenks! Time for your bath!"
So it would either be "the bathroom" or "the toilet (no room part needed)".
And when I was in infant school, I distinctly remember being told by Ms Goose that nobody needed to know why I was going to the toilet, so could I please stop putting my hand up and asking if I can go poo or wee. Frankly, at that age, she was lucky I was putting my hand up at all.
Anyway.
I was in the washroom today, I had just finished weeing, and I was at the sink. Not weeing, but washing my hands. Now due to the Swine Flu thing, these days I apply far more soap than I probably used to. I always wash my hands, but these days I like to be safe. Anyway, while I was scrubbing away, a middle aged man came out of a stall, with what I desperately hope was his young son, about 6 years of age. This man wandered over to the basin next to mine, quickly rinsed his hands under the tap WITHOUT USING SOAP, and then reached for a paper towel. At this point, the 6 year old said "We need to use soap, daddy"
To which, the man made this dismissive sound:
"Nufh!"
That's as best as I can describe it. He then walked out, leaving his son to trail behind him, all the while, I'm still rubbing the friggin' soap into my hands.
Just what does this guy think is the precise purpose of hand washing? I mean, he obviously grasps some vague aspect of this whole hand washing thing, but what the fuck does he think we all do it for? Tradition???
Maybe he doesn't buy into the whole "invisible bacteria" thing? So as long as he's washed away any visible pee pee or doo doo, he can go back to eating his burrito. He didn't have a burrito with him as far as I could tell? He looked like the kind of person that would though.
But what is this guy's problem? If his 6 year old kid can remember that there's a part that involves soap in this whole process, then why the hell can't he? At this point, I don't even care if he understands why he needs to use soap, just as long as he does. I couldn't care less if tomorrow they put up signs that read:
"USE THE FUCKING SOAP WHEN YOU WASH YOUR HANDS, OR WE WILL COME ROUND TO YOUR HOUSE AND TASER YOUR ARSE! AND WE CARRY EXTRA BATTERIES!!
I just don't get it? And apparently, neither does he. I said to Amalia the other day just how surprised I was that posters have started to appear in washrooms, telling people how to wash their hands. Has it got this bad? I was genuinely shocked. Now I just want that dirty fucker shocked. Often, and repeatedly, until he learns how to wash his fucking hands properly!!!!!!
I don't want posters telling you how to wash your hands, I want posters that order you to wash your hands. Properly, or else!!!
Now I'm not an obsessive germaphobe, but I just like to know that others, like myself, are playing some small part in not spreading general unwellness to others.
This reminds me of the time that one of the customers shat themselves in the comic shop. That's right, shat themselves. I say customer, but truth be told, the guy didn't even have the decency to buy anything. He just shat and left. Not that he could probably have afforded to buy anything in the shop anyway. Our prices were rather high. Higher than possibly any other comic shop in the Western world. And probably Russia too. I remember after it happened, I phoned my friend, Brett and told him that somebody had just shat themselves in the shop. The first thing he said was: "Saw the prices, did he?"
Anyhow, Jim (my boss) and I were "working" in the shop one morning when this guy walked in. He wandered around for a few minutes, picked stuff up, put it down again. He didn't browse through any books or comics as they were all bagged and sealed shut, to prevent just such browsing activity. Want to know it it looks like an interesting read? Then buy it and find out!! Was just one of Jim's many business philosophies.
I remember when I first started working for him, and he showed me how to use the till. It was just a cash box. We didn't have a till. Tills meant electricity. Electricity meant a waste of money. So we didn't have a till. Never did in the 5 years that I worked there. It was a lockable cash box. under the counter. For security reasons, it had a lock. For stupidity reasons, it had a key, that was always stuck just underneath the cash box itself. Just in case "we" accidentally lost it. It was supposed to have 2 keys, but the other one got lost before I worked there. Which might go some way to explaining why Jim was so nervous of losing this one.
Sometimes (not often) I wondered what had happened to the other key.
How had it got lost?
Did some nefarious character have it?
Will he come back one night to rob the cash box of all its money?
And should I leave a note, apologising for the lack of cash?
Anyway, Jim was explaining to me how the cash box worked, and how to use a float. Please bear in mind that he knew I had already worked in another shop for about 5 years and so was already familiar with a float.
There had already been much floatage.
At this moment, Jim then bestowed upon me another of his little "gems".
"If your till never balances, then you're incompetent. If it always balances, then you're obviously fiddling it and you're a thief."
I looked for any indication from him, any whatsoever that he was kidding when he told me this. Anything at all. At that point, I would have accepted a facial twitch of some sort. Any kind of gesture to give me some hope that he didn't mean what he had just said to me. But no, right up until the day I left, he stuck by that belief. For a while, I told myself that it was just something he said to keep me on my toes. But now, sadly, I just think it was another thing that he hadn't thought through properly.
Like the time he decided that we needed to start charging the customers an entrance fee to come into the shop.
Anyway, back to the guy.....
He was just wandering around the shop, when suddenly, he quickly, but now that I think about it, rather stiffly made his way down the stairs and out of the shop. Almost immediately after he had left, Jim and I noticed a certain smell. A really bad one. Reall, really bad. So bad, that just thinking about it made me miss a "y" off of really.
The smell was so bad that it actually succeeded in dragging Jim out of his little bunker that he had built for himself at the back of the shop. The place where he liked to go and hide from customers.
So, out comes Jim, armed with some "Lavender Blossom" air freshener. When he got out onto the shop floor, he realised that no amount of lavender in the world would ever be able to cover up this smell.
On the carpet, just in front of the Superman: Underneath a yellow sun, graphic novels if I remember correctly, this guy had done something that may well have been underneath a yellow sun, but it was also now definitely above a very brown carpet. And it was vile. And it got worse. After the "main event", there was also a small trail of it leading across the floor, the hall, and down the stairs. We also discovered on two steps near the bottom, some more "lumpy" deposits, which is where I suspect the guy shook his trouser leg.
Too stunned to laugh, and too preoccupied with trying to remember EXACTLY what my job description included, I did manage to instinctively blurt out however that there was NO WAY I was clearing that shit up. And I was quite prepared to quit right now, just in case he was thinking of pulling rank on me. I had already started readying the words "get" and "fucked".
So, while I opened up all the windows, Jim went to fetch some paper towels. Then began the task of clearing the mess up. We also closed the shop while this was going on. After three years of winning "most unhelpful comic shop" in an online comic fan site, we didn't exactly have a lot of pride, but come on! You can't let customers see you with shit on the floor.
After about an hour, Jim was almost finished, and was on the bottom of the stairs.
Suddenly, I heard Jim say:
"Oh god"
Hoping that Jim might have done something funny, I ran (more of a walk) to the top of the stairs. There was Jim, holding up his right hand as if he were about to take an oath or something.
"Shit" he said.
"What?" I asked.
"Shit. I've just put my hand in some."
You know those times when something is just SO funny that you actually can't laugh? A time when your body is just so overwhelmed with the hilarity of it all, that you can't quite comprehend what has happened, so you just stand there, open mouthed in shock.
You know those times?
Yeah?
Well this was not one of those times.
I laughed and laughed, and cried, then laughed some more.
Seeing my boss stood there with another man's poo on his fingers, just kinda tickled something inside me.
So I laughed some more.
And no amount of Jim's "Help me get it off!" was going to stop me at that point.
Anyway, I'm not a habitual hand washer, but I kept washing my hands thoroughly with soap for the rest of the afternoon, and I hadn't even come close to touching another man's poo, that day. Yet less than half an hour later, after a quick rinse with soap and water, there was Jim's right hand, hard at work, raising a freshly dunked cookie to his mouth.
Now I'm not saying that Jim hadn't washed his hands properly. I'm just saying that if that had been me, then bleach and/or petrol may have been involved.
People should at the very least be aware of germs and bacteria. and do their best to help prevent their spread. If not, then it's taser time!
Am I too right-wing?
Or
"Jenks! Time for your bath!"
So it would either be "the bathroom" or "the toilet (no room part needed)".
And when I was in infant school, I distinctly remember being told by Ms Goose that nobody needed to know why I was going to the toilet, so could I please stop putting my hand up and asking if I can go poo or wee. Frankly, at that age, she was lucky I was putting my hand up at all.
Anyway.
I was in the washroom today, I had just finished weeing, and I was at the sink. Not weeing, but washing my hands. Now due to the Swine Flu thing, these days I apply far more soap than I probably used to. I always wash my hands, but these days I like to be safe. Anyway, while I was scrubbing away, a middle aged man came out of a stall, with what I desperately hope was his young son, about 6 years of age. This man wandered over to the basin next to mine, quickly rinsed his hands under the tap WITHOUT USING SOAP, and then reached for a paper towel. At this point, the 6 year old said "We need to use soap, daddy"
To which, the man made this dismissive sound:
"Nufh!"
That's as best as I can describe it. He then walked out, leaving his son to trail behind him, all the while, I'm still rubbing the friggin' soap into my hands.
Just what does this guy think is the precise purpose of hand washing? I mean, he obviously grasps some vague aspect of this whole hand washing thing, but what the fuck does he think we all do it for? Tradition???
Maybe he doesn't buy into the whole "invisible bacteria" thing? So as long as he's washed away any visible pee pee or doo doo, he can go back to eating his burrito. He didn't have a burrito with him as far as I could tell? He looked like the kind of person that would though.
But what is this guy's problem? If his 6 year old kid can remember that there's a part that involves soap in this whole process, then why the hell can't he? At this point, I don't even care if he understands why he needs to use soap, just as long as he does. I couldn't care less if tomorrow they put up signs that read:
"USE THE FUCKING SOAP WHEN YOU WASH YOUR HANDS, OR WE WILL COME ROUND TO YOUR HOUSE AND TASER YOUR ARSE! AND WE CARRY EXTRA BATTERIES!!
I just don't get it? And apparently, neither does he. I said to Amalia the other day just how surprised I was that posters have started to appear in washrooms, telling people how to wash their hands. Has it got this bad? I was genuinely shocked. Now I just want that dirty fucker shocked. Often, and repeatedly, until he learns how to wash his fucking hands properly!!!!!!
I don't want posters telling you how to wash your hands, I want posters that order you to wash your hands. Properly, or else!!!
Now I'm not an obsessive germaphobe, but I just like to know that others, like myself, are playing some small part in not spreading general unwellness to others.
This reminds me of the time that one of the customers shat themselves in the comic shop. That's right, shat themselves. I say customer, but truth be told, the guy didn't even have the decency to buy anything. He just shat and left. Not that he could probably have afforded to buy anything in the shop anyway. Our prices were rather high. Higher than possibly any other comic shop in the Western world. And probably Russia too. I remember after it happened, I phoned my friend, Brett and told him that somebody had just shat themselves in the shop. The first thing he said was: "Saw the prices, did he?"
Anyhow, Jim (my boss) and I were "working" in the shop one morning when this guy walked in. He wandered around for a few minutes, picked stuff up, put it down again. He didn't browse through any books or comics as they were all bagged and sealed shut, to prevent just such browsing activity. Want to know it it looks like an interesting read? Then buy it and find out!! Was just one of Jim's many business philosophies.
I remember when I first started working for him, and he showed me how to use the till. It was just a cash box. We didn't have a till. Tills meant electricity. Electricity meant a waste of money. So we didn't have a till. Never did in the 5 years that I worked there. It was a lockable cash box. under the counter. For security reasons, it had a lock. For stupidity reasons, it had a key, that was always stuck just underneath the cash box itself. Just in case "we" accidentally lost it. It was supposed to have 2 keys, but the other one got lost before I worked there. Which might go some way to explaining why Jim was so nervous of losing this one.
Sometimes (not often) I wondered what had happened to the other key.
How had it got lost?
Did some nefarious character have it?
Will he come back one night to rob the cash box of all its money?
And should I leave a note, apologising for the lack of cash?
Anyway, Jim was explaining to me how the cash box worked, and how to use a float. Please bear in mind that he knew I had already worked in another shop for about 5 years and so was already familiar with a float.
There had already been much floatage.
At this moment, Jim then bestowed upon me another of his little "gems".
"If your till never balances, then you're incompetent. If it always balances, then you're obviously fiddling it and you're a thief."
I looked for any indication from him, any whatsoever that he was kidding when he told me this. Anything at all. At that point, I would have accepted a facial twitch of some sort. Any kind of gesture to give me some hope that he didn't mean what he had just said to me. But no, right up until the day I left, he stuck by that belief. For a while, I told myself that it was just something he said to keep me on my toes. But now, sadly, I just think it was another thing that he hadn't thought through properly.
Like the time he decided that we needed to start charging the customers an entrance fee to come into the shop.
Anyway, back to the guy.....
He was just wandering around the shop, when suddenly, he quickly, but now that I think about it, rather stiffly made his way down the stairs and out of the shop. Almost immediately after he had left, Jim and I noticed a certain smell. A really bad one. Reall, really bad. So bad, that just thinking about it made me miss a "y" off of really.
The smell was so bad that it actually succeeded in dragging Jim out of his little bunker that he had built for himself at the back of the shop. The place where he liked to go and hide from customers.
So, out comes Jim, armed with some "Lavender Blossom" air freshener. When he got out onto the shop floor, he realised that no amount of lavender in the world would ever be able to cover up this smell.
On the carpet, just in front of the Superman: Underneath a yellow sun, graphic novels if I remember correctly, this guy had done something that may well have been underneath a yellow sun, but it was also now definitely above a very brown carpet. And it was vile. And it got worse. After the "main event", there was also a small trail of it leading across the floor, the hall, and down the stairs. We also discovered on two steps near the bottom, some more "lumpy" deposits, which is where I suspect the guy shook his trouser leg.
Too stunned to laugh, and too preoccupied with trying to remember EXACTLY what my job description included, I did manage to instinctively blurt out however that there was NO WAY I was clearing that shit up. And I was quite prepared to quit right now, just in case he was thinking of pulling rank on me. I had already started readying the words "get" and "fucked".
So, while I opened up all the windows, Jim went to fetch some paper towels. Then began the task of clearing the mess up. We also closed the shop while this was going on. After three years of winning "most unhelpful comic shop" in an online comic fan site, we didn't exactly have a lot of pride, but come on! You can't let customers see you with shit on the floor.
After about an hour, Jim was almost finished, and was on the bottom of the stairs.
Suddenly, I heard Jim say:
"Oh god"
Hoping that Jim might have done something funny, I ran (more of a walk) to the top of the stairs. There was Jim, holding up his right hand as if he were about to take an oath or something.
"Shit" he said.
"What?" I asked.
"Shit. I've just put my hand in some."
You know those times when something is just SO funny that you actually can't laugh? A time when your body is just so overwhelmed with the hilarity of it all, that you can't quite comprehend what has happened, so you just stand there, open mouthed in shock.
You know those times?
Yeah?
Well this was not one of those times.
I laughed and laughed, and cried, then laughed some more.
Seeing my boss stood there with another man's poo on his fingers, just kinda tickled something inside me.
So I laughed some more.
And no amount of Jim's "Help me get it off!" was going to stop me at that point.
Anyway, I'm not a habitual hand washer, but I kept washing my hands thoroughly with soap for the rest of the afternoon, and I hadn't even come close to touching another man's poo, that day. Yet less than half an hour later, after a quick rinse with soap and water, there was Jim's right hand, hard at work, raising a freshly dunked cookie to his mouth.
Now I'm not saying that Jim hadn't washed his hands properly. I'm just saying that if that had been me, then bleach and/or petrol may have been involved.
People should at the very least be aware of germs and bacteria. and do their best to help prevent their spread. If not, then it's taser time!
Am I too right-wing?
Friday, 2 October 2009
The lightness of flightness
Now I am a terrible flyer. I've known this from a very early age, many, many years before I had even set a single foot onboard an air-o' plane. They are wrong. They just are. As useful as they are for travelling the globe, every time you fly, you are defying one of the most mysterious and powerful forces in the known universe................gravity.
On my return flight to the UK, one of my three return flights, I had the joy of being sat behind a man that was explaining to his wife that it was silly to be nervous about flying, because: "........every part of this plane is designed to fly. It WANTS to fly. It WANTS to be in the air."
It took every ounce of my willpower not to say "But gravity WANTS us to plummet! It WANTS us to fall! And who are we to argue with gravity?"
I'm just not happy with flying.
The take-offs are not too bad as long as I don't look out the window. I don't like seeing us angering gravity with our upwards motion. And once we are up in the air, I will do a deal with anybody who is listening just to keep that plane safe. God, Budha, Satan, Santa, I have mumbled to each and every one of them at one point or another. Yet I realised after my last flight, that at no point do I mumble a prayer to the pilot to get me down safely. Hell, I've even found myself talking to the plane. Every plane I travel on, I pat it as I board and disboard (?). I know that in the grand scheme of things, this action won't make one jot of difference to the outcome of my flight, yet I still find myself patting each plane like it's a horse, and I'm asking it nicely to just keep me alive for the next 7+ hours. But I still find myself taking the pilot for granted. At no point, do I tap on the cockpit door and say to the pilot "Can you try extra hard today, please? I really don't want to die."
He's just doing his job, I guess. And the plane is doing hers.
On my return flight to the UK, one of my three return flights, I had the joy of being sat behind a man that was explaining to his wife that it was silly to be nervous about flying, because: "........every part of this plane is designed to fly. It WANTS to fly. It WANTS to be in the air."
It took every ounce of my willpower not to say "But gravity WANTS us to plummet! It WANTS us to fall! And who are we to argue with gravity?"
I'm just not happy with flying.
The take-offs are not too bad as long as I don't look out the window. I don't like seeing us angering gravity with our upwards motion. And once we are up in the air, I will do a deal with anybody who is listening just to keep that plane safe. God, Budha, Satan, Santa, I have mumbled to each and every one of them at one point or another. Yet I realised after my last flight, that at no point do I mumble a prayer to the pilot to get me down safely. Hell, I've even found myself talking to the plane. Every plane I travel on, I pat it as I board and disboard (?). I know that in the grand scheme of things, this action won't make one jot of difference to the outcome of my flight, yet I still find myself patting each plane like it's a horse, and I'm asking it nicely to just keep me alive for the next 7+ hours. But I still find myself taking the pilot for granted. At no point, do I tap on the cockpit door and say to the pilot "Can you try extra hard today, please? I really don't want to die."
He's just doing his job, I guess. And the plane is doing hers.
Monday, 14 September 2009
Dreaming
I just woke up from, what everyone would consider a very nice dream. Apart from the guy that was taking a baseball bat to several cars because he can never find a parking spot, and the sequence in the hospital, it was a great dream. And these are the kinds of dreams that I kinda don't like. Honestly. To have a period of happiness and bliss, just to have it torn away when I get woken up by Homes Under The Hammer, is not a pleasant experience. If I have a dream that involves and stirs my feelings, why should I then have to experience loss first thing in the morning?
Dreams fight dirty. They give you a glimpse of your heart's desire, the impossible, and then take it away when the morning comes.
Dreams fight dirty. They give you a glimpse of your heart's desire, the impossible, and then take it away when the morning comes.
Monday, 31 August 2009
Right coffee, wrong toilet.
There is a coffee shop just around the corner from where I live. Sometimes, just sometimes I get stuck in their washroom. Washroom is the wrong word. You don’t primarily go in there to wash. I could use the word bathroom? But bathroom is wrong. You NEVER go into a coffee shop to bathe. And getting stuck in their toilet just sounds far worse then it actually is. So, I will stick with the word washroom.
The coffee in there is great. It’s brown, hot and comes in mugs. Just what you want from a coffee. The one thing that it also seems to do is make me pee. Some days, it’s so bad, I feel like cutting out the middle man completely by ordering a medium roast and then just pouring it straight down the toilet.
Anyway, there is something about the washroom door here that I just cannot seem to get to grips with. It loves locking me in. I have tried all the hand actions I can think of. Push, twist.
Twist, pull, Twist, twist.
Push, pull. Pull, pull, pull.
Or my personal fav, twist, pull, panic, push, twist, pull, pull, pull.
The real trick to this is making it seem to the outside world that nothing is wrong. Heaven forbid that people outside, sipping their Lattes actually realize that you are stuck in there. On one occasion, armed with Groomies laptop, I almost fired it up to send a distress email to her. What with her laptop being trapped in the washroom with me, I have no idea how I expected her to receive this cry for help? Just one of many brain farts that usually occur when I am tired or panicky. You know the ones, you get up from watching tv, go to the kitchen to throw a yoghurt pot in the bin, return to the living room, then find yourself trying to change channel with an empty yoghurt pot, while wondering where on earth the remote is now? (Bin).
I really don’t like getting stuck in washrooms. I think it’s some sort of primal fear? Many millenia ago, our cavemen ancestors were probably trapped in washrooms all the time? Cave Bears and sticky locks were a real killer back then. Heaven help you if you found yourself trapped in a washroom with a Cave Bear and a sticky lock.
While I’m on the subject of early man. How on earth did we figure bread out? I mean, what was primitive man doing the day he (or she) discovered how to make bread? Who the hell came up with the idea in the first place? Who even came up with the idea of throwing food into fire and cooking it?
Anyway…..
I don’t like getting stuck in there. And I hate the idea of having to be “rescued” by staff or customers. So now, if I get stuck, I try to limit my “twist, pull” attempts to one every minute or so? Just so it doesn’t give the impression of panic. Panic in the washroom is never a good thing. And don’t even get me started on the fear of running out of toilet paper……
The coffee in there is great. It’s brown, hot and comes in mugs. Just what you want from a coffee. The one thing that it also seems to do is make me pee. Some days, it’s so bad, I feel like cutting out the middle man completely by ordering a medium roast and then just pouring it straight down the toilet.
Anyway, there is something about the washroom door here that I just cannot seem to get to grips with. It loves locking me in. I have tried all the hand actions I can think of. Push, twist.
Twist, pull, Twist, twist.
Push, pull. Pull, pull, pull.
Or my personal fav, twist, pull, panic, push, twist, pull, pull, pull.
The real trick to this is making it seem to the outside world that nothing is wrong. Heaven forbid that people outside, sipping their Lattes actually realize that you are stuck in there. On one occasion, armed with Groomies laptop, I almost fired it up to send a distress email to her. What with her laptop being trapped in the washroom with me, I have no idea how I expected her to receive this cry for help? Just one of many brain farts that usually occur when I am tired or panicky. You know the ones, you get up from watching tv, go to the kitchen to throw a yoghurt pot in the bin, return to the living room, then find yourself trying to change channel with an empty yoghurt pot, while wondering where on earth the remote is now? (Bin).
I really don’t like getting stuck in washrooms. I think it’s some sort of primal fear? Many millenia ago, our cavemen ancestors were probably trapped in washrooms all the time? Cave Bears and sticky locks were a real killer back then. Heaven help you if you found yourself trapped in a washroom with a Cave Bear and a sticky lock.
While I’m on the subject of early man. How on earth did we figure bread out? I mean, what was primitive man doing the day he (or she) discovered how to make bread? Who the hell came up with the idea in the first place? Who even came up with the idea of throwing food into fire and cooking it?
Anyway…..
I don’t like getting stuck in there. And I hate the idea of having to be “rescued” by staff or customers. So now, if I get stuck, I try to limit my “twist, pull” attempts to one every minute or so? Just so it doesn’t give the impression of panic. Panic in the washroom is never a good thing. And don’t even get me started on the fear of running out of toilet paper……
Sunday, 30 August 2009
Poem inspired by a seal
The grey head pops up out of the sea
add an L to sea
you get SEAL!
And that's what you see.
This little fella loves fish.
And eats without cutlery
or napkin
or dish?
Because not much rhymes with fish.
Maybe wish?
And that he certainly does.
He hopes for lunch
maybe a small Turbot to munch?
I'm not sure if they eat those?
I've never asked one-
so who knows?
Not me!
I'm making this up.
As far as poems go
this is pretty bad.
But the end is coming up...
It's here!
And aren't we all glad.
add an L to sea
you get SEAL!
And that's what you see.
This little fella loves fish.
And eats without cutlery
or napkin
or dish?
Because not much rhymes with fish.
Maybe wish?
And that he certainly does.
He hopes for lunch
maybe a small Turbot to munch?
I'm not sure if they eat those?
I've never asked one-
so who knows?
Not me!
I'm making this up.
As far as poems go
this is pretty bad.
But the end is coming up...
It's here!
And aren't we all glad.
Thursday, 6 August 2009
Order please!
As I type this, BILLIONS are being spent on buying up…….err, BILLIONS of Flu vaccinations in the hope that they will make us all feel like our respective governments love us very much, and are doing something to protect us from the horror that is H1N1. The horrific virus that has so far claimed the lives of about 1500 people worldwide, and made countless others take days off work. I’m not trying to make light of these deaths, my sisters have both contracted and beaten the virus, I’m just amazed at how quickly this huge mobilization to buy up vaccinations has occured. Flu vaccines in the past have made very little impact to the spread of the virus, and have certainly done less to contain it than hand washing and common sense has.
It just feels like WHO and the world have been itching for a pandemic for ages, and now they’ve got their wish. Now all these agencies look very important as they race to save us from the nasty germs. First it was SARS, then Avian Flu. Sadly, these two failed to play ball and quietly whimpered away. Step in H1N1……. Piggy Flu. A much needed distraction from the worst economic climate in a century, and a much needed shot in the arm (Pun not only intended, but I actually high-fived myself) for the drugs companies that normally don’t make much money from seasonal Flu vaccines.
How many people die each year from smoking related illnesses?
Or dirty water?
Or guns?
Yet on the (sad and untimely) deaths of a few thousand people, the world is throwing billions away on vaccines that have NO proven worth against a virus that so far has killed less than ordinary influenza kills each year. This virus just appears to have a better press agent than the ordinary Flu. Call me cynical, but unless the governments know something that we don’t about this virus, then it just smacks of them doing something for the sake of it. Yes, the virus could still mutate and become deadlier than it has been. But guess what? Nearly every virus mutates, some get stronger, some get weaker, yet we seem to have picked this one as the biggie because it likes cheap air fares and people that are too busy to wash their hands after they tinkle.
I have no idea what I am trying to say? And I’m not a doctor (although for all you know, I am), I’m just fed up of being told ‘Don’t panic! We’ve got the vaccines on back-order! Now can you stay alive until next June?’
I don’t mind them doing things to protect us, that’s what they’re supposed to do, I just think that, sadly, the vaccines will do little but reassure us that everyone is doing everything that can be done to keep us safe. If that is the intention, then maybe the billions are being well spent?
Monday, 3 August 2009
Are people getting worse?
I am the one that eats crisps through the film
Kicks your seat with my feet
Says loudly ‘He’s a ghost at the end’
And ‘I saw it last week’.
You’re the one that won’t stand for the elderly
when you’re sat on the train
Playing with your iPod
Oh, goody! Rammstein again!
I’m the one that cuts you up at the lights
You honk at the near-miss
I say ‘Fuck you, you twat’
‘You want some of this???’
You’re the one that lets your kid run wild
shouting, screaming, but you’re not to blame
‘They’re just having fun!’
‘Yeah? From that noise, they should be in pain’.
I’m the one that rides my bike wherever the fuck I want
Cycle lane, park, pavement, through your living room
Dare tut at me and it’s ‘Fuck you, you car driving, pedestrian bastard!’
Then with a tingle of my bell, off again I zoom.
You’re the one that answers your phone at the checkout
Saying ‘I’m just buying some juice’ or ‘Gosh! was Scott there?’
You think we all need to hear?
You think any of US care?
I’m the one that loves to go the beach
have my fun, leave litter behind.
Broken beer bottles? No problem for me.
They’re for other children to find.
You’re the one that tries to ruin my party
telling me it’s 1.00am, you have work at 8.
‘I pay my rent, you unreasonable jerk,
just go in a bit late.’
I’m the one that lets my dog poo wherever she wants
where you and others will step in it.
I don’t see your problem?
But I won’t touch that shit.
You’re the one that drives me fucking nuts with your constant rudeness.
If I speak up, you complain
about MY bad manners,
yet we are all the same.
Take Pride
Am and I went to the Vancouver Pride parade yesterday. There was sequins, glitter, and more buff bodies than you could shake a whip at. It was tremendous fun. Apart from a pair of sunburnt ankles and a slight case of "camcorder's wrist", I seemed to hold up pretty well, considering that it was hotter than the surface temperature of the sun out there. The costumes and floats on display were, as you would expect, fabulous. I love a good drag artist. Infact, most people seem to? Nobody feels threatened by a drag queen. Except maybe other drag queens, then they can get pretty catty and vicious, but for the most part, people love them and rush to have their pictures taken with them. If you ever want to invade another country ( and I know I do ), just use an army of professional drag artists. Think about it, they are tall, athletic, can cope with pain ( high- heels ), love the heat, and they never quit. Teach them to shoot and they'll be unstoppable. And you just know they'll keep their weapons immaculate. They may take a while getting there in their 6-inch heels, but my god, they'll look great when they finally do. And no army in the world will stand up to them. They'll all be too busy having their pictures taken with them. As long as none of them turn up for the invasion dressed with the same assault rifle, you'll be fine.
Seriously though, I had a wonderful time, and I owe Am a lot for putting up with me and letting me stay longer in Vancouver. We checked out the stalls and markets afterward and the whole day was just so much fun. The only thing that I didn't like was all the litter that people seem to think it's acceptable to leave behind. There were bins and recycling stations all over the place, yet people just seem to think it's fine to dump their crap wherever they want to. It's sad, disgusting, and completely ironic that people turned out in their masses to celebrate their pride, yet take none in their city.
But I still had a great day :)
Seriously though, I had a wonderful time, and I owe Am a lot for putting up with me and letting me stay longer in Vancouver. We checked out the stalls and markets afterward and the whole day was just so much fun. The only thing that I didn't like was all the litter that people seem to think it's acceptable to leave behind. There were bins and recycling stations all over the place, yet people just seem to think it's fine to dump their crap wherever they want to. It's sad, disgusting, and completely ironic that people turned out in their masses to celebrate their pride, yet take none in their city.
But I still had a great day :)
Monday, 20 July 2009
About a dog
You are a doggie
all cute and covered with fur
When happy,
your tail wags,
you yap,
when angry,
ears prick up, then you grr.
You like the simple things
like a walk,
things that squeek,
a tummy rub,
and your red lead,
that mum uses to take you walkies
it was bought by the one called Steve-
mummy’s friend that doesn’t come around anymore,
so now you sleep back on her bed
and not upon the floor.
And you love that when you wear your lead
it’s a sign of things to come,
Walkies,
lamposts,
and going for a run.
And today is such a great day
because on Tuesdays it’s the park.
With lots of other dogs to smell
and trees with hint of wee upon their bark.
But best of all
is that object of joy
it’s green,
furry,
goes by the name of Tennis-
it’s a BALL!
YOUR ball.
Mummy holds it in her hand
you stand,
look up,
move tail,
await command…….
‘Sit!’
You obey.
Bum meets ground,
the grass tickles your bits,
but not those that the vet took-
they'll never be found.
Not like this ball
that with a,
‘FETCH!’
Mum hurls through the air-
you tear off after it!
you have to get there!
get underneath it!
catch it in your teeth!
But you never make it….
‘cause you have teeny tiny legs
and only two inch feet.
But that’s ok,
you can grab it as it rolls.
Chasing it is half the fun
You quickly scoop it up,
Squeeze triumphantly,
take it back,
present it to Mum.
And with a ‘Good boy!’
She throws the ball again-
You hurtle off after it!
But wait!
You can’t see it?
where is it then?
You look back at Mum,
with the ball still in her hand
she’d sold you a dummy
that’s why it didn’t land.
Mummy is so clever.
She shops for other humans,
gets paid lots of money too.
you guess that all the humans like to have things like you,
that roll,
and squeek,
to chew.
But I bet she doesn’t play with their balls
that fun's reserved for you,
and for Steve-
who doesn’t come around anymore,
since the night Mummy hurt his balls with her knee.
And called him a creep.
Or something like that?
A two-timing bastard.
A liar.
A rat.
And lots of other words
that you’d never heard before,
as she kneed him in his playthings,
then pushed him out the door.
He left his red lead behind though
which is great for days like these.
‘Hey Mummy, stop texting’ you bark.
‘And throw the ball again please’
all cute and covered with fur
When happy,
your tail wags,
you yap,
when angry,
ears prick up, then you grr.
You like the simple things
like a walk,
things that squeek,
a tummy rub,
and your red lead,
that mum uses to take you walkies
it was bought by the one called Steve-
mummy’s friend that doesn’t come around anymore,
so now you sleep back on her bed
and not upon the floor.
And you love that when you wear your lead
it’s a sign of things to come,
Walkies,
lamposts,
and going for a run.
And today is such a great day
because on Tuesdays it’s the park.
With lots of other dogs to smell
and trees with hint of wee upon their bark.
But best of all
is that object of joy
it’s green,
furry,
goes by the name of Tennis-
it’s a BALL!
YOUR ball.
Mummy holds it in her hand
you stand,
look up,
move tail,
await command…….
‘Sit!’
You obey.
Bum meets ground,
the grass tickles your bits,
but not those that the vet took-
they'll never be found.
Not like this ball
that with a,
‘FETCH!’
Mum hurls through the air-
you tear off after it!
you have to get there!
get underneath it!
catch it in your teeth!
But you never make it….
‘cause you have teeny tiny legs
and only two inch feet.
But that’s ok,
you can grab it as it rolls.
Chasing it is half the fun
You quickly scoop it up,
Squeeze triumphantly,
take it back,
present it to Mum.
And with a ‘Good boy!’
She throws the ball again-
You hurtle off after it!
But wait!
You can’t see it?
where is it then?
You look back at Mum,
with the ball still in her hand
she’d sold you a dummy
that’s why it didn’t land.
Mummy is so clever.
She shops for other humans,
gets paid lots of money too.
you guess that all the humans like to have things like you,
that roll,
and squeek,
to chew.
But I bet she doesn’t play with their balls
that fun's reserved for you,
and for Steve-
who doesn’t come around anymore,
since the night Mummy hurt his balls with her knee.
And called him a creep.
Or something like that?
A two-timing bastard.
A liar.
A rat.
And lots of other words
that you’d never heard before,
as she kneed him in his playthings,
then pushed him out the door.
He left his red lead behind though
which is great for days like these.
‘Hey Mummy, stop texting’ you bark.
‘And throw the ball again please’
Monday, 13 July 2009
Flush
Is it wrong that I sometimes get into a panic about using all the toilet paper on the roll? Just hear me out. I am currently sharing an apartment with another human being. One that I love dearly, and that person also uses toilet paper now and then. One that (quite reasonably) expects me to change the empty toilet roll and replace it with a new one as and when my arse sees fit to do it’s “Brown Baron” impersonation and commences with its bombing run on the bog. Recently. I seem to have decided that I actually don’t like the whole pavlova of taking the old roll off, going to the cupboard, putting the new roll on, and putting the empty one in the recycling bin. It appears that I’m a bit of a lazy so and so?
Who knew?
Anyway, recently, while pooing and wiping, I seem to have gone to great lengths to make sure that I don’t use all the bog paper while on “my shift”. To the point where the other day, I left a quarter of a sheet of 2-ply on the tube and I’m pretty sure that that comes dangerously close to being classed as “using all the loo roll”. But in my Ally McBeal brain, I have rationalised that if there is still some paper on there, then that roll hasn’t run out, and therefore, I don’t have to be the one to go through the pullover of changing the roll.
So why then do I feel like Groomie is going to kick my arse if I keep getting away with this?
Sunday, 21 June 2009
Rabbit
I feel the need to talk about a couple of points that have been coming up recently. It's probably not something to make a fuss over, but I'm concerned how prominent my nipples have been recently. And we're not talking about Man Boobs or Moobs here. I'm (was "we" earlier) talking about just my nipples and how they love to be the center of attention whenever I have my picture taken.
I can be anywhere, doing anything, and they will always be the first thing that screams out at you from the picture.
In front of Niagara Falls? NIPPLES!
The Pyramids? LOOK, NIPPLES!
The Second Coming? LOOK! JENKS' NIPPLES AGAIN!
I don't know what it is? I wear a lot of T-Shirts, which doesn't help. But frankly, I don't fancy wearing layers of clothes to cover them up. Nearly every YouTube video I have made pretty much focuses on my chest, and so they are always in my face when I watch them back. And having my own nipples in my face is not the kind of video I want to settle down with my tea and toast to watch.
Now, whenever I see pics of myself, I look straight at my nips. I'm becoming my own worst perv.
Still, if you can't perv at yourself, who can you?
Plus at least I know I'm not dangerous?
But I do know where I live.
But if I try anything on myself, I DO know what address to give the Police.
This post makes no sense.
I'd just like a picture to be taken that doesn't have my nipples screaming out at me.
I can be anywhere, doing anything, and they will always be the first thing that screams out at you from the picture.
In front of Niagara Falls? NIPPLES!
The Pyramids? LOOK, NIPPLES!
The Second Coming? LOOK! JENKS' NIPPLES AGAIN!
I don't know what it is? I wear a lot of T-Shirts, which doesn't help. But frankly, I don't fancy wearing layers of clothes to cover them up. Nearly every YouTube video I have made pretty much focuses on my chest, and so they are always in my face when I watch them back. And having my own nipples in my face is not the kind of video I want to settle down with my tea and toast to watch.
Now, whenever I see pics of myself, I look straight at my nips. I'm becoming my own worst perv.
Still, if you can't perv at yourself, who can you?
Plus at least I know I'm not dangerous?
But I do know where I live.
But if I try anything on myself, I DO know what address to give the Police.
This post makes no sense.
I'd just like a picture to be taken that doesn't have my nipples screaming out at me.
Thursday, 18 June 2009
Oh what a feelin'
That reminds me of the times that I would sneak up on my mum and grab her.
Yeah, I know. Hilarious when I do it. Not so funny when they do it back to me. What can I say? I'm a hyper-crite.
But many a time, mum would be minding her own business, and I would sneak up and grab her or touch her back or something. She would go apeshit at me. Usually using words like "You fuckin' bastard!"
I would of course, be pissing myself with laughter. And using the old "Who did you think it was" disclaimer that people that jump out on others always use. She probably thought it was Freddy Fucking Krueger knowing her, but as long as I said that line "Who did you think it was?" Or "It's only me and you in the house, why'd you jump?" then that was ok, and I could make it look like SHE had the problem. Thus removing any guilt and or blame from myself. See how this works? There's legal mumbo jumbo in everything. From buying a scalding hot McCoffee, to scaring the pants off of a loved one.
The downside to all this laughter was that now and then she would clutch her chest, struggle to breathe, and mumble something like "You could've killed me".
Now, you have to understand, my mum was not a well woman at this time. And there probably was a chance that a shock could actually kill her. I had thought of this. Many times. Normally just AFTER I've jumped out at her. But strangely never before?
One time, she actually asked me "What would you do if I dropped down dead?"
To which I replied "I'd just say I came downstairs and found you like this."
I mean, what did she expect me to do?
Go to the police and confess I'd scared her to death?
What good would that do? Mum was a chainsmoking diabetic. SOMETHING was gonna make her drop down one day. If I "accidentally", "may" have accelerated that through "no fault of my own", then there's no point in me being punished is there? And besides, is there a law against scaring folks to death?
And anyway, mum always had a good attitude when it came to death. Particularly her own. She used to say "When I'm gone, I don't want a fancy funeral. Nothing expensive, ok?"
"Mum, when you're dead, I'm putting your body out in the rubbish bin" I'd reply "Is that cheap enough for you?"
As it is, mum, when she did die (and NO I didn't kill her!) , had a modest, but adequate funeral, that to this day still hasn't been paid for in full. Mum would have liked that. I mean, what are they gonna do? Dig her back up? And before you say it, I'm not solely responsible for paying for the funeral. The whole family are. And that, my dear reader, is why to this day, my mum's funeral hasn't been paid for. Because my family just don't agree on anything. Including paying for their mum's burial.
I tell ya, if I could have got away with the bin bag thing.......
Yeah, I know. Hilarious when I do it. Not so funny when they do it back to me. What can I say? I'm a hyper-crite.
But many a time, mum would be minding her own business, and I would sneak up and grab her or touch her back or something. She would go apeshit at me. Usually using words like "You fuckin' bastard!"
I would of course, be pissing myself with laughter. And using the old "Who did you think it was" disclaimer that people that jump out on others always use. She probably thought it was Freddy Fucking Krueger knowing her, but as long as I said that line "Who did you think it was?" Or "It's only me and you in the house, why'd you jump?" then that was ok, and I could make it look like SHE had the problem. Thus removing any guilt and or blame from myself. See how this works? There's legal mumbo jumbo in everything. From buying a scalding hot McCoffee, to scaring the pants off of a loved one.
The downside to all this laughter was that now and then she would clutch her chest, struggle to breathe, and mumble something like "You could've killed me".
Now, you have to understand, my mum was not a well woman at this time. And there probably was a chance that a shock could actually kill her. I had thought of this. Many times. Normally just AFTER I've jumped out at her. But strangely never before?
One time, she actually asked me "What would you do if I dropped down dead?"
To which I replied "I'd just say I came downstairs and found you like this."
I mean, what did she expect me to do?
Go to the police and confess I'd scared her to death?
What good would that do? Mum was a chainsmoking diabetic. SOMETHING was gonna make her drop down one day. If I "accidentally", "may" have accelerated that through "no fault of my own", then there's no point in me being punished is there? And besides, is there a law against scaring folks to death?
And anyway, mum always had a good attitude when it came to death. Particularly her own. She used to say "When I'm gone, I don't want a fancy funeral. Nothing expensive, ok?"
"Mum, when you're dead, I'm putting your body out in the rubbish bin" I'd reply "Is that cheap enough for you?"
As it is, mum, when she did die (and NO I didn't kill her!) , had a modest, but adequate funeral, that to this day still hasn't been paid for in full. Mum would have liked that. I mean, what are they gonna do? Dig her back up? And before you say it, I'm not solely responsible for paying for the funeral. The whole family are. And that, my dear reader, is why to this day, my mum's funeral hasn't been paid for. Because my family just don't agree on anything. Including paying for their mum's burial.
I tell ya, if I could have got away with the bin bag thing.......
Dancing on the ceiling.
Picture the scene- I'm half dressed. Sleepy. Wet (ish). And just about to apply a liberal coating of antiperspirant to my armpits, when suddenly, from out of nowhere (actually, somewhere to the right of me), a hand touches my back. I jumped miles. Frankly, it's a miracle that the roll-on didn't go up my nose, I jumped that much. "A" had snuck up on me and "ninja-like" applied the touch of death. I fucking crapped myself.
"Who did you think it was?" she asked while giggling.
"A SCARY DEAD JAPANESE GIRL WITH LONG HAIR, THAT'S WHO." I replied, while trying to release my grip from my Lynx Africa (tm).
This is at least the second time that "A" has scared the crap out of me. The pregnancy scares aside (joking), they have both been pretty scary for me. And I blame this on one thing, and one thing only. A creepy little Asian horror film called Ring.
Now, I have always enjoyed horror films. I like a good scare, and the plot freedom for these films is something that my imagination can run free in. You don't really have to explain how the monster is there, it just IS. The dead girl that's come back to avenge her torture and murder? She's doing so because she CAN. Ok?
But following on from these recent scares, I have realised that now, when confronted with something scary in the dark, I instantly think of the girl from the Ring book and movie. See? It's a book now as well.
Anyway. On both occasions, I instantly think:
"ARGH! SCARY DEAD JAPANESE GIRL WITH LONG HAIR!"
Is this it?
Is this the thing that I am now most scared of?
Cancer and anal rape aside, this is now what my mind thinks of when it is in the dark and afraid.
I have seen countless horror films, read countless novels, slain MILLIONS of zombies in Resident Evil, Silent Hill etc, yet when I get scared or surprised (in a bad way, not birthday party kind of way), I now think of that little dead girl, Sadako. And I'm not alone. Many of my friends hate that film because of that girl. Steve now insists on covering his eyes during the end scene of that film. You know what I'm talking about. It's just genuinely creepy. I know it's just a film. But the image is enough to stay in my head long, long after the film is over.
When you get grabbed by an unseen hand, or something jumps out at you, is it a reflex, or does your mind go "SCARY DEAD JAPANESE GIRL WITH LONG HAIR!"
I know what mine does.
"Who did you think it was?" she asked while giggling.
"A SCARY DEAD JAPANESE GIRL WITH LONG HAIR, THAT'S WHO." I replied, while trying to release my grip from my Lynx Africa (tm).
This is at least the second time that "A" has scared the crap out of me. The pregnancy scares aside (joking), they have both been pretty scary for me. And I blame this on one thing, and one thing only. A creepy little Asian horror film called Ring.
Now, I have always enjoyed horror films. I like a good scare, and the plot freedom for these films is something that my imagination can run free in. You don't really have to explain how the monster is there, it just IS. The dead girl that's come back to avenge her torture and murder? She's doing so because she CAN. Ok?
But following on from these recent scares, I have realised that now, when confronted with something scary in the dark, I instantly think of the girl from the Ring book and movie. See? It's a book now as well.
Anyway. On both occasions, I instantly think:
"ARGH! SCARY DEAD JAPANESE GIRL WITH LONG HAIR!"
Is this it?
Is this the thing that I am now most scared of?
Cancer and anal rape aside, this is now what my mind thinks of when it is in the dark and afraid.
I have seen countless horror films, read countless novels, slain MILLIONS of zombies in Resident Evil, Silent Hill etc, yet when I get scared or surprised (in a bad way, not birthday party kind of way), I now think of that little dead girl, Sadako. And I'm not alone. Many of my friends hate that film because of that girl. Steve now insists on covering his eyes during the end scene of that film. You know what I'm talking about. It's just genuinely creepy. I know it's just a film. But the image is enough to stay in my head long, long after the film is over.
When you get grabbed by an unseen hand, or something jumps out at you, is it a reflex, or does your mind go "SCARY DEAD JAPANESE GIRL WITH LONG HAIR!"
I know what mine does.
Tuesday, 12 May 2009
Homeless
One thing about Vancouver that has surprised me is the large number of beggars that are to be found around every corner. I won't call them homeless because very few of them are actually homeless. Some have friend's floors, a shelter, maybe a cardboard box even, but they have all found themselves in a state of financial askyness. Meaning, they ask others for money. On one afternoon walk, I think (A) and I were asked 7 times for money by different people. This is a new experience for me. I've lived in a city before, but have never had to say no to so many people. I don't know their stories and they certainly don't know mine (or maybe even care to?), but it's still hard to refuse somebody help when they have asked for it. It's a tricky thing. Everybody has choices in life. Some, you get to make, others are made for you. But very few outcomes are irreversible. I worked my little butt off to raise the money to fly to be with (A). I have never had a proper holiday in my life. I had to quit my jobs to have the time to come here. And I will freely admit, that by some peoples standards, I had a shitty childhood. And I don't just mean I didn't get the Transformer toy that I wanted for Christmas. The point is, the people coming up to me and asking for my spare change, are doing so without knowing what that money means to me. They are making an assumption about me based entirely on my appearance. Just as I am making one about them. You and I are far more likely to give money to a smelly, bearded guy in torn clothes, than we are a clean, sharp looking guy in a suit. Don't believe me? Why don't beggars ever hassle other beggars for money? Because they assume they have none, just by their appearance. Just as I assume the same about them. But the truth is, I don't know if that person has had a tough, unfair life, or has squandered money on drink, drugs, or even perhaps even drowned kittens or murdered people? It's impossible for me to tell. I have no problem if they are polite, but a couple of times in the past, I have had abuse because I have politely said sorry, but no, to someone asking for money. I like helping people. I get a warm gooey feeling every time that I do. I believe that everyone can help others if they wish to. The world would be a better place if we did, but do we owe each other help? I don't think so. Some of the stories people tell to try to get you to part with money are really quite amazing. I've heard ones with action, sadness, plot twists, romance, I even heard on guy claim to have helped blow up the Death Star. I appreciate that a lot of people are genuinely nice people that have had a tough time of life and I wish I could help them all (only the nice ones), but it can't be done. I do still give change to people now and then, much to my own annoyance. And I'm a sucker for buskers. If you want money from me, play music. For some reason, I feel comfortable giving my change to people that can afford a guitar and amplifier?
Why have I just blogged about this? I have no idea? It's late and I think I lost my point somewhere? At least I'm honest? I guess I just don't like it when someone comes up to me and asks me for change. Then if I say no, I get to feel crappy about it.
Maybe if I showered less and didn't change clothes so often, they would stop asking?
It's a thought........
Why have I just blogged about this? I have no idea? It's late and I think I lost my point somewhere? At least I'm honest? I guess I just don't like it when someone comes up to me and asks me for change. Then if I say no, I get to feel crappy about it.
Maybe if I showered less and didn't change clothes so often, they would stop asking?
It's a thought........
Wildlife encounter
(A) and I were walking through Stanley Park. It was a pretty nice walk and I had already had a fun afternoon. Little did I realize that my day was about to involve WILDLIFE!
Dun-dun-DUUUUUUUUUUUN!
I'm not normally good with animals. Infact, ask my friends, and they'll happily tell you how I'm not much good with anything. Since arriving in Vancouver, I have seen oodles of seagulls and crows. Crows are everywhere in Vancouver. How they haven't ended up running the place, is beyond me? Anyway, I don't "fear" animals and insects (except spiders and horses!!!), but I just don't like to mix with them if I can avoid it. Most of the time, my imagination takes over and I fear the worst when it comes to wildlife (SPIDERHORSES!!! EEK!).
But I AM fully insured, so it's not a huge deal if a bear rips my arm off and uses it to beat my screaming head in.
See what I mean? I always go over the top.
I'm sure bears are calm, gentle creatures. And I'm sure they're more scared of me than I am of them? But I can't get the idea out of my head that the bears are lining up to attack me, with a baseball bat that has a black widow spider taped to the side of it. I'm stupid and my own worst enemy sometimes.
Anyway, we stopped to nibble on snacky goodness by a lake, when (A) noticed a Raccoon that was being papped by a couple of tourists. Tourists that had cameras with lenses that were far too healthy to carry around. They were calling and cooing at this Raccoon, trying to get it to look round, vogue, work it, etc, but the little thing was having none of it. I say little, but all wildlife appears much bigger to me. It's a disease. I exaggerate size when it comes to things that scare me.
Anyway, this little, 12 foot tall Raccoon just continued to ignore them, happy to rummage round in the mud of the lake shore. Defeated, the two photographers slowly walked away, dragging their oh so heavy cameras behind them. Once they had left, (A) removed from her pocket a small bag of nuts, goodness, and woodland that she had been carrying around with her. I asked her why she was carrying that? She said it was incase of squirrel attacks. If a nasty group of the little nutters ever went for us, she would through the bag of nuts, goodness and woodland towards me, while she made off in the opposite direction (to get help).
(Help for me).
(Help to find whatever the squirrels leave of my corpse quicker).
I kid!
(A) loves me and would never leave me during a squirrel attack. She had just carried those nuts, goodness and woodland that day incase we found some wildlife to feed. And we had. A lovely, adorable, tiny, 20 foot tall Raccoon.
As soon as he/she (let's not be gender specific here) heard the little packet rustle, he/she started to make his/her way over to us. I have never seen a Raccoon before. Although my fear of wildlife was well and truly kicking in, this tiny little grey and black guy/gal was ADORABLE. He/she had these tiny little black fingers that he used to feel around and pick up the N.G.W with. He was really brave and seemed to have no fear of us. Which was good, because I was pretty scared of him. If it came down to it, he could take me. I know he could. Just as long as HE didn't know that.
Oh crap!
When did he become a HE?
*le sigh*
Anyway, he/she was totally lovable and gentle. The N.G.W seemed to attract all sorts of wildlife, with (A) getting the chance to do her Disney Princess (tm) bit, with a little bird eating out of her hand. It was a very Aww kind of moment.
The guy/gal loved the food and took away some of my fear of wild animals by, once he had finished his N.G.W, leaving us without tearing my face off and returning back to his home.
Aww.
It was a lovely moment and I really enjoyed meeting my first Raccoon.
Aww.
Dun-dun-DUUUUUUUUUUUN!
I'm not normally good with animals. Infact, ask my friends, and they'll happily tell you how I'm not much good with anything. Since arriving in Vancouver, I have seen oodles of seagulls and crows. Crows are everywhere in Vancouver. How they haven't ended up running the place, is beyond me? Anyway, I don't "fear" animals and insects (except spiders and horses!!!), but I just don't like to mix with them if I can avoid it. Most of the time, my imagination takes over and I fear the worst when it comes to wildlife (SPIDERHORSES!!! EEK!).
But I AM fully insured, so it's not a huge deal if a bear rips my arm off and uses it to beat my screaming head in.
See what I mean? I always go over the top.
I'm sure bears are calm, gentle creatures. And I'm sure they're more scared of me than I am of them? But I can't get the idea out of my head that the bears are lining up to attack me, with a baseball bat that has a black widow spider taped to the side of it. I'm stupid and my own worst enemy sometimes.
Anyway, we stopped to nibble on snacky goodness by a lake, when (A) noticed a Raccoon that was being papped by a couple of tourists. Tourists that had cameras with lenses that were far too healthy to carry around. They were calling and cooing at this Raccoon, trying to get it to look round, vogue, work it, etc, but the little thing was having none of it. I say little, but all wildlife appears much bigger to me. It's a disease. I exaggerate size when it comes to things that scare me.
Anyway, this little, 12 foot tall Raccoon just continued to ignore them, happy to rummage round in the mud of the lake shore. Defeated, the two photographers slowly walked away, dragging their oh so heavy cameras behind them. Once they had left, (A) removed from her pocket a small bag of nuts, goodness, and woodland that she had been carrying around with her. I asked her why she was carrying that? She said it was incase of squirrel attacks. If a nasty group of the little nutters ever went for us, she would through the bag of nuts, goodness and woodland towards me, while she made off in the opposite direction (to get help).
(Help for me).
(Help to find whatever the squirrels leave of my corpse quicker).
I kid!
(A) loves me and would never leave me during a squirrel attack. She had just carried those nuts, goodness and woodland that day incase we found some wildlife to feed. And we had. A lovely, adorable, tiny, 20 foot tall Raccoon.
As soon as he/she (let's not be gender specific here) heard the little packet rustle, he/she started to make his/her way over to us. I have never seen a Raccoon before. Although my fear of wildlife was well and truly kicking in, this tiny little grey and black guy/gal was ADORABLE. He/she had these tiny little black fingers that he used to feel around and pick up the N.G.W with. He was really brave and seemed to have no fear of us. Which was good, because I was pretty scared of him. If it came down to it, he could take me. I know he could. Just as long as HE didn't know that.
Oh crap!
When did he become a HE?
*le sigh*
Anyway, he/she was totally lovable and gentle. The N.G.W seemed to attract all sorts of wildlife, with (A) getting the chance to do her Disney Princess (tm) bit, with a little bird eating out of her hand. It was a very Aww kind of moment.
The guy/gal loved the food and took away some of my fear of wild animals by, once he had finished his N.G.W, leaving us without tearing my face off and returning back to his home.
Aww.
It was a lovely moment and I really enjoyed meeting my first Raccoon.
Aww.
Store Wars
Okay, maybe more coffee shops than stores, but there are two major players fighting for control of the streets in Canada. Starbucks and Tim Horton's.
These are the two big hitters of Canadian bevergyness.
And some of their customers get quite prissy about where they drink too. I walked into the middle of a gang fight the other day between rival drinkers. They were throwing skinny lattes and frappucchinos at each other. It got quite ugly at one point, when one guy was taken out by a biscotti to the eye. Another hospitalized by a particularly strong ,mexican blend decaf to the face.
Just chill people!
Drink tea.
These are the two big hitters of Canadian bevergyness.
And some of their customers get quite prissy about where they drink too. I walked into the middle of a gang fight the other day between rival drinkers. They were throwing skinny lattes and frappucchinos at each other. It got quite ugly at one point, when one guy was taken out by a biscotti to the eye. Another hospitalized by a particularly strong ,mexican blend decaf to the face.
Just chill people!
Drink tea.
Order please?
I have since realised that the blog entrees have no hope of ever being in order. Maybe one day, I will be bang up to date? In which case, they have a slight chance of being in order.
Perhaps.
Maybe.
What do you want from me, blood?
Perhaps.
Maybe.
What do you want from me, blood?
Chopsticks
Since being here, I have been introduced to a wide variety of sushi restaurants and take-aways. You can't crash a car in Vancouver without knocking a millionaire through a sushi shop window. They are everywhere (both millionaires and sushi shops). This is fine with me, and I had never tried sushi before, so I was looking forward to a new culinary delight.
However, this brought back an age-old enemy of mine,
THE CHOPSTICK!
TWO of them!
ChopSTICKS!
Twice the terror.
I just can't use chopsticks. I just can't. If you're gonna laugh, just go ahead and do it. I can't do the tongue curling thing either, or the bloody Vulcan "Live long and blah blah blah" thing from Star Trek. When it comes to mastering tasks that others find easy, I appear to be handicapped. Infact, why can't I qualify for disabled parking? You seem to be a second class citizen if you are unable to eat sushi with anything other than two sticks of wood (plastic).
And why? Just what do chopsticks offer that a fork can't give? If two pieces of wood (plastic) are so great, then why did the fork ever get invented? And I happen to know for a fact that the fork was invented by an Asian gentleman. Because they think up and invent everything! They just do. They know that the fork is where it's at. The chopstick thing is just for the tourists. Once the Westerners are out of sight, they whip out their knife and forks. Infact, while we are trying to prove how sympathetic we are to their cuisine, traditions and culture by chasing an eggroll around a plate with our sticks, they're eating in a more efficient manner, using something else that they've invented, something that probably uses microchips or something?
I just can't use them. (A) patiently tried to teach me. But after 1 minute 38 seconds (roughly), her patience was exausted. I think she realised that I'm just not cut out for chopsticks? And while she continues to encourage and guide me ( "Why won't you just learn!?"), I know it's not for me. So I have to bravely soldier on, enduring the sniggers and sneers of other diners, as I kindly ask for a fork. And maybe sometimes a knife too.
However, this brought back an age-old enemy of mine,
THE CHOPSTICK!
TWO of them!
ChopSTICKS!
Twice the terror.
I just can't use chopsticks. I just can't. If you're gonna laugh, just go ahead and do it. I can't do the tongue curling thing either, or the bloody Vulcan "Live long and blah blah blah" thing from Star Trek. When it comes to mastering tasks that others find easy, I appear to be handicapped. Infact, why can't I qualify for disabled parking? You seem to be a second class citizen if you are unable to eat sushi with anything other than two sticks of wood (plastic).
And why? Just what do chopsticks offer that a fork can't give? If two pieces of wood (plastic) are so great, then why did the fork ever get invented? And I happen to know for a fact that the fork was invented by an Asian gentleman. Because they think up and invent everything! They just do. They know that the fork is where it's at. The chopstick thing is just for the tourists. Once the Westerners are out of sight, they whip out their knife and forks. Infact, while we are trying to prove how sympathetic we are to their cuisine, traditions and culture by chasing an eggroll around a plate with our sticks, they're eating in a more efficient manner, using something else that they've invented, something that probably uses microchips or something?
I just can't use them. (A) patiently tried to teach me. But after 1 minute 38 seconds (roughly), her patience was exausted. I think she realised that I'm just not cut out for chopsticks? And while she continues to encourage and guide me ( "Why won't you just learn!?"), I know it's not for me. So I have to bravely soldier on, enduring the sniggers and sneers of other diners, as I kindly ask for a fork. And maybe sometimes a knife too.
Vancouver
Well, I made it to Vancouver. And (A) was there to meet me, so things were looking good.
It was so good to see her again. After over a month apart, I was just about ready to swim to Canada if I had to. I really missed her. Skype helped, but it's not substitute for seeing and feeling. And I mean that in a non-creepy way. She's been wonderful while I've been here. It seems like every day, she goes out of her way to make sure we go somewhere or do something to make the most of my time here. My dear old gran made me promise not to walk on rocks or go in the sea. But after paying for travel insurance, that seems kinda silly? I mean, what's the point of having insurance, just to be careful about things? My policy refused to pay out if I injure myself jumping from a hotel balcony, OR if I commit suicide. That sounds fair. The hotel balcony one sounds kinda specific? And I can't help but wonder if they had to pay out one time to some idiot that cloud surfed off of a balcony?
Anyway, Vancouver is very big. Bigger than anything I'm used to. The college alone seems to be bigger than Stratford. It is a great place though. It has mountains, beaches, wildlife, rich people, homeless people, poor people, poor people pretending to be rich people, and even rich people that are soon to be homeless people!
The one thing that I loved though, was the "self flushing' toilets that can be found in most retaurants and public bathrooms. EVERYTHING is automatic. Which for a germaphobe like myself, is pretty damn cool. You don't have to touch anything to flush. You just stand up and walk away (after pulling up pants). It flushes automatically. How neat is that? In Britain, you have to go to the nearest well, fill a bucket with water, bring it back, throw a handful of straw down the loo, followed by the water, just to flush. Plus you routinely catch scurvey and the Plague from public toilets in Britain. Even if you survive going to the lav, you'll just be stabbed by a teenager as you leave. They don't even try to mug you anymore. Nobody has any money. So they just save themselves (and you) all that time and hassle, and just go for the stabbing right away. Plus it's bloody embarrassing when a mugger asks you to hand over all your money and all you have on you is 27 pence and a receipt from Starbucks. You deserve to get stabbed just for drinking in Starbucks. Not that I can afford to drink in Starbucks. I found the receipt. I just 'accidentally" whip it out now and then in socially awkward situations, so I look more "hip", "happening" and "one of the trendy crowd".
Starbucks IS still trendy, right?
Anyway, the toilets here are really neat. And the taps and soap dispensers are nearly all automatic too. I say nearly, because on some rare occasions, I find myself stunned and confused by taps that I actually have to turn on and off with my own hands. When I go back to England, I'm taking taps and toilets with me!
It was so good to see her again. After over a month apart, I was just about ready to swim to Canada if I had to. I really missed her. Skype helped, but it's not substitute for seeing and feeling. And I mean that in a non-creepy way. She's been wonderful while I've been here. It seems like every day, she goes out of her way to make sure we go somewhere or do something to make the most of my time here. My dear old gran made me promise not to walk on rocks or go in the sea. But after paying for travel insurance, that seems kinda silly? I mean, what's the point of having insurance, just to be careful about things? My policy refused to pay out if I injure myself jumping from a hotel balcony, OR if I commit suicide. That sounds fair. The hotel balcony one sounds kinda specific? And I can't help but wonder if they had to pay out one time to some idiot that cloud surfed off of a balcony?
Anyway, Vancouver is very big. Bigger than anything I'm used to. The college alone seems to be bigger than Stratford. It is a great place though. It has mountains, beaches, wildlife, rich people, homeless people, poor people, poor people pretending to be rich people, and even rich people that are soon to be homeless people!
The one thing that I loved though, was the "self flushing' toilets that can be found in most retaurants and public bathrooms. EVERYTHING is automatic. Which for a germaphobe like myself, is pretty damn cool. You don't have to touch anything to flush. You just stand up and walk away (after pulling up pants). It flushes automatically. How neat is that? In Britain, you have to go to the nearest well, fill a bucket with water, bring it back, throw a handful of straw down the loo, followed by the water, just to flush. Plus you routinely catch scurvey and the Plague from public toilets in Britain. Even if you survive going to the lav, you'll just be stabbed by a teenager as you leave. They don't even try to mug you anymore. Nobody has any money. So they just save themselves (and you) all that time and hassle, and just go for the stabbing right away. Plus it's bloody embarrassing when a mugger asks you to hand over all your money and all you have on you is 27 pence and a receipt from Starbucks. You deserve to get stabbed just for drinking in Starbucks. Not that I can afford to drink in Starbucks. I found the receipt. I just 'accidentally" whip it out now and then in socially awkward situations, so I look more "hip", "happening" and "one of the trendy crowd".
Starbucks IS still trendy, right?
Anyway, the toilets here are really neat. And the taps and soap dispensers are nearly all automatic too. I say nearly, because on some rare occasions, I find myself stunned and confused by taps that I actually have to turn on and off with my own hands. When I go back to England, I'm taking taps and toilets with me!
I am a poetry failure :(
Okay. So I was supposed to be writing a poem every day for a month, what with last month being poetry month and all.
Well, I failed.
I'm a crumb.
Don't even look at me.
I'm a stinking, lowly crumb that can't even write ONE poem A DAY.
Not even a;
Like a blossom fed by gentle rain,
my toilet flush is fueled by pain.
I couldn't even manage that. I'm so depressed :(
But I do have a very good reason. I've been busy flying to Canada to spend time with the woman that I love. Awww
The hanging around Birmingham airport was dull. Although it did get a bit livelier when a guy dropped a metal tray on a marble (effect) floor.
BANG!
Who'da thought that people would be so nervous when there are loud bangs around planes?
I swear, three people had to be removed from the polystyrene ceiling tiles.
Myself, I don't seem to jump around loud bangs or car crashes? My reflexes are sorta backwards? I don't flinch for explosions, but the world falls out of my arse if someone just goes BOO! to me, comic book style. Even if I can see them coming. This provides shear moments of amusement for (A).
The first flight was to Amsterdam's Shirpol?, Sherpol?, something like that, airport. That place is HUGE! People from all around the world seem to gravitate there to buy cheese. Lots and lots of cheese. I saw cheese of every colour and flavour. Cheeses in the shape of cars, buildings, boys and girls snogging, even cheeses that weren't even made of cheese. Although, they may have been display models. I'm not a cheese expert. And to save the poor passengers from having to walk around, from one cheese to the next, they have installed a network of conveyer belts. You just step on and you're magically whisked along by the power of pixies and engineers to your destination (your terminal. Not your ACTUAL destination. Those things are long, but not that long). The place is great though and I heartily recommend you check that place out. Even if you don't need cheese right now, it's still a great place to check out. And if you have kids, why not take them along? They can ride the conveyers while you race back to the car, in a last ditch attempt to lose them and regain some peace and quiet back in your lives.
The plane I was to catch from Shipol? was named Ingrid Bergman. I'm a really nervous flyer, and I spent about 15 minutes debating with myself whether Ingrid sounded like a crasher. I kept watching imaginary news with footage of wreckage, to see if I could envisage the name Ingrid Bergman on the side of a large chunk of deathtrap. I hate flying. In the end, all this was pointless, because I had to climb aboard Ms Bergman if I was ever going to reach Canada. And besides, I KNEW I would make it safely to Canada. The reason why, I will explain later.
The flight was pretty good. My paln (or plan, even) to keep Ingrid in the air using sheer willpower seemed to actually work. Of course it meant a lot of buttock clenching and sweating for 6, 8, 9+ hours, and I couldn't talk AND keep the plane in the air. So a system of grunts and nods had to be established between myself and the people that kept walking past, offering me crackers and microwaved mush. And while I am here, can I thank the person that piled all the complimentary cushions in front of himself before both landing and take off. Thanks buddy! You made me feel so much better.......
There was also the woman that preyed during landing. Sorry, I meant PRAYED. Preying is something else. At least her praying was helping us get down safely. What use was "Mr Cushion Waist"? He was just trying to save himself. Selfish get.
Anyway, I (and the rest of the passengers) arrived safely in Vancouver, where I could finally kiss the beautiful carpet of the airport lounge. Oh, and shortly after, kiss my beautiful girlfriend (A).
Well, I failed.
I'm a crumb.
Don't even look at me.
I'm a stinking, lowly crumb that can't even write ONE poem A DAY.
Not even a;
Like a blossom fed by gentle rain,
my toilet flush is fueled by pain.
I couldn't even manage that. I'm so depressed :(
But I do have a very good reason. I've been busy flying to Canada to spend time with the woman that I love. Awww
The hanging around Birmingham airport was dull. Although it did get a bit livelier when a guy dropped a metal tray on a marble (effect) floor.
BANG!
Who'da thought that people would be so nervous when there are loud bangs around planes?
I swear, three people had to be removed from the polystyrene ceiling tiles.
Myself, I don't seem to jump around loud bangs or car crashes? My reflexes are sorta backwards? I don't flinch for explosions, but the world falls out of my arse if someone just goes BOO! to me, comic book style. Even if I can see them coming. This provides shear moments of amusement for (A).
The first flight was to Amsterdam's Shirpol?, Sherpol?, something like that, airport. That place is HUGE! People from all around the world seem to gravitate there to buy cheese. Lots and lots of cheese. I saw cheese of every colour and flavour. Cheeses in the shape of cars, buildings, boys and girls snogging, even cheeses that weren't even made of cheese. Although, they may have been display models. I'm not a cheese expert. And to save the poor passengers from having to walk around, from one cheese to the next, they have installed a network of conveyer belts. You just step on and you're magically whisked along by the power of pixies and engineers to your destination (your terminal. Not your ACTUAL destination. Those things are long, but not that long). The place is great though and I heartily recommend you check that place out. Even if you don't need cheese right now, it's still a great place to check out. And if you have kids, why not take them along? They can ride the conveyers while you race back to the car, in a last ditch attempt to lose them and regain some peace and quiet back in your lives.
The plane I was to catch from Shipol? was named Ingrid Bergman. I'm a really nervous flyer, and I spent about 15 minutes debating with myself whether Ingrid sounded like a crasher. I kept watching imaginary news with footage of wreckage, to see if I could envisage the name Ingrid Bergman on the side of a large chunk of deathtrap. I hate flying. In the end, all this was pointless, because I had to climb aboard Ms Bergman if I was ever going to reach Canada. And besides, I KNEW I would make it safely to Canada. The reason why, I will explain later.
The flight was pretty good. My paln (or plan, even) to keep Ingrid in the air using sheer willpower seemed to actually work. Of course it meant a lot of buttock clenching and sweating for 6, 8, 9+ hours, and I couldn't talk AND keep the plane in the air. So a system of grunts and nods had to be established between myself and the people that kept walking past, offering me crackers and microwaved mush. And while I am here, can I thank the person that piled all the complimentary cushions in front of himself before both landing and take off. Thanks buddy! You made me feel so much better.......
There was also the woman that preyed during landing. Sorry, I meant PRAYED. Preying is something else. At least her praying was helping us get down safely. What use was "Mr Cushion Waist"? He was just trying to save himself. Selfish get.
Anyway, I (and the rest of the passengers) arrived safely in Vancouver, where I could finally kiss the beautiful carpet of the airport lounge. Oh, and shortly after, kiss my beautiful girlfriend (A).
Friday, 10 April 2009
My Dad.
I've written a couple of poems about my dad in the past, but it's hard to put into words what I feel about someone that has shaped almost every aspect of me. I read this poem awhile ago, and while it doesn't reflect how I feel about my dad, it does mirror my feelings about our ageing and how I am scared that I may just be a carbon-copy of him? Or that he is now an emotional burden to me? It could also touch on how upset I am to see my father no-longer able to be the great man that he was. But sadly, he was never a great man to begin with. But I still like this poem. And I still love my dad.
FOLLOWER
My father worked with a horse-plough,
His shoulders globed like a full sail strung
Between the shafts and the furrow.
The horses strained at his clicking tongue.
An expert. He would set the wing
And fit the bright steel-pointed sock.
The sod rolled over without breaking.
At the headrig, with a single pluck
Of reigns, the sweating team turned round
And back into the land. His eye
Narrowed and angled at the ground,
Mapping the furrow exactly.
I stumbled in his hob-nailed wake,
Fell sometimes on the polished sod;
Sometimes he rode me on his back
Dipping and rising to his plod.
I wanted to grow up and plough,
To close one eye, stiffen my arm.
All I ever did was follow
In his broad shadow around the farm.
I was a nuisance, tripping, falling,
Yapping always. But today
It is my father who keeps stumbling
Behind me, and will not go away.
Seamus Heaney
FOLLOWER
My father worked with a horse-plough,
His shoulders globed like a full sail strung
Between the shafts and the furrow.
The horses strained at his clicking tongue.
An expert. He would set the wing
And fit the bright steel-pointed sock.
The sod rolled over without breaking.
At the headrig, with a single pluck
Of reigns, the sweating team turned round
And back into the land. His eye
Narrowed and angled at the ground,
Mapping the furrow exactly.
I stumbled in his hob-nailed wake,
Fell sometimes on the polished sod;
Sometimes he rode me on his back
Dipping and rising to his plod.
I wanted to grow up and plough,
To close one eye, stiffen my arm.
All I ever did was follow
In his broad shadow around the farm.
I was a nuisance, tripping, falling,
Yapping always. But today
It is my father who keeps stumbling
Behind me, and will not go away.
Seamus Heaney
Sunday, 5 April 2009
April3 poem
Drip
Drip
Drip
said the tap.
Drip
Drip
Drip
Drip
went the water.
Drip
Drip
Drip
Drip
Drip
went my night.
Up
Up
Up
Up
went my water bill.
Drip
Drip
said the tap.
Drip
Drip
Drip
Drip
went the water.
Drip
Drip
Drip
Drip
Drip
went my night.
Up
Up
Up
Up
went my water bill.
April2 poem
Why do squirrels beep?
Is it GPS?
A medley of
growl
growl
beep
beep
whenever they're upset
At least they can always find their nuts
I'm jealous
I confess.
Is it GPS?
A medley of
growl
growl
beep
beep
whenever they're upset
At least they can always find their nuts
I'm jealous
I confess.
April1 poem
You sway and yet stand
You blossom and smell sweet
You provide fruit for the pleasure of others
And provide shelter for those that tweet.
You require less than I
Yet provide so much more
You look pretty in the summer
Wile I just sweat and smell
If the heat gets too much
I'll sit in your shade
and you'll be my friend as well
You're many things to many things
but to you you're just alive
you want nothing but the barest things
and none of what I strive
I panic and work for things I don't need
and get upset when I'm in pain
While all you have to worry about
is whether it will rain.
I worry about such stupid things
While you just sway and grow
I worry about punctuation
and a missing H in wile
In many ways I envy you
But would you envy me?
Are we both sat here wasting time wondering who is watching who?
You blossom and smell sweet
You provide fruit for the pleasure of others
And provide shelter for those that tweet.
You require less than I
Yet provide so much more
You look pretty in the summer
Wile I just sweat and smell
If the heat gets too much
I'll sit in your shade
and you'll be my friend as well
You're many things to many things
but to you you're just alive
you want nothing but the barest things
and none of what I strive
I panic and work for things I don't need
and get upset when I'm in pain
While all you have to worry about
is whether it will rain.
I worry about such stupid things
While you just sway and grow
I worry about punctuation
and a missing H in wile
In many ways I envy you
But would you envy me?
Are we both sat here wasting time wondering who is watching who?
Saturday, 4 April 2009
Testinf......
Ok. A certain poetical lady told me that it was poetry month or something? I thought it was April? But anyway. She's planning on writing a poem a day for a month and I figured I might as well try to do the same? Good luck people.
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