Rikaitch: King of Excellent (according to Scaryduck)

On Masterchef, the drinking game...

2011-12-13T02:56:00.001Z

You know the sort of thing. A list of rules that when someone says or does something, you have to take a drink. And so, presenting, Masterchef, the drinking game.

When someone mentions an extraordinary journey.
When a chef says they want this more than anything else, in the world, evah.
When the presenters look at each other in horror.
Gregg Wallace tastes something, and says "aww mate...."
They mention either not enough or too much seasoning. Just say salt and pepper!
Someone cuts their finger, and can be seen nearly fainting before trying to carry on.
The judges mention the number of levels the dish meets.
Gregg Wallace mentions how "food doesn't get tougher than this..."
"The chicken is nice and moist."
Monica Galetti's eyes bulge.
One of the judges exclaims an oxymoron. Something like "it shouldn't work, but it does."
Jus, purée, Scallops or Asparagus feature
"the fish is perfectly cooked."
A chef is "gutted."

Please to add your own.

On drinking in Ireland

2011-12-08T06:00:00.010Z

The Irish are well known for their propensity to drink. But, with a good year and a half's living in the land of Guinness and Baileys (sometimes in the same glass), I feel I can express the truth about drinking here.

There are two measures of drinking here. There are those who don't drink (slightly strange and maybe religious) and those that do (common)
Those that don't drink cast doubt on how much of an alcoholic you are. Those that do drink make you think you don't drink enough.
A quick pint is impossible. By the same reckoning that you can't pop to the pub for a quick one at lunchtime. This leads to the inevitable 'all-dayer' which only the most seasoned drinker can survive unscathed, and a boss who's pissed off with the fact you skived from work for the afternoon.
You can't have a few drinks then go home. If you enter a pub at 9, you must leave as the bar staff either leave and lock up, or they fall asleep waiting for you to leave. Lock ins are obligatory.
Pubs have windows. These windows are either frosted glass (meaning you can't be spotted from the street by the boss - see 3.), or have small displays of breweriana containing Wade Irish Cream barrels and old tins of long passed Powers whisky bottles (also meaning you can't be spotted by the boss - see 3.) Pubs do not concur with the image portrayed in every other country in the world. They do not have trendy young things riverdancing in the corner, or theme nights based around the 'homeland'. They are not called something involving a region, town or other locality, but normally after the owner (past or present), and normally just the surname. Paddy's or Murphy's can be counted as fake. In fact, if it interferes with the drinking, chances are it's not going to be included.
Ireland was one of the first countries to have a smoking ban in it's pubs. This means that the old beer garden now has a new lease of life. Some pubs have taken advantage of this new found outdoor freedom, and have taken to small summer rituals like barbecues. Not that any local would be seen eating, because as we all know "eating is cheating." All night long, even in the dead of winter with snow and permafrost, more than half the pub can be found having a party outside. If you're too cold to go out for a ciggy, just get another drink down you, then go out. And most spectacularly, even in a lock in, where you are a guest of the pub proprietor, are people found to be popping out the back for a smoke, before returning to their illegal tipple at the bar.
As Tony Hawks mentions in his excellent book with an outlook on Irish life, every pub has a resident drunk. This (normally male) drinker can be found, struggling to prop themselves up at the end of the bar, with a long dead pint and an unerring ability to know a little about everything. In the event of you bumping into the resident drunk outside of the pub (and not just in the smoker's shed), he will not recognise you, acknowledge you or even know where he is. All he will do is agree with you if you say you'll see him in the pub later.
The following day will see you with an unrecognised hangover. You will feel furry. You might have a slight headache. The night before will be hazy. You check your phone for messages sent, and come across the message sent to the person you really shouldn't have texted. Be it ex-lover, boss or mortal enemy (or, if you're really unlucky, all 3 are the same person...), you recoil in horror as you realise that fail safe of "don't let me text anyone after 11" has been not only breached, but your friends might as well have taken down your notice of intent via dictation, and sent it themselves. And how do your friends and fellow drinkers solve this? With the suggestion of the 'cure' which is not so much of a hair of the dog, but most of the pelt, skin and even some vital organs.

See you down the pub then, and no, not for a quick one.

On Halloween, and Scary Websites.

2011-10-28T11:41:00.000+01:00

Ok, you'll be glad to know I'm not going to make you jump this year. Instead, a company has a more refreshing way of making you scared. Imagine, if you will, a scrawny hacker accessing your facebook page. He looks through your wall, has a browse of your photos, checks out your friend list, and even looks up how to get to your home. He then takes a drive to see you, and you'll notice how he has your picture taped to his dashboard. This is really disturbing, and makes you almost shudder. Luckily, it's not true, but just a really well programmed facebook application. It just shows you just how much information you allow to be accessed when you open that program in your facebook account. It's been out a week, and apparently has already had 2 million hits. It's making many news websites, being dubbed the new "Blair Witch Project." But, like BWP, it's not that scary. It's what you don't see that makes you scared. Meanwhile, go and have a look yourself. And sleep well tonight.
http://www.takethislollipop.com/

One wedding and a funeral

2011-10-12T14:43:00.002+01:00

And so, TDT and I headed off to the land of sun, sea and Sangria for Barbara and Eddie’s eagerly awaited wedding. Barbara is one of TDT’s best friends, and so we had to show ourselves, and it was also a perfect opportunity for a holiday to the small town of Nerja in Spain. We’d had loads of warning, and had booked months in advance to a small apartment on the outskirts of town. The day after TDT’s birthday we headed out courtesy of an exceptionally early flight with Ryanair (“would you like a seatbelt? That’ll be €5 please”). The only cloud over the whole thing was poor Eddie’s mother had been poorly, and might not make it to the wedding.

The night before the big day saw us all meeting in the evening for drinkies and a sing song. The bar closed at midnight, so the drinkies were supplied by two of the wedding party’s guests with access to the poolside from their ground floor rooms. As we sat there, listening to one delightful song after another, and quietly chatting away, apparently the flood of calls to reception from the resident ‘saga louts’ was in danger of overwhelming the night watchman. We eventually left just before 3am, under protest.
Monday morning saw us arrive at the chosen venue for the wedding, a large hotel on the seafront. The women all had summer dresses on, whilst us poor men had been suited and booted, and were sweltering away at the bar. Much San Miguel was required. The condemned man was flitting around, looking surprisingly composed for a man about to take one the largest steps in his life. Sadly his mother had passed away only a few days before, and the rush of a funeral and burial had meant that he was presumably running on ‘autopilot.’ Everybody was fussing around him and the bride was in her room, consoling her bridesmaids who were all crying. Barbara, being the sensible serene one, was just getting on with the day. Her sisters, meanwhile, were making the Mediterranean saltier.
Just before 3, we got the call to a small covered altar on the edge of the beach, where Eddie was standing, now looking decidedly nervous. About 100 guests, from as far afield as Alaska and County Kerry were sat in three groups, the bride’s friends, the groom’s friends, and family in the middle. Suddenly, a gasp was heard over the sound of the waves and hot wind, as a beautiful Barbara appeared on her father’s arm, walking down from her room. All the women started blubbering, like women do, and Kleenex could be seen dabbing many eyes behind Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses. Barbara’s cousins Brian and Ailish would sing a sedate song as she walked down to face Eddie in the sea breeze. The priest was a strange druidian-looking gentleman, with a very well educated (see: posh) English accent. Eddie’s mother’s seat was taken by his aunt instead, and his father was as shell shocked at such an emotional event. The priest had a candle lit for her, but the sea breeze was determined to blow it out. The ceremony was unrushed and unflustered. The priest described how traditionally the Spanish couple would leave the altar, go to their room, disrobe, and Eddie would perform his “marital duty” whilst the entire congregation would file past, and if they approved they would leave a gift of money. They had declined this tradition though, and preferred the more traditional Irish celebration of much alcohol.

Whilst they went off to the hills to have some photos taken, the rest of the party were treated to free bar involving more San Miguel, Bucks fizz, red or white wine and canapés. The first canapé was a rather tasty spinach quiche. The second was an even tastier mozzarella croquette thingy. The third was met with horror as small pastry cases filled with blue cheese were handed out. People could be seen discretely spitting them back out, or swallowing the small taste of feet before trying to subdue it with more alcohol. I’m sure more than one person was sickinnahedge. The poor waiter could be seen walking around with two or three trays of the nasty things. I personally like blue cheese, but after the fourth one my cheeks were itching so badly inside my mouth I had to stop eating them. The newly married couple returned for more photos, taken with close family, distant family, friends, distant friends, family and friends, distant family and distant friends, barmen, waiters, photographers, a small Spaniard who’d been hanging around all day, and finally everyone. Then we adjourned to dinner. The menu was a delightful mix of both meat and veg. The veg was for the starter, the meat was the main course, done on a large open pit barbecue. Everyone was catered for with the buffet starter format, and the large platters of chicken, steak, gammon, tuna and trout (I believe) were more than welcome to accompany it all. Basically, I ate too much. The couple of the moment were called to the front to cut the five tier cake, with a large sword. More surprisingly, they are allowed to take this sword home. I’m presuming it’ll get a pride of place on view at home.
The speeches were an emotional affair. Obviously with the loss only days before, Eddie was unable to say much. His brother had to pause, gulping back the emotion of what everyone else was feeling. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house as people raised glasses to Eddie’s Mum, and then to the new couple. Barbara went up and gave a highly composed speech (quite how, I’ll never know), and then we were all asked to step outside for a nice surprise. As we disgorged ourselves onto the now cooler sand, a large group of white helium balloons appeared, and we were all given one to hold. Once everyone had one, Eddie’s father was given a purple one to commemorate his mother, and let it go first, then seconds later we all let ours go to show our thoughts were with her. We all watched in amazement as the 100 or so balloons headed skyward in more or less the same pattern they were released. It must have taken over 15 minutes for them to disappear from view, and it was a fitting memorial to such an occasion.

Returning to our tables a Northern DJ came on ready to party. He had the unusual act of also singing, and soon the dancefloor was full with women dancing around handbags. Suddenly one of Eddie’s brothers was called to the front of the floor, with a surprise for the newlyweds. He’d been practicing playing the guitar and was going to play for them. He did however need accompaniment, and asked Barbara to join him. She was given a Ukelele, and the DJ started to play “Duelling Banjos” from the film deliverance. Obviously, they were both miming, but both enjoyed themselves as they submerged themselves into the role at hand. Even Barbara’s Mum was heard saying “I didn’t know Barbara could play a guitar!”
After what seemed like half an hour, but was in reality about 4 hours, we moved from the now cool beachside bar into the hotel’s air-conditioned function room, for more dancing and drinking. Most people were now getting merrily sozzled, and within three hours the bar had run out of vodka and whisky, and was on the verge of running out of beer. They closed the bar at 3, and the lights went on. The problem with this is that the Irish don’t like to take this as a hint maybe it’s time to go home, and again the singing started. A few of the less hardy (myself included) were dozing, but even Barbara’s father joined in with his now married daughter sat on his knee. Eventually the bar manager, almost at the point of tears, begged us to leave. So we all went outside to the front door, and took in the nice cool air and atmosphere whilst we waited for a taxi home.
I won’t bore you with the rest of the tales of the week, but needless to say more alcohol was consumed. In fact, by the time TDT and I returned home, we were both in danger of needing new livers.
Maybe next time it’ll be a venue for our wedding…

Es storios de Nerja (may or not be be Spanish...)

2011-09-30T09:45:00.000+01:00

Ok, so TDT and I have come to the land of Tapas, Flamenco, Dodgy English crooks and San Miguel (Oh, San Miguel, why do you make me drink you so...). After 3 hours sleep on Tuesday night, we left at the crack of dawn to head to the Costa Del Sol. We arrived at our apartment just after 2, and luckily Mr. Key Holder (no relation to Noddy) was still in the office, so we checked in. We had a quick shower, changed and went for a bite to eat, before ending up at a poolside bar run by the delightful Linda from Wolverhampton.
Ok, so by 6 we were getting 'there'. Where 'there' is, however, shouldn't involve 'happy hour' with BOGOF offers of alcohol in another bar called the Cave not 20 paces away. The arrival of 'there' was just before 9, and everything else is very hazy.
Then yesterday we decided to walk (yes, walk!) into town in the morning, have a spot of lunch and maybe a browse of the shops, before getting a taxi home. Oh, the best laid plans of mice and men, because we knew about the Spanish siesta time, but forgot. We found ourselves in the middle of the not unsubstantial town looking for a taxi. The map said there was a rank there, but there wasn't. Tumbleweed was bouncing down the sun-baked street and we were almost panicking about getting home. TDT admitted later she was close to tears, as the sun just got hotter, and hotter, and hotter. The air felt like being blasted with hot sand, and even breathing was becoming difficult. Then, our saviour! A nice taxi driver, with an airconditioned people carrier with blacked out windows appeared. We returned to the bar, but this time were prepared for the alcohol, so drank more slowly whilst sitting by the pool and catching rays.
Guess what we're going to do today? Yup, that's it. Sit by the pool, and catch some rays. I could get used to this.

On losses and losers.

2011-09-19T12:47:00.000+01:00

It was one of those horrible moments, the sort that make you feel like the pit of your stomach has fallen out. The news on Thursday lunchtime of a mine collapse not 5 miles from where I used to live made me truly feel sick, and by Friday evening, the news that all four miners that had been trapped had been found dead made the tragedy all the more worse. Unfortunately, unlike most people I feel two emotions when it comes to a calamity like this.
Mining in the area is probably 200 years old. It was one of the largest coal fields in the country, and although it was mostly exhausted, it now is dotted with small private mines. This does not mean however that safety should be skipped over any more than a mine with 1000 miners in it. Surely using old mine workings to get to the new face should ensure regular safety checks, new reinforcement and maybe even a new shaft in place. It was this old section of mine that collapsed. You'd think, after 200 years, we'd learned how to not go down a hole in the ground without loss of life, but apparently not. Meanwhile, 4 families, 3 of which are from Ystalyfera not 2 miles from my old home, are torn apart by their losses. Sadness and anger should not and do not mix well.
Meanwhile, elsewhere on the net, some presumably teenage thug without respect for anybody or anything decided to set up a group on facebook. "I'm really sad for those four miners. LOL j/k, they were Welsh" was set up so that people can comment on the disaster and make jokes about the Welsh, sheep, leeks and miners. Sick was not the word, and within minutes objections were being put forward to facebook bosses, Police and MPs. Sure enough, as of this morning, the site has been taken down. But, and here's the crux, the creator will probably get away scott free. What FB should do is trace any other accounts to do with the creator and disable them, then contact the email providers who them disable him or her from ever having another email address again, contact the ISP who close his or her account, and even make their mobile phones no longer work.
Well let's face it, if they can't use the internet respectfully, they shouldn't be using it at all.

On modern characters

2011-09-12T11:12:00.000+01:00

I got thinking. What would the characters of Asterix and Obelix be if they were in modern times?

Asterix the Gaul would be Asterix the Frenchman.
Obelix would be a white van man.
Getafix the druid would be a pharmacist.
Dogmatix would be a pitbull.
Chief Vitalstatistics would be the local politician.
Cacofonix would be a C list celebrity (probably appearing on Strictly Come Dancing)
Geriatrix would be living on his own, eating Kitekat.
Mrs. Geriatrix would be Anna Nicole Smith.
Psychoanalytix would be a shrink.
Unhygienix would be struggling to make a living from the North Sea fish quotas.
Fulliautomatix would have an account with Machine Mart.
Polytechnix would be a teacher.
Postaldistrix would be working for Fed Ex.
Justforkix would be an extreme sports specialist.

More on Birthday Wishes.

2011-09-05T12:09:00.002+01:00

He would have been 65 today. Google has celebrated the showman that was Freddie Mercury, and I have to share it with you.

On Ghastly Guffaws

2011-08-31T11:43:00.000+01:00

You know how it is. You watch something funny, but nowadays, the bulk of it isn't a) that funny or b) funny at all. You certainly do not break out into an uncontrollable laugh that can be heard for miles around. But, occasionally there is a moment of great writing, great acting, or (to adopt an Irish-ism) great craic as someone tells a story. Let me show you what I mean with the best writing, acting and story telling...

Of course, Only Fools and Horses has so many of these moments. I chose that one because it's one of the lesser remembered moments, apart from the fact Trigger refers to Rodney as Dave.
Then of course, you get a moment that is so out of the box that it's shocking. You watch with horror or disgust, and find yourself almost hysterical at the comedy. A lot of bad horror films did that to me in the 80s, and certainly you'll know what I mean if you watch any comedy spoofs like the Scary Movie range. But, they're not side-splittingly funny. The one that springs to my mind is a certain bloke off of Mock the Week and Outnumbered, talking about yoghurt.

And finally, there's my example involving 'Great Craic.' A few years ago, on a talk show, a guest had to tell the story about his first foray into comedy. It didn't go to plan, and to be honest, the story is ok. What makes you guffaw uncontrollably is the reaction of the other guests. Watch how John Cleese (a master of comedy if ever there was one) and Martin Clunes almost leave puddles as Lee Mack tells the story of how he got the sack from a holiday camp.
Enjoy. (Oh, and have a tissue or two ready to mop up spillages)

On birthday wishes

2011-08-17T11:16:00.002+01:00

Happy Birthday Dad, you old, old fart...

On lightning balls

2011-08-15T11:40:00.001+01:00

So there I was on Thursday evening, checking my email and bookface. TDT had gone to bed about 15 minutes earlier, and suddenly there was a powercut. Looking around, I thought something had tripped out the house (like you do) and was just spinning around to get up when the power came back on.
"Strange" I thought to myself. "Must've been a brief power..."
"CRAAAAAACCCCCKKKKKK!"
The whole house shook in what must have been one of the loudest noises ever. My first reaction was it was a plane crash (being this close to the Transatlantic emergency airport causes you to have these thoughts), but I realised pretty damn quickly it was thunder. I leapt up and went upstairs to check on TDT, who was just dozing. Amazingly, the rumble was still going on, and must have lasted well over 30 seconds. I went back downstairs, and was expecting to see more lightning. The neighbours were all outside, looking out for more themselves, but the rain was coming down in a huge torrent.
Now, here's the strange thing. There was no lightning before the thunder. This, coupled with the fact the thunder was so damn loud, makes me think it was ball lightning. This phenomenon can be a ball that moves through the sky, and as it's plasma container disintegrates, it can explode. This would cause a) a fuck off loud noise, and b) an electro-magnetic pulse which would knock out power. More proof of the EMP is sensitive equipment would be affected. My old PC, upstairs, no longer wants to fire up and the security light no longer wants to turn off in the porch. Even stranger, people that live outside the immediate area didn't even hear the thunder or see lightning. I know everyone in Ennis heard it, but I don't know how far it's effects were felt.
I kinda wish if it was ball lightning, I'd have seen it. Such a rare phenomenon (do-do-do-do-dooo) that a lot of people still deny exists.

On tilt-shifting

2011-08-10T10:39:00.002+01:00

If you're arty, and appreciate things that look different, then tilt-shifting is very clever. The idea is to make normal images look like models. There are loads of tutorials on how to do this on the internet, most require Photoshop or silly priced lenses, but you can also use some websites like this one, which allow you to upload a picture, and it then creates the image for you.
The system itself is simple enough, and actually only requires two steps. The first is to blur the image, but in varying levels. Split the image into quarter strips across the image. Make the top band the most blurred, the next one down half as blurred, the third band untouched, and the fourth band the same as the second (2-1-0-1). Photoshop has lens blur, but other software with blurring like Paintshop pro can use Gaussian Blur. You need to tweak the size of the blur according the the size of the image, but don't over do it. This gives the images an added perspective, making everything look like models.
The second step is to adjust the saturation. This is how much colour comes through, and basically makes the images more artificial. I find an increase of between 25 and 40% is best.
The effect, as you can see from the image above, is impressive. But, that's easypeasy, and what if you want to do more? Well, Australian Keith Loutit did just that, and came up with some most impressive videos. His best video, winning awards by the bucketload, was Bathtub IV from a few years ago.

Now, I can't possibly aspire to be even close to as good as him, but the technicalities of this system have always intrigued me. Basically, you have to reduce the original film to a series of images (about 10,500 in my 2 minute film) and tilt shift them. I also take every other frame, causing the stop motion like effect, and speeded it up by 500%. I wanted to know if I could do the same, and in one of those "you have to try, you have to try, you have to try" I finally came up with a subject. We live on the edge of the county town of Clare, a town called Ennis (sounds like a film...), and I just wanted to show some of the 'sights.' It's hardly thrilling viewing, but the effect of the tilt-shifting is priceless. The view of O' Connell Street is my favourite, coming out way better than I expected.
Oh, and before you ask, the music is by a musician I first heard of nearly 20 years ago, called Ed Alleyne-Johnson. It's based on Mad World, by Tears for Fears or Gary Jules, but is played on his patented 'electric violin.' His music is truly chilling, and if you get the chance, search for him on youtube. He has some wonderful covers of well known tracks, and also some inspired covers of heavy metal tracks.
Back to my video anyway. Enjoy.

On Pubs

2011-08-05T10:49:00.000+01:00

Just a lazy post for some Friday fun.

This is a little pub in a sleepy village in Hertfordshire called Erbum. Unfortunately the village isn't on a postal district, so it has to come under the larger nearby town of Tillet's umbrella. It was recently taken over by a new landlord and landlady, Ron and Linda Lykes.
The Postman gets much entertainment each day he delivers there. The full address is...
Linda Lykes
The Cock Inn
Erbum
Tillet
Herts.
I thankyou. Have a good weekend.

On Dragon's Den

2011-08-03T12:31:00.000+01:00

For those that haven't seen this show, it's basically a talent show for nerds. You have 5 'dragons', the monetary equivalent of Simon Cowell or Sharon Osbourne, and members of the public come on and show their talent for something innovative. The prize isn't a recording contract, just the money they ask for, and all for a share of the business.
The fact is, some of these "auditionees" come on with what they would deem a good idea. The rest of us would deem them "shit." The two surf dudes who came on with a beach towel printed to look like a surf board, and claimed it was a serious surfing aid were case and point. First of all, how many surfers are there? How many are learning to get onto their board? How many are going to put what they learn into practice? And he wanted 'faaasan's" to help make these towels. The Dragons, understandably, laughed at him, the towels, and the general stupidity of it.
Some have gone on to be successful. The guy who pitched an egg boiler. "You put your egg in," he'd say, "and set the timer." It then didn't work. So he showed them the back up. That also broke. He returned to the first one, which again failed. But, amazingly, he got an investment. The next day he was on Breakfast TV, where the machine again didn't work. Is it any wonder I haven't seen them on the shelves yet?
And on to this week's video. The most successful pitch was a simple pitch. A Jamaican music producing Rastafarian took his mother's recipe for a sauce, spiced it up a bit, and spent the last 15 years selling it at the Notting Hill Carnival. He had orders, but not as many as he thought. He was only asking £50,000, and he gets it. He's now a millionaire, with bottles of the stuff in every supermarket, deals with Birds eye for a frozen chicken chargrill, Sub-way, Wetherspoons (the pub chain for the discerning chav), a few other pub chains, and even Domino's Pizza. He even has peanuts, something he's no longer earning.
Presenting, the charismatic genius that is Levi Roots.

Levi Roots on Dragon's Den

On surprise visits

2011-07-26T12:30:00.000+01:00

TDT had emailed me. Her friend had moved to Germany about a year and a half ago, and had emailed her about coming to visit. So, operation tidy house swung into action. By Friday morning, everything was set for her arrival at lunchtime into the airport. That morning TDT's car decided to play it's trick of having a dodgy accelerator, so we'd spent a couple of hours getting it fixed. Midway through, my mate Martin phoned up.
"My Gran's PC is playing up. Can I call you when I'm there to sort it?"
"Sure, no probs. I'll be in later. Give me a call."
And off we went to the land of Ryanair and Aerlingus. The plane had landed successfully, and as I stood there, I scanned each and every girl with dark hair's face to see if it was TDT's friend. After 20 minutes, I became aware of someone else looking at me.
"Strange," said my brain, "that looks like Martin. Looking at you. And TDT's staring at you as well. And Martin's grinning. Hang on... It is Martin!"
She'd decided to surprise me. I even had to ask if her friend really was coming over (I know, stupid really), but it was all a ploy. Martin was over until Monday, and we were going to have some fun. I, meanwhile, needed a drink. We headed down to one of my favourite pubs, in the next town down. Still shaking, I went to the bar with Martin.
"I have to warn you," I said, "brace yourself for impressive prices."
We ordered two pints, and a bottle of WKD (West Kerry Diesel) Blue. In the UK most pubs would cost between £2-£3 a pint, and maybe a couple of pounds for the WKD Blue. Basically, it should have been about £8 at most. The barmaid returned with our drinks.
"I'll get this," said Martin, offering up a €10 note.
"No, I think I should get the first one." I said, knowingly.
"That'll be €13.90 please" said the barmaid.
"*thud*" said Martin.
We headed home after a couple of drinks, and set up a plan of attack. We had to get a few supplies for dinner, so went to the local shop. Whilst there, again, Martin was knocked sideways.
"I need fags," he said. "how much are 20 Lambert and Butler?"
The girl on the till scans a pack. "€7.75" she exclaims
"How fuckin' much???" he screams. "I better get 40 then."
What he didn't know is that in Ireland cigarettes are the same price everywhere. Pubs, corner shops and supermarkets all charge the same price, unlike the UK where you can pay a lot more in one place compared to another.
That evening, we headed to the Magpie. A few people were there, but it was a quiet night. By midnight we'd broken out the cocktails. Lucky charm (I think it was, I'm sure I'll be corrected if not), was a thick green liquor. TDT compared it to drinking seaweed, but it wasn't that bad at all. Then Tasha (the barmaid) gave me and Martin an Erection. Jagermeister and Aftershock, again, it wasn't bad. Baby guinnesses were also dished out, but my aversion to coffee meant I had to skip it. So, I treated them to a knockback, a drink I haven't had for nearly 20 years. Malibu and southern comfort, it supposedly multiplies what you drink by 2, so you can get very drunk, very quickly. Martin sniffed it, and passed. TDT downed it, and promptly relegated it to the nearest toilet. Charlotte, our neighbour, had two. We all agreed we'd lay off the shots and returned to our slightly boring but reliable tipples. Meanwhile, Martin had started singing (!). We eventually left the wrong side of 3:30 with everyone and came home for a game or two of Buzz (which I won...). TDT fell asleep in the chair (again), Martin passed out (the poor sod had been up over 24 hours), I went to bed, and TDT finally joined me just before 12 noon.
The next day we went to see Father Ted's house (pictures to follow), and did a few other places locally. But, being shattered, we returned home and relaxed before going out a second night in a row. No shots this time, it was a pleasant evening, and we sat out until gone 1am in the beer garden, just having a hoot with stories of mirth and woe, and Martin mooning everyone to show his new tattoos. Again, he started singing. I have to say, this time was a lot murkier in my memory. I was actually quite drunk, and found myself joining in with him at one point, something that's never happened before(!). Again we left the wrong side of half 3 (TDT always insists on being the last out), and again returned home to games of Buzz (which I also won...). I retired about 4.30-5ish, apparently they finished about 6:30.
Rising fairly early (about 11ish) we agreed we'd take Martin for lunch in a pub I took my father when he was over, and then to the Cliffs of Moher. We had a pleasant lunch and headed up the coast, stopping en route to get a pic of Martin on the edge of the Atlantic. As we ascended the hill up to the Cliffs, the low cloud cover came down. Suddenly, we couldn't see Jack shit, Jill shit, Noe shit or any of the Shit-Happens family. There wasn't any point in us paying through the nose to see fog, so we just kept going. We eventually stopped in Lisdoonvarna (home of the matchmaking festival in September), and got souvenirs, before heading home.
That evening, surprise surprise, we went to the pub. Again, we drank too much (OLM, only €3 a pint, result!), but being a Sunday evening, it was early closing. We left just after 2:30.
Martin's flight home was at 10am, so we had to be up about 8. I got up at 7:30, and after unsuccessfully rising TDT at 8, 8:10, 8:20, 8:30, and at 8:35 (now with added "fuck off"), we left her to sleep and headed down to the airport.
The weekend was a roaring success. Both TDT and I have agreed to go Teetotal. We both have the DTs, our body clocks are screwed and Martin's not been heard from since. I have to go now. I have to sort out the kitchen, get rid of 30+ bottles, do the washing up, find the cat, replace the fridge door and fix the tap.

On deactivating cats.

2011-07-21T10:38:00.001+01:00

Someone added this video to facebook

It's quite well known that the scruff of the neck on a cat is where the mother carries her young. It's not got many nerve endings, and evolution has said that if a cat is picked up by there, they should become passive and unresponsive. As you can see on the video, it works. But, and here's the thing, does it work with all cats? Marianne (of Green eggs and ham blog) had a bulldog clip to try it to find out.

Apparently this is Reggie. Not sure that posture's too normal.

And this is Basil, which looks like a more normal position. Thanks to Marianne for the pics by the way. Watch this space however, for Shallot's reaction (or at least pics of the scratches from trying).

On foreign driving licences

2011-07-14T13:47:00.000+01:00

And so, I finally sent my driving licence back to the boys in Swansea with a change of address. I have been reliably informed I didn't have to do this for 12 months, and so 10 months was plenty of time for them to process the change. Sure enough, the licence came back within a week, but not quite in the way I'd planned.
"Sorry Mr. Aitch. The DVLA is unable to change your address to a new address outside the UK. You can, however, continue to drive there with your old UK address on the licence."
W, T and indeed F? So, basically, I can go speeding over here. When Mr William (Old Bill) pulls me over and asks for my address I can give my now defunct address in Wales. They will send the fine to that address, and because I haven't received it, I won't have to pay it. This means the fine will go unpaid, a black mark will be put against my name, and the next time I get stopped I'll get arrested for non-payment of fines. Alternatively, when I first get stopped for speeding, Mr William will not be happy with my true identity, and will arrest me to prove I am who I say I am. Basically, both ending me up in clink. This is not good. So, what should I do? Well, the first option is to carry the letter with my now address on it, and written in black and white it says I am able to continue to drive without changing the address. The second option is to pay €10 and get my licence transferred over to the Irish system. This sounds great, but my concern is having a medical licence, will I get a new Irish one? There is one easy solution I feel, and I would be more than happy to comply with it. Why not have a counterpart, much like the paper licence people have in the UK, but it has my UK driver ID/number, and my Irish address. This could be issued by the licence issuing authority, and be verified by the same office. The Police would have no questions, the ID would be good for other purposes (Age verification, bank account opening, that sort of thing), and it might cost a few Euro per person. Apparently other countries in the EU don't even have their addresses on their licences, so this would maybe also stop what has to be a loophole in the system, and is open to abuse?
I'll be the one in the nick, with the charge of non-payment of fines, and the big burly Irishman calling me his "biatch."

On Shitty Sat Navs

2011-07-11T09:41:00.001+01:00

My neighbour knocked at the door. Asking my advice, his Sat Nav had an error message which was self explanatory.
"Your speed-trap db file is out of date. Please update your subscription."
Easy peasy, or so I thought. The usual process for this is plug in the sat nav, google the unit, find the maps or updater, install and Robert's your father's brother.
First of all, the easy bit. I plug it in.
"Windows doesn't recognise your device."
Bugger. I google the unit anyway, in the hope of finding the driver. I find only one website with the correct file, but it downloads a bit, then stops. I google more on the unit, and get nothing. Nada. Zip. So, I take a different line of attack, and google the USB Identification. This tells me it's just a chip that allows USB file transfer. Great, I just need to find a driver. I find a cable called the EZ-Link is based on this chipset, so I just have to download the driver for that. The last time the EZ-Link had software was back in 2003, and the software link no longer worked. I'd hit a wall.
Eventually, I went on the official Shinco website, and found I could register it to get software. The information they wanted to know was truly staggering. They wanted 3 phone numbers, my address, where I got the unit, where I'd mostly be using it, my email, website and fax numbers, inside leg measurement and mother's maiden name (*may contain lie). I had no choice however, and finally got a driver that worked. I could talk to the device using Microsoft's wonderful communication software, Activesync. And what did I find in the unit? Nothing. Again, it was completely empty, and I couldn't find a map or anything to allow an update. I did find some software for updating the unit, but it would just crash. It also requested the 11digit serial number to work, so I typed in the 14 digit serial number on the back. This caused more errors. I shortened the serial to the required length, and then it worked. I managed to get it to talk to the unit, and it updated. Sure enough, the error message had gone. There I was, stood outside at 2am this morning, waiting for it to pick up satellites so I could verify it wouldn't complain. It didn't. Job done.
The whole point of this post is it took me 5 hours. Shinco, the hardware manufacturer, don't want to know. Destinator, the software manufacturer, also don't want to know. Technology Driven Solutions (TDS) have the software here, but it doesn't work, stopping all the time in downloads. Like I said, the only source was to register with this company, and then I found what I was looking for. The software has now been packaged up and is available here.
So, if you're a poor sap with a Shinco GM-350S-EU sat nav, and you're googling how to update this piece of crap, then the link should help. Alternatively, accidentally drop it under a truck, and claim on your house insurance. Then buy a unit that works.

On rock concerts

2011-07-01T12:31:00.000+01:00

TDT got her hands on a couple of tickets for Bon Jovi. This meant a few firsts would be applied. It meant I would get to see Dublin for the first time. It also meant I would get to go with TDT to a concert for the first time. We drove up on Wednesday afternoon, taking 3 hours to get there. We were booked into a sort of backpacker's hostel, which was cheap and not very cheerful. The room was possibly the most sparse room we'd ever seen, containing a bed, a wardrobe and a TV. Not even a chair or table to be seen, and the bathroom was devoid of soap and towels. But, like I said, it was cheap and it was a place to lay our weary Bon Jovi filled heads after the concert. We left within an hour of arriving, and jumped in a taxi to the venue, the Royal (?) Dublin Society, or RDS for short. Across the road was a pub, heaving with black t-shirt and jeans clad fans, where we had a pint or two, a bite to eat (deep fried sausages and chips. Yum). We'd also met up with TDT's colleague and her hubby, so we sat and chatted for a short while before heading into the venue.

View Larger Map
As you can see, the venue itself is huge. Loads of buildings, all based around a large stadium (at the bottom) where we were joined on the pitch by some several thousand (about 45,000 to be exact) as the man himself started to play.
It is at this point I have to point something out. I avoid concerts for one simple reason. There's nothing worse then paying a large fee for the chance to go along and see a tiny person, miles away, play their latest album and then leave. This is unfortunately what most 'artistes' do today, and it really turns me off the concert experience. TDT will argue that hardcore music fans will want to do this. My argument is, if all they want to do is listen to the latest album, join in singing with other fans, and look at a screen with their favourite band on it, then why not just hire a church hall. It'll be a lot cheaper. Fortunately, Bon Jovi break the rules and do entertain the fans.

I don't know what song this was. To be honest, more than half the songs played I'd never heard before. The other half were identifiable, but I don't know the words, so I couldn't join in. The other problem I felt had *really* dampened our spirits was the small minority who insisted on walking around the pitch. This meant that you were constantly getting bumped into, pushed, shoved and apologised to. I could feel TDT's blood pressure increasing as another brainless pisshead bumped into her shoulder and knocked her off balance. I though if I stood behind her it might stop. I was wrong. They carried on all night, for the entire 3 hours we were stood there, and we couldn't move out of the way enough. We just seemed to be on the edge of an unmarked motorway for walkers to use, rather than stand and listen to the music like other normal people. After that 3 hours (and including the couple of hours before the concert, totalling 5 hours ish), our little tootsies were more than throbbing. I was doing my best stork impression, shifting from one foot to the other, TDT was leaning against a fence complaining of burning calf muscles. As the evening drew to a close, the obviously emotional Jon Bon Jovi was revelling in the adoration of his fans. He'd turn up the main stage lights, lighting all 45,000 fans in front of him, and the roar of the crowd would be heard in most of Western Europe. He'd then do another song, and as he finished, he'd do the same again. Again, another roar. Again, another stunned looking singer. Again, the band would watch in disbelief at the reaction.
Eventually, and close to 11pm and the point where he'd get fined if he continued to play, the inevitable biggest hit was due. Livin' on a Prayer has a long drawn out intro, and it's not until about a minute in before he'd start to sing. This had me perplexed as to how he could introduce it, so in a moment of adoration and load cheering, he just sang "woooo-ow, livin' on a prayer" and possibly the loudest roar of the night went up. I grabbed the camera, and took what I could. The volume really isn't shown, but you can imagine how loud it would normally have been when he was singing, and you'll note how you can't hear him at all, just the crowd. Highlight was not the word.

He finished, and unwillingly took his bows with the band, before leaving the stage within what must have been seconds off the hour of 11. We fought our way out of the stadium fairly quickly, and walked down a residential street back towards the centre of town. After 10 minutes of slightly laboured walking, I noticed what was a main road but not many people on it, and we decided that the chances of getting a taxi were a lot better down there then the main road which was barely moving. Not a 100 yards up the road and a taxi appeared with his light on. Talk about lucky! The guy inside was dead friendly, and did everything he could to get us across town and back home as quickly as possible (by his own admission, to get back to the RDS). We took a walk around to get cigarettes and a bite to eat, before retiring worn out.
Now I have the taste for it, I want to go and see someone I might know. I know I might be disappointed, but I can but try. First on my list is Peter Gabriel, who's concerts I have seen on TV and he is a showman, making each song have a visual story along with the music and lyrics.
Oh, and no, my hearing hasn't fully recovered. Pardon?

On coronaries. Bring Pies.

2011-06-27T12:30:00.000+01:00

Saturday saw TDT and I heading back to the land in the middle of nowhere. Not even sheep this time, it's like the land that time forgot. Our graceful hosts welcomed us with open arms as usual, and an afternoon of much chat, tales of woe and swapping of recipes between myself and the most excellent Des. One recipe he recommended needed further investigation. He said it was based on "Man Pie," a dish I (and the Internet) haven't seen before. He had however tweaked it, and now called it Paddy Pie. So, we stopped on the way home and picked up the required ingredients for Paddy Pie, and yesterday morning I made it. The recipe is simple enough.

Paddy Pie. Now with added heart attack.

Puff Pastry. I cheated and got two rolls from Tesco of the ready made stuff.
4 x Sausages, ideally good high content pork ones, but the cheap nasty ones will do.
4 rashers of rindless bacon
1 onion (This is optional, Dad.)
Tomato
Mushroom (either or both can be missed out if need be)
Eggs. Lots and lots of eggs. (Mine required 8 eggs and an additional for brushing the pastry)

Method.

Get hangover. This is true hangover food.
Cook the sausages and bacon to how you'd normally like them. In my case, cremated. In TDT's case, raw and rubbery.
Line a greased deep 8" pie dish with the pastry. Don't prick it, you don't need to.
Put in the sausages and bacon, trying to lay it out evenly.
Slices of tomato and mushroom to be distributed as needed.
A nice layer of onion. I just cut the onion into 8 slices.
Now the techy bit. Break the eggs into a cup/ramekin, then gently pour it into the pie gaps. Do this until all the gaps are filled. Obviously, this depends on the size of the bacon, sausages and other things.
Cover over with the top of puff pastry. Again, do not prick.
Place in oven at 200c or 400f for 45 minutes(ish)
Take out of the oven and eat a lot less then you'd think you can. It's surprisingly filling. Fruity Sauce is a must!
Call ambulance for suspected coronary.

On crime and punishment.

2011-06-23T14:44:00.000+01:00

It is with interest I read about another homeowner stabbing an intruder. Harking back to the days of Tony Martin, the farmer from Norfolk who 12 years ago shot a chav in the back as he was legging it out of Tony's house after being discovered. Poor Tony had been subjected to repeated burglaries, presumably by the same miscreants, up to 10 times, and had finally snapped when he heard more noises from downstairs. Grabbing his illegally held shotgun, he loaded it, walked to the top of the stairs, and fired upon the two shadows now clambering out of the window in panic. The younger member died from shots to his back (lucky him), but the older chav escaped and proceeded to claim for "loss of earnings" (!). Photos later showed him cycling and climbing, and the case was thrown out. Meanwhile, the innocent farmer who was protecting his property after the Police refused to help was released after 3 years.
I have to admit, if I caught someone in the house in the dead of the night, they wouldn't walk out. I'm not coming across as machismo, I just would like to think that if I called the Gardai, they wouldn't get here until next March, and I can't see me holding onto the perpetrator until then. I would also put across my point that maybe our house wasn't the best house to invade. After I'd delivered my justice, I'd take them to somewhere secluded and leave them, naked, and unable to find their way home.
That way I would give them a sporting chance to get help.

On freaky, trippy, drug taken cartoons

2011-06-15T14:19:00.000+01:00

TDT had a link on her bookface, telling her to watch this cartoon. We sat there, mesmerised at the bad quality, scary voices, awful story line and creepiness of it all. But, and more worryingly, we watched it until the end through our fingers, with mouths open and aghast.

The funny thing is, I posted this to bookface myself, and one of the quietest girls in my old neighbourhood when I was a kid commented on it. I'm guessing everyone else was as horrified as us, but she said "watch the episode friends."
In fact we were so horrified, we did. And this really is taking the now established boat that is the first episode, and pushing it out waaaaa-aaaay beyond any realms of normality. Obviously we then have to pass it on to you, and watch with glee as you get as freaked out as we did.
Enjoy.

On I.B.S. Libs

2011-06-13T12:15:00.000+01:00

Irritable bowel syndrome is a nightmare. I've had it on and off for about 17 years, and I thought I should share it with you all.
So there you are, sat watching a film. Mr Invisible, with his new steel toe capped boots, comes along and boots you in your gonads so hard you can barely breathe. The pressure from it has pushed your entire lower bowel into a pocket in your pelvis about the size of a thimble. Your balls also try to retract into the same space, and basically something has to give. It's at this point I mention it to TDT.
"OOOh, spasm," is the normal comment. This is followed by a mad rush to the toilet, to relieve the pressure on the now incredibly compacted bowel. I'll save you the displeasure of what happens in the toilet, but needless to say, it has on occasion taken an hour for me to return from Thomas Crapper's most famous invention.
There are lots of theories as to what can be done. The general (and wrong) consensus is that lots of fibre is a good thing. If you eat lots of stuff to make you shit, then the shit will flow through quicker, and the bowel doesn't have the opportunity to be irritated. The reality is the already irritated bowel now has loads more to push through, meaning the explosion in the bathroom is not only disastrous (small mushroom clouds have been seen above the west coast of Ireland following Bran Flakes), the bowel actually hurts for hours afterwards. Other things known to make me use the brown laser include fizzy drinks (we suspect), alcohol (no comment) and apparently large meals can also cause problems. So, basically, I'm doing myself no favours, yes I know. So I've recently taken to taking peppermint oil capsules ("Culpermin") which are supposed to stop Mr Invisible with the big heavy steel toe-capped boots picking on my baby makers, and it would appear to work. I also take some anti-diarrhoea tablets, that have the added effect of bunging me up. This causes TDT much displeasure, because as my lower bowel now wishes to pass a turd the size of a small nuclear submarine, the air tanks let rip with the usual trumpetting. This is followed by the usual conversation of
*flubble*
"sorry"
"But you're not! You pushed!"
"Snigger."
Eventually the phase of pain passes, and I get a week of no pain and regular patterns. I dunno about Cancer research, I do know I wish they'd find a cure for IBS. I'm fed up of it, and so's TDT. And judging by Shallot clawing at the door on the bad days, so's he.

More on Facial Recognition

2011-06-08T12:45:00.000+01:00

First of all, here are the answers to the facial recognition from weeks ago!

Image 1.The Two Ronnies.Well done, Alice.

Image 2. Ant and Dec. Alice got the points again.

Image 3. Posh and Becks. I think it's the first time my father got one!

Image 4. Foster and Allen. For the Irish contingent... Pays to get in there first Alice, doesn't it?

Image 5. Fry and Laurie. Yes, he was funny. No, he wasn't just in House and Stuart Little. Well done Debster.

Image 6. French and Saunders.

Image 7. Little and Large. Debster got there again.

Image 8. Too hard, apparently. Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, anyone?

Image 9. Punt and Dennis. Alice got it again.

Image 10. I was right about no one getting this. Daryl Hall and John Oates. Go on, hate me.

I'll be back tomorrow with a new quiz, all about rhyming slang.

On Fuel Crises

2011-06-03T10:56:00.000+01:00

Poor Chemo has been unwell. I noticed when my Dad was over the car spluttered a couple of times. I put this down to the spark plugs being old, and the car needing a good service. Then, 2 weeks ago, TDT, MILTB and I went to Limerick on the Sunday morning. At about 80 mph, and on the motorway, suddenly the "check engine" light came on and the car promptly died. I limped it for a couple of miles, but it had all the symptoms of running out of fuel. The gauge said I had 100km of fuel left, but even I know you can't trust it. So, Ianymeany came down with a can and we got more fuel. Sure enough, it didn't make any difference, and we got a tow all the way home. A few hours later and it was all working again, but again a little bit spluttery. I got more spark plugs the following day and changed them, and all seemed ok. Then on Monday I had to go to the next town down, the thriving metropolis that is Shannon. On the way home it did the same again, "check engine", no fuel, generally poorly. This time I red lined it at 6500RPM and second gear, and just got it home. The next morning however and I couldn't even pull out of a parking spot without it stalling, so I took the putput to a few garages and got a guy who said he'd have a look. After getting a tow, the car was left at the hands of Ross, my new found friend. 2 hours later and he phoned with a diagnosis, and it was grim.
Poor Chemo had been poisoned. He'd had some sort of petrol that had turned to jelly, and the pump was chewing chunks off which were getting sent to the injectors. And the really strange thing was the more fuel I added, that also was jellified. So, there was only one choice. He emptied the tank, cleaned it out, and overhauled the pump, cleaning that as well. Then he put a tenner's worth back in, and that seemed to fix it. He advised me to get fuel cleaner, so I have it in the tank as we speak and Poor ill Chemo is now running a lot better.
Meanwhile, TDT and I sat and worked out where it would have come from. When my father was over I'd got fuel from a garage in Limerick, literally a couple of days before my first splutter. I normally get fuel from the same garage, and seeing as it's the nearest, if it was from there you can be sure some of the locals would have also had problems. So I can only assume it was the garage in Limerick. Unfortunately, in this day and age, it's very difficult to prove. I wonder if I would have had the same problem if I had a diesel...

On huggy kittehz

2011-06-01T12:02:00.000+01:00

Take one kitten, dreaming and zedding away, and a mother's securing hug...
You are not allowed to say "Ahhhh" in a really cutesy patronising way.
Enjoy.

On making videos

2011-05-25T13:01:00.001+01:00

TDT had a task for me.
"Can you make a powerpoint presentation for Gerry's leaving do?"
"I can do better than that. Just get me some titles, and loads of photos, and I'll make something a lot better than a sniffy old powerpoint presentation."
I did that thing. Taking over 50 hours, and listening to hundreds of songs and lyrics, I came up with a plan. Gerry was retiring, and was well liked within the company. He'd been the head of the union within the company until TDT took over, and had a no-nonsense attitude towards management. I wanted to portray all of this in a video, and wanted to make it about 15 minutes long.
Here, for your delectation, is the result. I know you won't know him, but still, have the tissues at the ready.
Enjoy.

On Birthdays

2011-05-23T12:00:00.000+01:00

It's strange isn't it. My mother was one of those people who shares who birthday with loads of other people. In fact, in my life I have known a good dozen or so people with birthdays on November the 14th, my mother being one of them. Prince Charles is another. One of my best friends in primary school was another culprit, along with our cub scout leader. Oh, and my ex's father. And my aunt (but that'll be because my mother is a twin). You get the picture. 9 months before November the 14th must be a very busy night in beds around the world. Oh, hang on, the 11th month take away 9, the second month. Aha! February 14th, it's all become clear.
Then there's today. May the 23rd. Today I have a large list of events on facebook, but I remember it as Cynthia's birthday (she would have been 41 today). It was also the day I left school, some 23 years ago(!). But, according to facebook, it's also my cousin's husband's birthday. 2 of TDT's friends, Sinead and Gretta are celebrating. A friend from secondary school, Mervyn, is also another victim, but I seem to remember vaguely him having his birthday on leaving day, so it's not surprising. And finally a friend back in Southend is breaking out the champagne. So, what happened 9 months before? August 23rd anyone? I'm guessing, parents to be are on holiday, and are enjoying the three s's, sun, sea and sex.
I can see tomorrow everything returning to normal, with maybe 1 or 2 birthdays. Isn't it strange how we get bursts of birthdays?

On Old Ladies

2011-05-20T10:37:00.001+01:00

Taken from a newspaper in Sarasota, Florida.
An elderly lady did her shopping and, upon returning to her car, found four males in the act of leaving with her vehicle.
She dropped her shopping bags and drew her handgun, proceeding to scream at the top of her lungs, "I HAVE A GUN, AND I KNOW HOW TO USE IT! GET OUT OF THE CAR!"
The four men didn't need to wait for the second threat, and got out and ran for it.
The lady, somewhat shaken up, then proceeded to load her shopping bags into the back seat, and got into the front. She was so shaken up in fact, she couldn't get her key into the ignition. She tried and tried, and then she realised why. It was the same reason she wondered why there was a football, a frisbee and two 12 packs of beer in the front footwell.
A few minutes later, she found her own car, parked four or five spaces down.
She loaded her shopping into her own car and then drove to a local police station to report her mistake. The sergeant on the front desk was inconsolable with laughter. Pointing to the other end of the counter, she saw four pale men, who were reporting a car jacking by a mad, elderly woman described as white, less than five feet tall, glasses, curly white hair, and carrying a large handgun.
No charges were filed.

Have a good weekend y'all

On facial recognition

2011-05-17T12:22:00.000+01:00

Hehe, so I have a plan for a new quiz for you all. Below you'll see 10 images. They're well known duos, and I've been photoshopping them. I've taken the head of one, and pasted the face of the other into it. See if you can guess who the duos are...

Image 1. Easy Peasy...

Image 2. The kings of Saturday night TV

Image 3. Slightly disturbing. He has been known to wear her clothes or make up.

Image 4. No really, I have changed this one.

Image 5. Ok, so this is really starting to get hard.

Image 6. This looks quite normal.

Image 7. The former kings of Saturday night.

Image 8. Let's not make a song and dance about it.

Image 9. Now I think this is hard, and I made it!

Image 10. I don't think anyone will get this.

Answers as normal in the comments. Good Luck.

On seeing a lot of Ireland

2011-05-12T11:58:00.000+01:00

So, my father finally gets the opportunity to visit us over here for the first time. TDT had to unfortunately have to go on a course for work in Dublin, so he'd only have to put up with me for a few days. I devised a plan. One day I would take him to the Atlantic coast, and show him some of the more touristy places. First of all was the obvious Cliffs of Moher, with their 700ft cliffs looking out towards the USA. It was windy, probably gusting 40mph, and the air was crisp(!). It is a tourist haven, and the tourism board wanted to cash in on it. So much so, to park was €6 each, not the car, but the number of people in it! My Dad was of the opinion "stuff it," but I insisted. It was worth it.

As you can see, the sun was out. It was the only reason people weren't turning to stone with the sheer cold.
We returned to the car and then headed south, along the coast road down to Lahinch, a small seaside town. We had the main aim of getting some nice lunch, and TDT's recommendation of a small Irish pub was bang on. The staff were chatty, the decor was interesting, and the food and beer (Pauliner, yum!) were both devine. We eventually left just after 2, for the long and windy road to Loop Head, the south western most tip of County Clare, and where the River Shannon meets the Atlantic. On the way we came across a small village called Cross. How could we not take advantage of the opportunity?

Returning to the car, we continued on to our ultimate destination. It was also windy there, but more worryingly, we could now walk to the edge of the cliff and look down. We did, and then we recoiled in terror.

It was steep. It was high. It was positively terrifying. We left and went to a pub instead, which bragged "the last pub before New York." Finally we returned home, and had been on the road for 7 hours. You can see the entire route here. I will recommend it, but be ready for a lot of potholed and bumpy roads, especially after Kilkee.
Then, yesterday, we decided to go on a lot shorter journey, inland to Lough Derg. It's a large lake, on the River Shannon, and proclaims itself "Ireland's pleasure lake." It would have been, if we could drive along the side of it. It has a loop road around it, but most of the time you can be two or three miles away from the water's edge. The highlight was a viewpoint near the bottom of the lake, with a wonderful view. I have taken enough images to make a wide angled panorama, but I need to make it, so here's one of those images.

We returned in the gorgeous sunshine to a town called Ballina, overlooking the now narrower River at the bottom of the lake, and had a lovely lunch, before again returning home. Ironically, look at this route on the map (here) and it looks a lot shorter. My father's days of driving hundreds of miles have long gone, so I thought this was a nice short drive and let him volunteer to drive. Incredibly, it's nearly the same distance, both totalling about 200km (or 125 miles in old money). He looked positively worn out by the time we got home.
He'll be on the plane home as I type this. The last time I saw him was in January 2010, 16 months ago. I have to admit I do miss him when I don't see him. Years of not seeing him for months on end has meant that I don't let it get to me, but when we do part, it is upsetting. Last time he saw me, I was with TDT for 5 months, John was with me, and I lived in Wales. Now, I'm engaged, John's living with his Mum, and I'm in Ireland and unemployed. How life has changed. Maybe next time I'll be a millionaire, it might be in Florida we meet, or there might be world peace. We can live in hope.

On Sparrows

2011-05-06T10:19:00.000+01:00

Hmmm, interesting one this...
We have a problem with birds. No, not women from Essex, but try birds, feathered, of the Passeridae variety. Namely, sparrows. The problem is they have a repeat nesting site, something that is handed down in knowledge from mummy sparrow to baby sparrow, and they return to the same place year after year after year. And this particular family's nesting site is our porch. Last year I removed the old nest, in the hope it would stop their return. It didn't, and they're back. In fact, they're rebuilding the nest as we speak, by ingeniously sticking mud to the wall and then poking small sticks into the mud. A few people gave advice, and one of the more common ones was "spray the wall with cillit bang. They don't like the smell." They don't seem to mind it in fact.
Then I started to read up about them yesterday. First of all, remember where they spend their winter. Yes, Africa. They then fly back 'faaasands' of miles to the same place. So, how can I remove them??? And more importantly, they're listed as a black nester. In other words, it's actually illegal for me to interfere with the nest. So, I broke the news to TDT last night. The bad news for TDT is she's terrified of birds (one too many films involving Alfred Hitchcock and Tippi Hedren I suspect), and so each time you leave the house you get two swallows dive bombing at you, in protest to you invading their (!) space. Still, it'll only be a couple of months. I can then remove the next again, and next year I'll put some fine chicken wire up into the porch to discourage them. I'm sure they'll find somewhere else. We have loads of trees around here.
So why do I still feel guilty?

On guitar hero heroes

2011-05-04T11:41:00.001+01:00

The novelty factor of games is a good thing. The home entertainment system had become reliant on people being able to press 12 buttons at once, in the right order, with only 10 fingers. Admittedly, over the years, other steps have been taken. I remember a light pen by Maplin, in the form of a kit. It required an empty bic biro as the housing, but would work with both the Spectrum, Commodore 64 and Amstrad. Did it take off for gaming? What do you think. There was a mouse, which was a slightly different direction, and the joystick was still a mainstay, but things had to change. Nintendo released a light gun, which with games like Duck Hunt meant you could shoot your targets. It was also easy just to walk up to the screen, and shoot at point blank range. The advent of the Wii saw motion capture and 3D control, and this was the start of a revolution. Sony, crapping themselves by the release of this groundbreaking technology, had to do something, and quickly. So, they released Guitar Hero, with real (but slightly smaller) guitar. It has a bit you pluck, and 5 buttons on the neck to simulate the strings, and a whammy bar so you can do your best Hendrix impressions. Inside it also has a mercury switch, so it can tell the direction of the guitar. This means that anybody can become a budding Slash or Sting, just by playing along to their favourite rock tracks.
I say anybody. I, erm, can't. I'm crap on a whole new level of crap, having the dexterity of a concrete block and the clumsiness to boot. TDT isn't much better, but she knew the tracks which helped, and so she was enjoying playing along. And then along came Ianymeany. The conversation was simple enough.
"We have this great new game you'd like. It has music by ACDC and everything" said TDT.
"What do you do?" asked Iany.
"Well, you play the guitar. You get to join in, and follow the notes on the screen." said I.
"Maybe I'll pop up later" said Iany, rather unenthusiastically.
He came up. The first track he played, he completed with 91% of notes. The second track was 96%. He then set about, playing each and every track. After about 20 songs (and 6 hours), he started to struggle. TDT and I were mumbling under our breath. And that leads me to this week's video. 3 hours in, and we were sat there, like rabbits in headlights, completely gobsmacked at his natural ability. So, here he is. Note the relaxed posture. The fag in the mouth, the barely moving, the unflappability. He makes us sick. No, really, he does. (We're not jealous or anything)
Enjoy.

On advertising that doesn't work.

2011-04-28T08:09:00.000+01:00

Ireland has a rather irritating problem. We get Sky, that overpriced, over subscribed, over advertised network that gives you 600 channels that you don't want, need or most importantly, watch. Most of the channels are the UK ones, and one of the better ones is the BBC's selection. The problem is that every single programme is advertised as being "available to watch again on BBCi Player."
No it isn't. I click on it and I get told "Not available in your area." Well why are you advertising it then? The problem is, a simple trace of my IP address says I'm in Ireland. Well, I am, so it isn't that surprising really. What I need to do is to change my IP address. We all know it's easy to do, according to films with hackers who change it 10 times in a row. The reality isn't so straight forward. I had an IP Changer, and it did what I wanted, albeit slowly. I could email from a server anywhere in the world, and to most people it was the case that I was in Russia or whatever. But it was just too damn slow for iPlayer, so I did some research. I came across a program called "Expat Shield" which claims to do what's needed. I ran it, and sure enough, I could watch iPlayer. It's free, but it does come with some pretty annoying 'additions'. It tries to change your home page to search.conduit, a really difficult website that downloads all sorts of nasties, so make sure you don't allow it to. It also tries to install some malware, so just make sure you untick it in the installation program. And finally, it installs an add-on called the Anchorfree tool bar. Again, malware, make sure this is disabled (not uninstalled, or it doesn't work any more). When it's installed, you have a tiny red shield in the system tray. Right clicking, you can enable it. Then it'll open your browser, and you can go to iPlayer and it'll work. It does have an advert at the top of the screen, but this can be closed. TDT and I sat up the other night, catching up on all sorts of BBC stuff. It was great. So, BLS should be able to get 'Stenders, and anyone else wanting to watch BBC or ITV can now do so, no matter where they are in the world. This is a good thing.
Get Doctor Who. It has to be done.

On practical jokes

2011-04-19T09:25:00.000+01:00

So there we were, quarter to 10 last night, and enjoying the final of Hells Kitchen (Yay Nona!) when there was a loud hammering at the front door. The urgency of the hammering meant I leapt up like a shot, and raced into the hall, ready to help someone in need. I opened the front door, and looked out. The porch security light was on, but no one was there. I looked down, and imagine my surprise when I see a fox trying to get into the house.
"Get away," I scream, "Get out of here."
*nothing*
"Go on! What the..." I puzzle. I thought he was staring at Shallot, and was looking for Shallot down by my feet. He was stood, motionless, didn't even flinch when I shooed him away. Then I noticed, he was standing on a log. The link wasn't tenable, it hadn't computed, he wasn't standing on a log; he was nailed to the log. Just at that moment, a howl of laughter came from behind a car across the road. Suddenly, laughter appeared all around, and I realised I'd been had. I looked at the taxidermied Basil, now under his owner's arm, and began to laugh (more in relief) with them. Meanwhile, Jamie the owner, was propping himself up against the wall, trying not to collapse in helpless laughter. Everyone was watching out, obviously previous victims themselves, ready to see my reaction. I'm guessing I excelled their expectations. I have to admit, looking back, it was very funny. Next time someone knocks however, I'm not so sure I'll be so wound up...

And the award for worst customer service goes to...

2011-04-14T12:21:00.002+01:00

Ebuyer. The supplier I have used for a decade has been truly one of the worst companies ever when it comes to how they deal with their customers. Back in the dark days of the start of the millennium, they would send out stuff that was previously opened, used, installed, or broken and sent back, and not tell you it was secondhand. This is illegal, and at the time they were done. I've also seen them send the wrong items, and charge a handling fee for returning it, send the wrong item and refuse to accept it as a return, refund the wrong price on an item after it was on sale that week the refund was given, promise to send a replacement and not done so, the list goes on... and on. So much so in fact, some bright spark set up a website to complain about them
http://www.ebuyersucks.org/
So why did I use them? Well that's easy. They're cheap. Very very cheap. You can spend a couple of hours looking around for better prices, and save maybe a pound or two, but most of the time it's quicker and easier just to use them. I must have order thousands and thousands with them over the years, and I've seen every trick in the book to get more money out of me. Sometimes I've been prepared to pay it just to get the stuff I want.
As of this week I will no longer be using them. Not because they've ripped me off, not because their customer service has moved to India, not because the MD, a Mr. Armando Sanchez, hasn't replied to my email. No, something much simpler. Ireland is no longer accepted as a delivery destination. Back before Christmas I helped someone to order some bits. Before he could he had to email a scan of his passport and a recent utility bill. Imagine if you had to do this with every company you were buying online from. He gave up in the end, and I don't blame him. Well this week I went to order some stuff for someone, and it decided "We no longer ship to Ireland." We cancelled and went elsewhere.
So, if you're reading this Mr. Sanchez, I feel like a person who's been forced to give up the fags. I don't want to, I know it'll be better for me, but in time my addiction will wear off and I won't give a toss.

*edit* I sent a rant like this to their forums, in the hope someone would take note and rectify. What did they do? Remove the post, and point me to their rules which include "no anti-ebuyer comments". Unbelievable.

On Children watching Children's Videos.

2011-04-13T12:17:00.000+01:00

Those of you UK bound will I'm sure remember the best charidee song evah, from Children in need in 2009. Take loads of well known kids TV characters, from all over the world, and get them to join in on a medley. All for free, and the most amazing thing was a lot of the voices have since gone into retirement. They were tracked down, licenses were made available, and the culminating track was superb.

Now, fair to say, kids don't appreciate the politics. They do however appreciate good singing and animation, and so my ickle niece C.A.R.Y.S. (Can Arsenal Ruin Your Season?) enjoyed it. I suspect one of the reasons she squeals with delight is because her Mummy squealed with delight when she first saw it, recognising the characters from her childhood. But not wanting to miss out, I had to share it as well.
Enjoy.

On things that make you go "Euch!"

2011-04-06T12:26:00.000+01:00

Ok, so what makes your stomach turn? Warning, if you are of a slightly queasy disposition, then maybe today isn't the day to be watching my videos. But, if you are, then let's see how far we can go.
So, blood? Does blood make you squirm? I personally have no problem with it whatsoever, so gory horror movies do nothing for me. I must admit however, that I still cringe at Tim Messenger's death in Hot Fuzz.

Of course one of the most famous movies for making your stomach turn was by Black Sheep director Peter Jackson was Bad Taste. This encompassed everything that makes a person feel ill, but with added comic effect.

The reason I'm mentioning all of this is a clip I saw on You've Been Framed last week. It sort of reminds me of a certain twat presenter from a Car Show puking his ring (*thanks to TDT for this enlightening term) on an F15.

This has to be the funniest thing ever, seeing someone you don't like being as sick as a dog. But, the clip on YBF was slightly more disturbing, and very disturbing considering it was shown at dinnertime. Imagine being sick as you the plane goes into a dive, and the contents of the bag (and your stomach) coming back out. Yes, this really is as bad as it sounds.

Enjoy. Or, maybe not.

On "Digit a la Verde"

2011-03-31T12:08:00.000+01:00

I'm disturbed. Yes, I know it's a shock to most of you, but it's true. I have found that I enjoy gardening. When I left the old old house back in 2003, I was thoroughly fed up of gardening. This was because a) the garden was huge, dwarfing most London parks (may contain lie) and b) it was on the edge of a marsh, and broke every lawnmower, scarifier and strimmer we could throw at it. Moving to the old house meant that we still had a garden, but it was like mowing a postage stamp after the previous effort, and would take me a couple of hours with a cheapo flymo mower, strimmer and hedge trimmers to give it a complete manicure. Then I moved here. Being a few weeks of decent weather, and being given TDT's Dad's old petrol mower, I have taken on what were two slightly dangerous, slightly overgrown gardens.
The back garden grass now looks like a slightly yellow billiard table. The front garden grass is slightly longer (I haven't given it the close treatment yet), and along the back of the back wall is all clear. Ah yes, the back wall.
Sunday morning saw me going out the tackle the back wall of the garden. We have a fence joining onto what we call a field, but has recently been covered over with stone. The back wall was growing well, and unfortunately none of it was 'nice' plants. Brambles, nettles, thick chunky grass that takes over everything. So I decided to clear it all, so at least we can see the back fence. The wall is only a couple of feet high, and is lined along the front by big rocks. You then have a ledge about 4 foot wide going to the back fence, and it was this ledge that was the problem. I started logically enough, on one end. The end has a large tree of unknown nature, but it's very low and very branch-y. I cleared the ground underneath it first, and that's where my first mishap happened. Underneath all the brambles and grass was a dead tree, rotting away quietly. It was in the way of the clear land, so I decided to break off the branches. It was rotten, how difficult can it be? The short answer is very. I grabbed a branch, pulling it up from it's place of slumber, and put all my not insignificant weight behind it. Something had to give, and it did. The branch let out a loud crack without warning, and came off in my hand. Unfortunately, I was still stood at a stupendous angle, and went arse over tit into the neighbour's wall, bounced, and fell the two feet off the ledge. I have the bruising and grazes to prove it. Stop laughing. It hurt, I mean really really hurt. I thought I'd broken my right arm at first, but it was just badly hit and I was ok. So, regaining my composure (and looking round to see if anyone had seen and was pissing themselves laughing) I returned to my quest. I decided to leave the dead tree until later, when things were a bit clearer. So, I started to cut back the lower branches of the unknown tree above my head. With a set of branch cutters akin to sharpened bolt cutters, I started to cut away hefty branches. One branch swung down, with sharpened spines along it's length, and into my left hand. It pierced a large vein on the back of my hand, and blood poured (literally poured) from a tiny hole in the back of my hand. I swore. Stop laughing. I went in to see TDT, who was horrified at the blood and the fact I was licking the wound. It was either that or piss the claret all over the carpet. But as quickly as it started bleeding, it stopped. So I returned to the garden with an engineer's plaster (kitchen roll and gaffer tape).
For the next two hours I fought with brambles and grass. At one point I even found an old door. "Do you know that there was an old door up there?" I asked TDT. "Yes. We got rid of it years ago" she replied. Obviously not that well. That went over the fence. Eventually I had the bulk of the work licked. I looked like a pin cushion, I felt like a pin cushion, and I'm sure when I walked I whistled.
You'd think I'd learned my lesson. So what did I do yesterday? I volunteered to do her Mum's garden as well. I am not mad.

On name calling

2011-03-28T12:11:00.000+01:00

Isn't it amazing how different your name can become, depending on where you are? I know that's not very clear, but I think you'll understand what I mean. Take for example Essex. Your typical Essexman doesn't like to cope with words of more than one syllable, so names are shortened. But in Essex they then like to make it more pleasing to the tongue and add a 'z' sound to the end of the name. You know the sort of thing. Sharon becomes Shaz, Barry becomes Baz, Brian becomes Brize, Paul becomes Paulz (!).
Scotland, with the risk of sounding like a Billy Connelly skit, would appear to like surnames as first names, and visa versa. Stewart is a surname, Donald is a first name, Finlay is both, Sharon is none.
And over here in Ireland, much to my joy, they have an even better trick. They take the first name (or first half), and add a 'y' on the end. So, most famously, Padraig becomes Paddy. TDT's brother is Iany (champion loft faller, 2009). Edward becomes Eddie, Fergus becomes Fergie, Hugh becomes Hughie and Niall becomes Nially. You can be sure that Kim would become Kimmy and Erin wouldn't become Erinie.
And yes, I have gone from Richard to Rik, but not for Essex. I have also had to take the moniker of Rikky for those that don't know any better. But it could be worse. TDT's Mum (she of the best cup of tea in the world) has the best way of getting my attention, calling me Roxx, Snoopy, Rixx, Nixx and "ye bollocks." All of which seem to work.

The best comedy sketch ever?

2011-03-23T09:36:00.000Z

Last week was comic relief's Red Nose Day, and once again they got the great James Cordon to do a sketch about helping the BBC to get someone famous to go to Africa. Now, don't get me wrong, it's very funny. Rio Ferdinand not crying is clever, Gordon Brown making himself look more of a twat then usual is entertaining, and Ringo Starr is still alive, even though I thought he was dead.

The problem is everyone is saying it's the best comedy sketch ever. I have to disagree. But I wonder, is this the same people who 5 years ago said that Little Britain had the funniest sketch ever.

I must apologise for that incredibly unfunny sketch. But then again, I rank Little Britain in the same league as League of Gentlemen and The Office. So I got thinking, what would be the greatest comedy sketch ever? Here are some of my choices, starting with the great Not the Nine O' Clock News team.

Of course another great is almost anything with John Cleese, so let's pick his most famous moment.

Now in my humble opinion the Americans haven't done that many stand-out sketches, but I do have to say that Frasier's clip of Niles getting ready for a date is priceless.

And finally, who can forget the Two Ronnies? Not I, so here's Four Candles for you. Enjoy :)

On Saints Days

2011-03-17T14:10:00.000Z

Today is well known in the western world. It's the day anyone with some semblence of Irish blood, or the want to be Irish, celebrate all over the world the patron saint of Ireland's day. In Ireland itself, it's a bank holiday. In the US it's a huge day, where everyone wears green, goes on parades and drinks loads of the black stuff. This got me thinking about other nations.
The Welsh know when St. David's Day is. March the 1st is the day kids go to school in something Welsh. This can be a rugby shirt, having a small leek pinned to your shirt, or having a head dressed up like a daffodil. It isn't a bank holiday.
The Scottish are proud of their St. Andrew. So much so, in fact, their most famous namesake is a golf course. It isn't that well known that it's November the 30th, but in 2006 they decided to take a leaf out of their jolly cousins across the sea and made it a bank holiday. This'll mean that in time we'll see St Andrews Day parades with men in kilts playing bagpipes and women in highland dresses dancing on top of swords.
And then there's the English. St Georges Day, erm, is, erm... And therein lies the problem. Not many Englishmen know when their saint's day is the 23rd of April. Even if they celebrated it, they wouldn't be allowed to have parades because councils would deem it unfair to other countrymen living there. And what about what they'd wear? For 30 years a T-Shirt with the union jack on it is a sign of being a racist, so that wouldn't do. They could dress up women as roses, but what colour would they have to be without the people of Yorkshire and Lancashire getting upset. They could also wear shirts with three lions, but again that would be deemed unsuitable because it encourages hooliganism. Or they could dress up as oak trees. No, exactly.
Then you really start to get silly. What about other country's patron saints. Does an Aussie sit back, crack open a beer on the beach, chuck another shrimp on the barbie, on St. Francis Xavier's Day? Belgium, Canada, Mexico, China, Vietnam, Russia and Peru would all have to close down for St. Joseph's Day.
And the Americans, well in their infinite wisdom, they adopted the Saint's Day of the Immaculate Conception. Now there's a parade I'd like to see.

On cunning plans

2011-03-16T12:44:00.000Z

I have an idea. How about we take all the nasty, granny mugging, hoodie wearing, Escort driving, Drum and Bass Listening scrotes that are on the streets, and teach them some respect? How would we do this? Well, back in the day, there was a thing called National Service, or more informally, the short sharp shock. Every man (except Poo jabbers, who were illegal anyway) between 18 and 25 would have to sign up for 2 years in a military service. There, they would learn to make beds, shine shoes, march in lines, and most importantly, value themselves and others. Respect was foremost in their thoughts, and failure to 'soldier' was going to make you a social leper and outcast. I have to admit, being of the faticus bastardicus variety of homosapiens, I would struggle, but I'm sure I would get fit and my mates would ensure I got on with it.
So, back to today, and the youth courts around the land would wring their hands with glee if they could see Lee, 22, from Essex convicted of TWOC and sent down to do a short sharp shock. Oh, hang on, ITV did it a few years ago with a series called "Bad Lads Army". It most definitely worked, turning these undesirables into polite young men. Some even joined up for the real army. But, those that didn't play ball would face the wrath of Provost Sergeant Weston, a man mountain with big shouty voice and terrifying array of punishments. In fact, so much so, that's this week's clip. Watch with half terror, half glee as a hard man is broken, made to almost cry, and recoil in horror at nothing more than a voice with excessive volume. It's delightful.

Enjoy.

On a mental judgemental judge

2011-03-14T11:30:00.000Z

There are three types of people in this world. Right at the bottom, with the brain capacity of an amoeba, are the regular visitors to Jeremy Kyle or Jerry Springer. If it's Jeremy Kyle, you know it's going to be some toothless mother in law, complaining about the paternity of her son in law, after he got caught masturbating with the toaster. They're all from a council estate outside Doncaster, they all believe that Jeremy's going to help them, and it'll all end in tears. Or there's Jerry Springer. Dwayne from Alabama has been caught shagging his sister in law after his wife was found doing unnatural things to their pet gator. They end up shouting at each other, and eventually the wife and her sister undress and get into a punch up with the security staff. Ok, so we know how bad these programmes are. So, let's skip these people and move slightly higher up the ladder.
The next group of people are fortunate enough to have an IQ in double figures, but only just. They've been blessed with just enough of a modicum of intelligence to realise they can sue their begrudged argumentee. But this means that they have to appear in court, and that's where Judge Judy comes in. There seem to be three recurring cases on this program.

The man who's suing the woman for the cost of his belongings after she's kicked him out when he's beaten her up/got incarcerated/had an affair.
The person who's suing some poor man or woman for her car windscreen/tyres/bodywork after he/she dented it with their head when they were run over by the plaintiff.
The son/daughter who's suing the mother for looking after them/their children and the emotional turmoil involved.

Judge Judy is fair. She listen to each case objectively, she even makes them look more intelligent than they are. She is entertained with the trail of witnesses who "heard the person cursing at me over the phone and they'll testify to that." She also gets to see a small rainforest's worth of unrealistic quotes for repairs to property in the hope the plaintiffs get the money back. You know the sort of thing, "The windscreen on my car was a special windscreen, designed to pick up small roadkill, gut it and cook it ready for my dinner. Here's my quote for a replacement at $30,000." But the best cases are the family cases. She was a family court judge in New York before she made it to Hollywood, and so this is the section of law she knows best. You get some spoilt brat who's 19, and is struggling with her 5th child. Her mother has done the human thing and takes some of the strain for her unappreciative offspring by bringing up some of her other children as best she can. Now the daughter has married someone just released from prison, and has a job in a Burger joint, and wants all the children back together, so she's suing the mother for the rights to get the child back. It's all so commonplace, even Byrd the Bailiff stands there looking bored as Judy grills both of them as to what's best for the child. Oh, Byrd the Bailiff. What a character. Judy rarely talks to him, but when she does, you just know it's comedy gold. The best clip I've seen is where she's looking at some CD cases (the CDs themselves had been destroyed), and mentions the names. Some are, in her words, "less than desirable" but when it comes to Destiny's Child she asks Byrd "Do you know these girls? They look wholesome." Byrd confirms her questions in his usual dry way "Yes Ma'am" before continuing to look nonchalant from his post. She makes her judgement or dismisses it, and then Byrd takes them outside where they talk to the camera and say what they thought of the judgement. Normally something along the lines of "he's lying," followed by "no, she's lying."
And what about the third type of people? Us, normal people, who get on with life without fighting and without dragging our dirty laundry through a televised court.

On Car Chases

2011-03-09T13:21:00.000Z

Here's a ponderous question for you. What is the best car chase in the movies? Last night I showed TDT the car chase from the Bourne Identity, and that got me thinking.

That was one of the last car chases done by the great Remy Julienne, and whilst very short, shows every kind of swift movement in an old Mini Cooper. So then I thought what else was a great car chase, and of course this one came up.

Considering this was done over 40 years ago, without the aid of CGI and large insurance policies, it's still one of the greatest. Again, it was done by the French team of Julienne, and to this day I still feel my heart miss a beat at some of the stunts. Of course though, the Yanks would like to claim they have the best car chases. I have to agree on a couple. The Blues Brothers is one of the most spectacular films for car chases, but unfortunately it's virtually impossible to get online. I found this clip instead, of their first clash with the police.
The second great film chase, and this week's video of the week, has to be the 1968 classic with Steve McQueen, Bullitt.
The simple effect of the hills of San Francisco, along with 1960s muscle cars and truly awesome soundtrack means that you really feel yourself lifting over the bumps.
Enjoy.

On Bicycle Motocross

2011-03-07T12:16:00.001Z

I had a problem. I had my cycling proficiency coming up, and my old Raleigh Chopper had a lose headset, something listed as "very dangerous." This meant I would fail my test before I even started, so my Dad asked my mate Nick if I could borrow his BMX.

It was futile anyway, and I failed my test. Not that it meant anything, because I still went on to ride on the roads anyway. But, for my next birthday, I asked if I could have Nick's bike permanently, and he was offering to sell it for £45. For the first time ever, I had a trendy bike, not a hand-me-down from my sister.
At the same time, near where I lived they created a woodland walk through the woods down the side of my hill. This meant we could go flat out down our own personal BMX track, only to then have to turn around and push the bike back up the hill. We soon got tired of that. I had another problem with the bike too, and this was a rather more specific problem. I would bunny hop kerbs, just wheelie-ing up with the front wheel, and the back wheel would inevitably follow.
"Psssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssst" went the back tyre. Yes, I had the only BMX in the world that couldn't hop up a kerb. Checking the inner tube and a tell tale double teeth mark, like Nosferatu himself had had a go at it, signified that hopping up kerbs was a bad idea. In fact, over the life of the bike, I was reminded several times that it didn't like kerbs, bricks, ramps or small children. And always with the double puncture mark, I became quite adept at repairing punctures.
I remember going to the cinema to see the dreadful "BMX Bandits", and believed myself to be a most excellent sprinter. One Saturday afternoon in the pub with my Mum and Dad, they sent me off to buy some fish and chips. The mile and a half ride was a doddle, but I had the added challenge of my father timing me. Off I set, rattling down Harold Road with a 100 revolutions a minute cadence and one gear, which is great for a couple of hundred yards, but not for a mile and a half. In the end I sat back in the saddle, and took my sweet ol' time. By the time I got back my father was ripping the piss out of me, with lines like "it would have been quicker if you'd walked," and "I didn't ask you to go to Croydon to get the chips."
One spring Saturday afternoon, and playing out again, the pedal became dislodged from the crank shaft. A further inspection showed that the thread had gone on the crank shaft, meaning a replacement was required. The local bike shop couldn't help, apparently it was unique to that bike. So, we took it to a welder in Streatham (pronounced St. Reatham by it's posher residents) who duly welded the whole thing into one tangible lump of metal. I think it lasted a week. I seem to remember we were being visited by my family from North Wales, a rare event in itself, and so on the Saturday morning I managed to persuade my father and my uncle to take me to Halfords on the London Road in Croydon to get the crank replaced. Thinking back, I seem to remember it wasn't much more than a tenner, but I also seem to remember thinking it was a small fortune.
Another time I'd spent riding around Crystal Palace Park (Guaranteed to have TDT sniggering, she finds that so funny), and in the adventure playground a jump made the handlebars emit a loud "craaaack!" It was nothing serious, but they'd become lose and would move backward and forward easily. I remember cycling home trying not to put any weight behind them and failing miserably. It must have seemed like forever, with the handlebar resting on the crossbar and jibes from people outside the pubs, before I got home and fixed it with my trusty Allen key set.
I remember when I'd finally got bored of it a few years later. In my infinite wisdom I decided to sell the wheels (they were both like the back wheel shown in the picture above) because they were unique. Steve, who lived behind me, brought them for a tenner (that paid for the crank shaft then) and I was left with a bike without wheels. I seem to remember we took it to the dump in the end. There was nothing wrong with it, except it had no wheels, but it was in the way in the garage and my mother was fed up of tripping over it.
I got my first racing bike instead...

On flights of fancy

2011-03-02T16:03:00.000Z

At last, I finally got one of my most prized moments of TV from the past decade...
Scrapheap Challenge is a UK TV programme that became so successful they decided to adopt it in the USA, making Junkyard Wars. The idea is simple enough; 2 teams of nerdy people (normally men) who love engineering, and give them a task to make something in 10 hours, with nothing but the contents of a Scrap/Junkyard. Over the years we've seen monster building eaters, underwater cars, pumpkin chunkers, car throwers and even rocket sleds.But, for the anniversary of the Wright Brother's first flight in Kittyhawk in 1903, they decided they'd take 3 teams. One from Boeing in the US, one from Aerospatiale in France and one from British Aerospace in the UK, and they have to replicate planes from that era within 20 hours (double the normal, because it's a special show).
The planes were built with a few hiccups, but look like planes. The first test was simple. Take off, fly half a mile between two lines, and land. What happens next is priceless.
Enjoy.

On funerals

2011-02-28T10:36:00.005Z

This tale of much woe is being written with TDT's express permission, and in her words "you always see the silver lining in a sad few days."
TDT's father was taken into hospital just under two weeks ago on the Wednesday, after her brother Ianymeany (champion loft faller,2009) had had a call to help him out of bed. For the past few years he's had problems with his circulation, and has ended up in hospital before. We didn't think this time would be any different, and he had no circulation going to his leg muscles and so was unable to walk. He was also complaining of backache (presumably from walking awkwardly before the walk went altogether) and he seemed resigned to the fact that hospital was a good place to be. A week ago today, he was shipped off an hour up the road to Galway, for an MRI scan so they could find out what was the cause of the back pain and general discomfort. He returned wanting a cigarette, the usual snickers bar and full fat coke. The result showed a small stroke in the past, but they didn't know when, and not a lot else. On Wednesday evening TDT and her mum paid their regular visit to him, and he had been given a couple of cigarettes by someone, so he wasn't quite as miserable as he had been. We didn't think the visit was different from any other.
TDT's mum got a call the following day, just after 6 in the morning, informing her to get the family to the hospital because he'd taken a turn for the worse. For the first time ever, we'd left my phone downstairs, the cordless downstairs, and TDT's phone was still on silent from the hospital visit the night before, so her Mum was phoning like crazy, and getting no answer. Eventually she got a taxi to here, and woke us up. Dashing out the door, and remembering to pay the taxi driver, we hit the road for the 10 minute journey up to the hospital. The news wasn't good. He'd had a bleed in his stomach, which had got worse until his heart had no more blood to pump. He had a heart attack just before 6, and even though they tried to restart his heart using adrenaline and the flat cattle prods, he was declared dead at 6:20. We arrived at 6:30, and he was still warm. Out of respect, I stood outside the curtain, whilst the last rites were read and prayers were made for him. A nurse offered me a cup of tea ("ah go on, go on, go on, go on"), so I took her up on the offer and went to the kitchen. As I stood there, supping on my Lyons with milk and sugar, the priest came in.
"Do you want to go in?" he asked.
"Not yet," I replied, "they need time to themselves." I have immense respect for people with regards to death, and thought I shouldn't be there for a moment.
"Are you scared?" he then asked.
"No. No really. I'm fine." I replied. I don't think he believed me.
I returned to his bedside and sat with TDT and her Mum for a while, before we left to find TDT's brother and let him know. He'd seen the missed calls, and when he saw his Mum in the car, he knew. He seemed to take it well however, and came and gave his Mum a huge hug. We went home to spend the day arranging the funeral, coffin, plot and services. By late afternoon the visitors to the house were coming thick and fast. The kitchen table was laid out with sandwiches, biscuits, soup (in a bowl, not just on the table top), and a teapot that looked like it was last used for the Easter Rising. The kitchen and sitting room were both full, and visitors were entering from both the front and back doors. Apparently the neighbours were moaning about the car park that had now appeared outside, where the road used to be. I left shortly after 9, so I could catch up on emails and more importantly, sleep.
Friday saw another stream of visitors. It is at this point I have to point out the difference between a Roman Catholic funeral and any other funeral I've ever been to. The undertakers prepared TDT's father's body, dressed him in his favourite jacket, and made him look at rest, before laying him out in the open coffin in a large room. It is at this point that most people come to say their last prayers to him and to sympathise with the immediate family. It's also the point where people realise it's really happened, and he really is dead, and they break down in tears. The first person was TDT's brother, and that set me off. I wasn't immediate family, so I felt I should stand back in sight of TDT to let her know I was there supporting her and her Mum. Apparently I looked like I was waiting for a bus. People would come in and move round the room from left to right, shaking hands with the family, before sometimes standing and saying a quiet prayer to him or having a happy thought. They'd then leave by another door. The funny thing was, I wasn't visible to most people, and had settled into a game of "guess the back of the head." Sometimes people I knew would look round and step across to shake me by the hand as well. At one point, one of TDT's friends turned up. She entered into a conversation about the funeral the following day, causing a huge tailback out the door, down the street, across the roundabout and out past the by-pass. The other thing I 'observed' was how people were dealt with. Obviously, a lot of the people would be people TDT and her Mum didn't know. It had been announced on Thursday afternoon's local radio (something we've listened to before and sneered at), and so anyone that had known him from the past 70 years, 1 month and 1 day, could turn up to share their sympathy. If this was the case, they'd politely shake the hand, and say "Thanks for coming." Then they'd get a spate of family that they knew, and I'm sure they were all the same names. Instead of saying "Thanks for coming, they'd just shake them by the hand and say their name. This meant that you'd get a moment of...
"Mikey, Gerry, Mikey, Mikey, Gerry, Mikey, Gerry, Mikey. *pause*. Mary! Mikey, Gerry, Mikey, Gerry, Gerry, Mikey, Gerry, Mikey, Mikey. *pause* Ann-Marie! Mikey, Gerry, Mikey, etc etc" They'd then return to the unknowns with the "thanks for coming," and I'd return to the game of "guess the back of the head." Another time, TDT got all animated.
"It's Gerry!" she almost yelled at me.I was puzzled.
"Gerry? Gerry who?" I asked.
"Gerry. You know. Gerry. GERRY!" I think the blank look on my face must have been frustrating, but I didn't have a scooby. Only after he'd left and the room had gone quieter did she elaborate on her colleague. Probably one of the only people from her work I haven't met yet that I have been looking forward to meet. And he'd already gone.
Just after 7 they locked up the doors to the mortuary, and suddenly all family that had been so strong and dry were bursting into tears. It was their time to say goodbye, and give him a kiss or hold his hands before the coffin went off to be sealed. When he returned I'd been honoured by Ianymeany be a pall bearer, and so along with 2 of TDT's uncles and 2 cousins, we carried him out to the hearse. We then had to walk him out of town and I was surprised at just how much respect the surrounding area had for the funeral party moving up the street. Cars would stop their engines and turn off their lights. Pedestrians would stand and remove their hats. My bladder, meanwhile, was going to explode. Ian walked on to the edge of town, whilst TDT, her Mum and I got in the car and followed them up. We got to the meeting place, and Iany couldn't be found anywhere.
"Where's Ian gone," TDT asked.
"For a pee, I believe" came an uncle's reply. I knew how he must have felt.
Arriving at a crowded village church, I was surprised at the sheer numbers of people waiting out on the street to see us. We carried the coffin into the church where the local priest said some more ritual mumblings before announcing to a full church that the funeral mass would be tomorrow morning at 11am. We then left and went home briefly (in my case for a pee) before debunking to the local for some liquid refreshment, more sandwiches and other picky food. I was feeling undecidedly under the weather, and so left TDT with her friends and family before 11. She returned home herself not much later, feeling the emotion of the day. Quite frankly, I didn't blame her.
The following morning saw us rise early, and I returned to my suit before we left just after 10 to go to her Mum's. When we arrived, the curtains were still pulled, the door was still locked and more importantly, the kettle was cold. Her mum had slept in. I'm guessing the few days were taking their toll, and she came down looking less than happy to have been woken from her slumbers. We made it to the church with seconds to spare, and I sat well back from the family in a pew of my own. I wasn't going to break down in tears, I told myself, and I had positioned myself where I couldn't see TDT (her crying is what sets me off). I also listened to the sermon, but didn't look up from the pew in front of me. There was a little girl of about 2 directly in front of me, and she took my mind off things with our games of waving and pulling faces (me, not her). Just over an hour later and we again returned to the hearse for the mile walk to the cemetery.
"Are you sure you can walk it?" TDT had asked the day before, her Mum sniggering in the background.
"Of course!" I replied, slightly offended.
The sun was out, it was pleasantly warm, and apparently my fan club were making jokes about getting me a bottle of oxygen for the graveyard and had I made a will. I was suspecting it to be the same half dozen or so walkers as the previous evening, but when I did look back I was more than surprised to see half the village walking up the hill with us. A few older family members were struggling, but it was a really nice walk and I actually felt more than relaxed when I arrived to carry the coffin one last time, to the grave. This had been the moment I'd always dreaded, because past experience of funerals said this was the most traumatic. But the mortuary experience had me all cried out and it actually felt very restful as the coffin was lowered into the grave. We then left again to drop TDT's Mum home, before returning to the pub. So there's the story, the tale of woe. I'd like to say, on behalf of Pauline, Tania and Ian, thanks for all your cards, emails, texts and messages of support. They are so appreciated.

R.I.P. Davey, we know you'll be missed.

On current films

2011-02-23T11:28:00.000Z

Ok, so TDT and I went out on Valentines Day to see a film. The chosen one was ideal for Valentine's Day, being based on Romeo and Juliet, but a computer animation and in 3D, and it ticked all the right boxes. Gnomeo and Juliet is a remake of the most famous love story of all time, but had been tweaked for kids so it wasn't such a tragedy. It featured an excellent cast, including Michael Caine ("Oi, Cupid, stop shooting those bloody arrars at me.") and Patrick Stewart ("Make it so"), and it also had the music of Elton John (and yes, I admit, I like the early music of Elton John). You'll get the jist from this week's first video.

Now, secondly, we got to watch Despicable me. If you haven't seen this, you will have missed out on some of the best characters. Just like it's predecessor before (Ice Age), the main film is good, but the sub plot involving his "minions" is just as good as any "scrat". The trailer gives you an idea what to expect, but doesn't show enough of these comedy genii (??).

And so a brief search on youtube finds us the best of the Minions I laughed myself silly, and I hope you do too.
Enjoy.

On being a nerd

2011-02-21T13:07:00.002Z

Does anyone else find this funny, or am I the only nerd? Mind you, I reckon TRT and Bryn would be candidates for appreciating it, and I know my father enjoys it because he sent it on to me. Nuff said?

On being a pre-pubescent terrorist

2011-02-15T12:44:00.002Z

OK, confession time. When I was 8, I should have ended up in Paddington Green on a charge of "conspiracy to cause explosions." Although, in my defence, I wasn't entirely to blame. I'd noticed on the side of a battery, probably from my Meccano set motor (because I didn't have a lot of battery operated toys, it was the 70s after all), that it said "likely to explode if disposed of in fire."
Explosions, I pondered, are good. I liked Guy Fawkes night, and the prospect of having something likely to explode if burnt was almost orgasmic to my young brain. So, the following day in school, I hatched a plan with my friend Alan.
"If we get all the batteries we can, we can blow up the school and we'll never have to go again."
"Yesssss, excellent" he replied with a menacing hiss.
We blitzed our homes. The remote for the TV no longer worked. The torch was dark. The radio played nothing but silence. And the following morning, we met in the banned playing area behind the third and fourth year block and displayed our not unimpressive haul. I had about 20 batteries, mostly big C and D type batteries and all hidden in my Muppet pencil case. Alan had loads of 9v square batteries, and with some authority announced "these are higher voltage, so they'll make a bigger bang." I'd managed to swipe a box of Ship matches and we set about trying the light the end of the battery.
Nothing. Nada. Zip. The nipple type end of the battery got slightly hot, but the matches kept going out, and anyway, the bell went. We scrambled our IED into our hidey holes and went into class. Of course, our over-active imagination went into overdrive, and we realised before morning play what we were missing was a fuse. We also surmised that the more batteries in the explosion, the better, so Alan distracted Mr Pillar whilst I swiped some blutak. We returned to our illegal den as soon as we got out, and built a 4 battery 'stick' of battery dynamite, with a piece of string sticking out of the top. I got Alan to hold it, and lit the fuse. Of course, it went out. We tried a second time, again to no avail. The string was crap as a fuse, and we needed to find out how to make it work. Alan promised to dip it in petrol (uh oh) and return it the following day, but he forgot. So, plan B took over.
Maybe a fire would work, if we threw the battery into it. We created the world's smallest bonfire, out of the now rapidly dwindling stash of matches. It was about 2 inches wide, and contained about 20 matches in a small conical form. We lit the tip of the cone, and howled with glee as a large 'genie' of smoke appeared and the fire ignited well.
"Quick, throw it on the fire" yelled Alan.
So I did, and we turned to run for cover from the obviously huge explosion. The battery flattened the conflagration, the matches fell apart, and finally a gust of wind reduced them to a smouldering pile of burnt matchsticks, with a slightly blackened battery on top. We'd run out of matches.
"Stuff this," said Alan, picking up his batteries, "it'll never work. I'm off to play football."
30 years later, I know that they would have only burst, showering me with hot copper and zinc. Kinda lucky I didn't succeed then, or I could have ended up hating the western world and promising to avenge my scarring. Guantanamo Bay, you can now rent out my room.

On ideas

2011-02-14T12:05:00.000Z

One of my many problems is my brain doesn't like to turn off. This means I can have some ideas for things, and they're really really bizarre. When TDT and I first got together, she'd ask me, "what are you thinking?" The reply of "how to close a door with just magnets from my mobile phone" came as a shock and so she stopped asking. But sometimes I have good ideas, and I think I've had one. The problem is, my programming skills when it comes to stuff on the internet and more specifically Flash just isn't up to the job. So, maybe someone else will see this and agree it's a good idea, and have the skill.
You've all seen my videos I've done the past couple of years of timelapse photography on a long distance. If you haven't, here's the last one I did, a couple of years ago from the old house to Holyhead through Wales.

So, with google doing the honours with the driving, what about if we could just make a video of where they've been? Imagine typing in your start and finishing points, and then a script intercepts google streetview's vast database, and downloads each image along the route. It then pieces each image together, maybe each step is a frame or every other step, and you end up with a video timelapse of your route. This is a good thing. You could have fun for hours, piecing together from your home to your holiday caravan, or from your childhood home to somewhere involving a long journey as a child. Or even just a 10 minute journey cut down to a couple of seconds. Either way, it'll be fun and useful.
Now, if only I could get to grips with the programming...

On job websites

2011-02-11T12:59:00.000Z

There is a problem with being a leading microprocessor embedded electronics engineer when you start looking for a job. Companies don't know exactly what they want in terms of technical specs, so along I come and I might as well say fluent in Pan-galactic Gargle Blasters and qualified to program 32bit zenbobs. So, they hire technical employment agencies to do the vetting, meaning the technical questions are taken off of them. The original way of contacting these agencies (back in the 90s when I first started using them) was to fax off your CV, with a short covering note, sit back and wait for the call to come in. Now, with the advent of the interwebs, you can sign up online, and wait for them to send you thousands of jobs via email. Even that would appear too difficult though, and along came Monster, the 'google' of the job websites, who send your CV off to all the other agencies automatically. Monster in the UK were crap. They sent my CV off to agencies the other side of the country, and so I still get emails daily from "Simon & Simon, technical agency to the stars" offering me temporary work in Lowestoft. In Ireland it would appear Monster has contacted a handful of agencies. Philip Brady Recruitment in Limerick were quite upbeat when I contacted them in the UK. As soon as I actually moved over, they changed their tune and haven't emailed me once. ICDS, based in Dublin, have emailed me a few times. Last week, shock horror, they emailed me a job as a Process Engineer. This was great. It's not something I can do, I have no qualifications showing I can do it, I have no experience, and I have no wish, but then to cap it all off, it's in South Wales (!). The automated emailer had picked up on the fact that I'd lived in South Wales, and that in it's eyes meant that I was qualified to apply for the job.
Then there's Recruit Ireland. They're again based in Dublin, and offer loads and loads of jobs (in Dublin) in all aspects of technical employment (in Dublin). They email me loads of jobs each week (in Dublin). They have even phoned me once or twice and asked if I'm interested in a certain post (in Dublin), and if I'm prepared to relocate (guess where to?). Then last week I got an email via them. It was a nice email.

Dear Applicant rik aitch. Uh oh, you know this is going to be full of grammatical and spelling errors.
agency is seeking for hardworking assistant in Ireland/UK. Yup, I was right.
No experience needed - free study available. Where are TDT and I going to put a study? The house isn't big enough.
Big Profit Potential. So's selling sand to the Arabs, if you can do it.
Firm will give application form if you are ready to work. Do I fill it out with bad grammar and spelling?
Requirements: * Must own a notebook with unlimited email access Well that's me out. I only have 2 desktop PCs and a couple of email addresses.
* Must own personal bank account Do you 'own' a bank account?
* Needs excellent organizational talents I'm a bloke. Organisation (note anglicization), excellent or otherwise, is not in my vocabulary.
* Applicants must be fair and business orientated. What about if you have dark hair? What are you, the master race?
Working only some hours per day As opposed to all of them?
You can easy connect our work with your main work. Erm...
Any person in Ireland/UK can be our manager. We'll take anyone stupid enough to apply.
Thank you for your attention. Thank you for receiving our spam and reading it.

The following day I got an email from Recruit Ireland, basically saying they'd been hacked. This means that anyone that has ever used Monster.ie has now got an email similar to the one above. I notice however that the following day, on their website, there wasn't a job advertised.

Wanted: Website and email security specialist. To work out of Dublin. Must be able to add a password to a website so that not every Tom, Dick and Harry can read a vast database of email addresses of people looking for work. Salary Negotiable.

On Sleep Talking (again)

2011-02-08T13:04:00.000Z

I was retiring late last night, some 20 minutes after TDT had already gone to bed and was snoring away in slumberland. Picking up my book, the most excellent "Moab is my washbag," I slipped into the world of Stephen Fry in the 60s as a child. 10 minutes later, and TDT turned over to face me and mumbled something unintelligible.
"Are you ok?" I asked.
"No," came the prompt reply.
"What's the matter?" I enquired, concerned she might be unwell
"No," rather confusingly again came the reply.
"Are you asleep?"
"No," she assured me. Eyes still closed (but we all know that this means she's just resting her eyelids). Then she settles into a mumble-fest before finally slipping back to sleep.
As I turned off the light, fluffed up the pillows and tucked myself in, she proceeded to rub my head. Yes, I know it was sweet. But, she then started to tweak my head like Stan Laurel when he was upset, ie. with her fingertips in almost a massage.
Don't you love sleep talking/motions?

On kitty puke

2011-02-04T12:20:00.000Z

Always happy to do a public service, I thought I should help anyone considering getting a kitten. Poor Shallot hasn't been well again. I noticed a couple of times over Christmas some cat vomit on the windowsill, and down behind the Christmas tree. I just put this down to hairballs, something even Shallot gets sometimes. Then about a fortnight ago he seemed to be unwell. It would start with him jumping into an open area of the floor. The convulsions would start as his body would rock from front to back. The priceless look on his face as he would eject his hoop meant that I would chuck him out as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, sometimes he would puke whilst mid air, meaning the splatter effect was so much more. Freshly eaten kitecat with jelly would be thrown across the carpet along with warm stomach digestive juices. I came to the conclusion he was eating too quickly after watching him wolf down his grub. I'd taken to leaving the back door open next to his bowl so he could go out afterwards, and I suspect the same dogs that have taken to using the garden as their personal toilet have been sneaking in and finishing what he's not eaten. So, the basic instinct of the cat is to eat it as quickly as possible. I reduced how much he was eating, more and more, until on Monday when it was literally 2 chunks of meat and fresh water. He ate it greedily, then disappeared upstairs. 5 minutes later and a noise that can only be described as "Me-*boilk*-ow" could be heard. Again, he'd puked, and again I threw him out.
Meanwhile, I knew I had to try something. He has treats, and he wasn't puking them (except on Monday when he had some before his meat). This told me he isn't intolerant of everything, and so on Wednesday night we had steak (with a nice garlic and mushroom cream sauce, yum) and I gave him a corner of the fresh meat. He ate it like he hadn't eaten for weeks (well, at this point that was almost true), and he kept it down. Again, this proved he was able to eat, just not his food. Yesterday he got fish fingers, without the breadcrumb, and again he kept it down. So, I went into town and got a box of pouches with meat and gravy (no jelly). He's able to eat that as well, so I'll get his strength up a bit before switching to tins of meat with gravy.
And so, if you're about to get a cat, and you have a weak stomach (like me), get lots and lots of kitchen roll. It absorbs the stomach acid, and makes picking up the chunks of warm half digested meat a lot easier because you can't feel them.
*ack*

On "yoofs"

2011-02-01T14:25:00.001Z

It is a well known fact that where I lived as a teenager wasn't very nice. By the mid 80s, it was a crime infested cesspit of multicultural cross contamination, where you couldn't walk on one side of the road because you didn't wear a blue baseball cap or your friends said "hi" instead of "whassup blood?" And so, it was highlighted to me by an old school friend, this report into the gangs of Northern Croydon. It would seem that things haven't improved in the slightest, and in fact they've gotten worse. When I was back for the weekend last year (the happiest weekend of my life) I was very wary of what was going on around me, what was being said, who was saying it, why they were saying it, how they were saying it, and what it could lead to. As we walked to an off licence late one night, I became aware of someone walking behind us. I pulled TDT to one side, and let the walker overtake us, purely because I was suspicious. Nothing happened, but I think that even having to be wary of this is not a good thing.
Unfortunately, back in the 80s, it was more a case of a minority taking opportunities to steal from innocent members of the public. If you were walking alone, late at night, along a quiet road, you were more likely to be mugged than if you were walking with friends (ideally armed police), along a motorway, with cctv following your every move, then you would less likely be picked out for opportunism and you'd get home with your wallet and limbs still in tact. Don't get me wrong, sometimes even this wasn't the case, and I remember walking home late one Saturday night from the bus stop, only to be accosted by 2 blokes who wanted the contents of my pockets. Knife crime wasn't common then, and certainly gun crime was a non-starter, so I defended myself. The would be mugger went home minus some front teeth and his tail between his legs. But, today with the way things are and if the same happened again, I would have given him my wallet, keys, deeds to my house and self dignity on the condition he didn't shoot me.
The reality is as stark as it would appear. The Police have taken the opinion that the area is a "dead loss." You aren't going to catch who did it, for the simple reason you would have no witnesses, no evidence, no modus operandi, and no case. So, in the meantime, it just gets worse and worse. John Carpenter had a real inspiration when he wrote "Escape from New York." Taking this area, walling it off and leaving them to all kill each other would possibly be a good idea. I can see it now. Escape from Upper Norwood.
Disturbing?

On Kid's Stories

2011-01-31T13:13:00.000Z

Someone told me this story a few years ago, and I don't think I've ever told it on here, so I thought I should share it with you all. The person in question is a teacher of primary school children, and had an idea to increase their vocabulary. It was quite simple, in that she had some quite adult words in a hat, and the 9 year old children had to pick one, take it home, find out what it meant, and then write a short story involving that word. Poor little Johnny (although this is for comedy purposes, I gather the real writer was a rather bright little girl) took the word "Frugal" home and looked it up in his Dad's concise dictionary. It reported to him it meant "to save," and so he came up with this story.

There was a poor princess, who lived with her evil stepfather. He locked her in a tower, were she would sit every day, and watch from the window. One day a handsome prince rode past on his horse.

"Frugal me, frugal me!" she cried from the window.

So the handsome prince climbed up the tower, frugalled her, and they lived happily ever after.

On Ice

2011-01-28T12:49:00.000Z

Apparently the world is getting warmer. That'll be why for the past 2 years the UK has run out of grit because of prolonged cold 'snaps'. People express surprise when, in December, it snows. The news on TV is inundated with reports from a little man in a field somewhere, telling us that the AA advise us not to travel unless we absolutely have to. This means we must only drive to get things from the shop we don't need "in case it gets worse," or to a park so we can take the kids sledging, or to somewhere to see how deep the snow really is (I mean, what's that all about???).
Meanwhile, here in Ireland, they don't really have snow. Which is lucky really, because judging by what I've seen when it gets icy, they wouldn't have a clue how to deal with deep white stuff. I dunno if they have snow ploughs. I don't even know if they have gritting lorries to be honest. I suspect the existing method is actually a bloke with a shovel stood on the back of a flat bed truck, flinging grit onto the road. And I say grit in the loosest sense of the word. Everywhere else susceptible to ice and snow has a stock of this invaluable product. It's normally rock salt, mixed with sand and flung across the road. The chemical reaction of the salt and the ice means the freezing point is lowered, and the ice then thaws. Over here they have the bright idea that stone chippings are the same thing. The grey fine gravel is flung across roads, with the belief that the sharp stones protrude through the ice, giving added traction. The reality is they might as well be ball bearings. Even if it's not icy, you can feel the car slide sideways on bends, or go straight on at junctions as the ABS melts by going into overdrive trying to stop you sliding. The following night you get a harder frost, or snow, and the chippings are now underneath a layer of slippery stuff, meaning the slippery stuff now slides on top of them and the vehicle or person on top of the slippery stuff slides in two directions at once. So, how do they deal with it? They send out another man with a shovel, again spreading more gravel across the slippery stuff now on top of the gravel on top of the slippery stuff you first had a week ago.
I just buy some dishwasher salt. Job done.

On the best medicine

2011-01-26T12:40:00.000Z

There is a wealth of crap on the internet in terms of videos. Admittedly, a tiny tiny proportion of it is mine (see blog post from 2 weeks ago), but a lot of it is a lot more popular than it should be. One of the biggest pages on youtube is of a baby biting another boy's finger...

This is just vomit-worthy cutesy-ness, but for some reason people (mostly women) find this adorable. This then leads me to my next point. Take another baby, and make it laugh. Guaranteed to have women saying "awwwww" and "bless," before they forward it on to all their friends. This'll be why it's had millions of hits.

But, my point is this. We love to watch things that involving someone laughing. We all watch the outtake tv shows where our favourite programmes are interrupted from filming by the actors laughing.

Again, priceless laughter guaranteed to have even my father smirking like a loon. But, and here's the point, we love to watch laughter. And boy did I find something good this week. TDT has a new phone, and I wanted some laughter to make her message tone, so it'll brighten her day each time she gets a message. And then I found a video. I think it's Larry the Cable Guy, interviewing three members of the audience. As he chats to the guy on the right, out of earshot on the guy in the middle. It would appear he has a contagious laugh. I nearly choked when I heard him, and have to share it with you. Presenting, the most contagious laughter ever...
Enjoy.

On dog toffee

2011-01-25T12:08:00.003Z

When I was a kid, one of the less endearing memories I have was of dog crap on the streets. Admittedly, this included the fabled white dog crap, with it's chalky, powdery texture that wouldn't stick to anything. I do remember however getting in trouble with my neighbour after treading in his dog's crap and then using his door step's corner to clean in between the grips of my trainers. Fortunately, people got civilised. Much like drink driving, letting your dog take a dump in a public place and leaving it meant that you were a social outcast if you committed this crime. Also, the advent of dog wardens meant that your dog no longer wandered the streets. And with a fine of £2,500 if you were caught letting your dog crap and not pooper scooping, people were safer to walk the streets.
And then I moved to Ireland.
Here, Dog Wardens exist. Apparently. In our road we have a good half a dozen pooches left to wander daily, scavenging from bins, chasing cars (yes, even the dog with the flat face, from chasing parked cars), and crapping everywhere. I think since we've moved over however, the same mutts have taken offence to Shallot's small "indoor fireworks" and want to mask his scent with theirs, so they have taken to dumping in our gardens on a biblical scale. Even worse, however, is that they've got a favourite place. The bit along the side of the drive. They have nice flat grass and concrete drive to stand on, so they use it more than anywhere else. This means that when we pull up the car in the drive, the favourite edge is on the driver's side of the car. In the day this is bad, but at night it's positively like Russian roulette. More than once I have walked into the house, sniffed, and realised I have gained a few millimetres in height and lost some traction on my shoe.
I plan on getting a pressure washer soon, so I can really clean the drive and then hopefully they'll leave it alone a bit more, or at least we'll be able to see it before we tread in it. Alternatively, I can take to scooping up the offending objects and dropping them back in the offending family's garden so they can stand in them instead. Any other advice would be appreciated?

On the best single Windows command ever

2011-01-20T13:37:00.000Z

You know what it's like. You want to back up everything on your pc, but not use some fancy-pants program to do the backing up. You just want to copy everything you're likely to want to keep to another drive, maybe a USB one or maybe another internal drive. The problem is, you don't want it to back up everything more than once. If it's not changed since the last time, then don't back it up again. And so, I started experimenting with the old dos command "xcopy." After a marathon reading session, I came up with this line...

xcopy /e /y /c /m /i %homedrive%%homepath%\*.* e:\backup\%username%

Obviously, change the e: to whichever drive you want to backup to. I even made it into a batch file I can keep on the desktop so I can just double click it, and it does the rest. It's far from perfect, but it's quick and effective. Please, help yourself to it. If you can use it, you should.

On Oops

2011-01-19T12:30:00.000Z

You know what it's like. Someone texts you, and you have to text back. This is not good in a) the swimming pool, b) driving, or c) whilst walking around a shopping centre with a fountain. No, really, it isn't. Even worse, don't let someone release the footage on youtube.
Oops.

More on Depression

2011-01-18T11:44:00.000Z

As mentioned before, I know I have bouts of depression. I know I have them, I know the signs, I know the symptoms, and I most importantly know they're not because of outside influences, but because of a chemical imbalance. When I stayed with Bryn last summer, he mentioned the direct link between depression and thyroid. I know I have a slightly screwy thyroid gland, sometimes over active, sometimes under active, and this would explain the feelings that I get. I also know my mother, her mother, and BLS all have the same problem, and this would explain depression in the family. TDT and I got talking last week about depression, and the effects and cures, and I mentioned the most excellent documentary from a few years ago, all about large funny man Stephen Fry. It was well documented that he has inner demons, and at one point he walked out of his West End stage show, and disappeared for a week. He was later diagnosed with bipolar disorder, better known as manic depression. He then embarked on a 2 hour programme where he met other depressives, celebrities or otherwise, what causes it, and how they deal with it. Robbie Williams (he of Take That) admits his binge drinking and drug taking was a way of masking his depression. He then realised that it was making it worse so he stopped the drug taking and cut back on the drinking (a well known depressant), and seems to have everything back in control. Richard Dreyfuss (he of "We're going to need a bigger boat") was a surprising addition to the list, big Hollywood actor and all that, but he took the simple step of taking lithium (Priadel) and now doesn't look back. Tony Slattery (he of Whose Line is it Anyway) is like me, and knows when it's bad, but soldiers on. Outside influences are not the cause, but don't help, and so soldiering on really is the only option. Taking Lithium, whilst completely making life normal, is not always the best option. And the problem is that once you take it, it's very difficult to stop. Stephen Fry takes no medication, but when he gets it bad, he gets it really bad and locks himself if he can. This was a tactic used by the most famous depressive, Spike Milligan. He would leave notes on his office door swearing at his family, and they knew not to disturb him.
Non celebrities in the programme included a woman who suffered for 20 years. She had herself sectioned for a year, and dealt with everything as best as she can. When she was released she started to change her diet, taking a lot of oily fish for Omega 3 and a lot of wholemeal products to flush out her system. It seems to be working for her, and she has returned part time to her job as a Doctor (!).
The problem with depression is it's still classed as a mental illness. I think it's time we reclassified it as a neurological disorder, so that it doesn't sound like a) you're a mental or b) you're ill. Both of these things can be the case, but more importantly most of the time you're not. You're just a normal human being, and should be treated as such. I personally think that a new word needs to be found, telling others that whilst something is wrong, it isn't catastrophic. As a former narcoleptic, I could use this new word, and as a depressive, I would also be able to take advantage. I just need a word. How about "Normal?"

On making Tom Cruise films.

2011-01-14T13:07:00.000Z

Here is my guide on how to make the midget scientologist Thomas Cruise Mapother IV even richer, by coming up with a guideline for most of his films.

Make his father disapprove of him. This way, he's constantly trying to prove himself throughout the film.
Make him have a slightly different job than your average Joe. Be it a race car driver (Days of Thunder), fighter pilot (Top Gun), Pool Hustler (Color of Money), Teenage Pimp (Risky Business), Barman (Cocktail), Lawyer (The Firm), Lawyer (A Few Good Men), Sports Agent (Jerry McGuire) or Car Dealer/Non-understand brother of an Autistic Savant (Rainman), he'll want to be the best in his field.
Along the way, he'll have a major hiccup where his girlfriend/wife/best friend will be either killed or leave him. He will completely lose the will to live, and will drop out of what ever task he's trying to become best at.
He'll end up going back to the same girlfriend/wife following a revelation he was trying to do his best.
He'll end up being the best of the best, getting what he wants the most, and everyone else in the film that's still alive looking up to him and admiring him.

Easy, see?

Duck Sauce

2011-01-12T13:58:00.002Z

You know how you hear a song, and think "I could have fun with that." Well, recently in shops and on the radio, I've been hearing a dance track with two words, "Barbra Streisand." The song is mind numbing but toe tapping, and so I wondered what would happen if I replaced the title name with some more obscure names of celebrities. Here's the end result.

Enjoy

On Irishisms

2011-01-11T11:59:00.001Z

Now as a bonefide Irishman (yeah, right), I can now make reference to Irishisms. Things that the Irish do without realising it.

That great Irish pastime, the 'craic' (pronounced crack). There is good craic, or no craic, but never bad craic. Ask someone what good craic is, and it'll involve copious amounts of alcohol, probably the pub, possibly live music, and a failure to recollect the whole evening the following day.
"Whisht." This means "shut the fuck up." It will follow on from "shhh," "Quiet," and "shut the fuck up."
"I'm my mother's daughter"/"I'm my father's son." No shit. It basically means you do the same as your equivalent gender parent. In my case this means I'll have to start to like Volvos (oh.), I'll complain about Microsoft (erm...), and I'll have no money (oops).
"My bladder's close to my eye." This means you can take a piss without getting up, and blame it on a sad storyline in Eastenders, Coronation Street or Panorama.
"Truth for me." Jedi knight you are. Reverse talking you do. What you get is what you say.
"How are ye?" Hello. It doesn't mean "How are you?" so shouldn't be responded to with "I'm fine" or a list of ailments. In fact, the best way of responding to this to say "How are you" back.
"Where in England are you from?" is to be promptly replied to with "Wales/Scotland." If they then say "it's still England," I find a nice response is to say that "Ireland is British." Guaranteed to prove a point.

I'm sure TDT can add more, watch this space.

On money saving technology

2011-01-10T13:50:00.000Z

TDT and I don't have a landline for the phone. Eircom, the national Irish telecommunications company, are in TDT's words, "thieving bastards." This means that we can't get a landline installed into the house unless we submit two of our more vital limbs into their bank account, and neither of us are keen on that. So, at the moment, we get our broadband via a microwave link, on what is basically a large wireless network with transceivers on the chimney and a modem in the house.
The problem with this system is that we are tied to one ethernet cable for internet access, and we're also restricted to static IP addresses. I have hooked up a router, but still need to designate IP addresses to each and every device I want to connect to the net. I'm allowed one, but currently use 3 (!). I will get a router with the ability to designate IP addresses for me (DHCP), but financial constraints (aka I'm skint) mean I haven't been able to yet.
Now the problem with this set up is we can't get a landline via the wireless system. Or can we? We all know about Skype (dunno if it works with Windows 98 Debster, sorry), the incredibly popular VOIP (Voice over internet protocol) software. Well Skype also does a money making aspect, called Skype In/Skype Out. This means you can get a geographical phone number, and you can call landlines. When you set it up, you can 'lie' about where you are, so you can get a US Phone number even if you're not in the US. Or, more importantly, you can get a British phone number if you're in Ireland. The problem with Skype is it's a bit of a brand name, and it also needs a PC. So let's tackle the last problem first. What about getting what looks like a standard phone, but uses the Internet instead of a landline. Skype offer Skype Phones. These plug into your router (when you finally get one *cough*) and connect using voip. The problem is, they're not cheap. Typically £90 upwards for the phone, and then the subscription to Skype afterwards. Skype should take a leaf out of mobile phone companies' books, and give away a phone if you sign up for a year. So, the alternative? Get out of Skype's way, and go independent.
We had a Tesco Internet phone, which was lovely, until it stopped working. 2 months after I got it, it failed. No more calls, no more number. Bugger. I did get my money back however, after a slight wrangle with the fuckwits at Tesco ("No Mr. Aitch, you can't have your money back. No, having an email saying you can doesn't help. No I know it doesn't work. No I don't care"). I took the money and spent it accordingly, and got myself a most excellent Siemens C475IP for what was at the time about £80. I also got me a VOIP subscription. I say that, but in reality I already had one with Plus Net. So, after a bit of wrangling, I had a new UK phone number working and people in the UK can call me on a UK number (so to most people this means free) and I get the call here. The thing is, and this is the really clever bit, I wanted to use it here as well. I came across Blueface, a company with offices in the UK and Ireland. I got me an Irish number, and using one of the 7 left over slots, I can now receive calls into an Irish landline number. Alongside the British one. Yay. In fact I can have up to 8 accounts, in 8 different countries. The UK is covered by Plus Net, and in fact I get money from them per month from recommendations, so this pays for the UK number. I also get 240 minutes of UK landline calls. The Irish number cost about €10 a month, and I get 300 minutes for free to any Irish landline number. I am looking at a US number, so BLS and BOF (the new nickname for my father, Boring Old Fart) can call me for free. I'm not going to pay for any minutes with that though, so it'll only cost me about $3.50 a month.
The thing is, with this kind of technology, it has to be beneficial to companies to have these systems if they deal abroad. As long as your internet supports it, and it's all working well, then it has to be a boon. I must admit, I have teething problems. Most common is making a call. It'll bleep to say it's dialling, then after 20 seconds come back to tell me the other person isn't accepting my call. I know this isn't the case, and it can be really frustrating. The other thing is sometimes the internet can slow down, and the phone sort of goes into safe mode. It allows calls out, but anyone phoning in will get a "person not available" message. If they leave a message however, I get a notification as soon as it can notify me.
These are all side effects of new technology, and I can put up with them. Part of being a pioneer when it comes to new technology. In the meantime, I can be saving as much as €30 a month by not having the landline and paying for the line rental. This has to be a good thing?

On the 12 days of Christmas

2011-01-06T12:21:00.001Z

And so, as the 12 days pass by, TDT had pushed the boat out with gifts for me. I've gone deaf from the 12 drummers now in the sitting room (I'm not allowed to call it the lounge) and the 22 pipers piping. The cat's been hiding in the corner, avoiding the 30 parliamentary peers and 36 women dancing around a handbag. Meanwhile, out in the backgarden we're going to have to re-turf the grass after having 40 cows being milked, and the water tank in the loft is all clogged up with feathers from the 42 swans. The 42 geese in the utility room are even noisier then the drummers and pipers, and the influx of eggs is even more disturbing when they will be starting to hatch. I have to admit I am however delighted in the 40 gold rings, of which I can use to pay for the repairs that'll be needed doing. Up in our bedroom it's positively become a menagerie, what with 36 calling birds, 30 french hens, 22 turtle doves and 12 partridges. The smell, oh my, the smell, you have no idea! It's kind of ironic, when you those that know TDT know how scared she is of birds.
12 days of Christmas? Bring on the Easter eggs.

Water water everywhere, and not a drop to drink.

2010-12-30T11:50:00.000Z

The water in Majorca don't taste like what it oughta. And the water in Clare just isn't there. Yes, in the 21st century, in a country surrounded by water, and on an estuary for the longest river in the country at 230 miles, we have no water. It was on Christmas Day that we noticed the cold water in the kitchen had stopped working. We were just recovering from a week of serious minus temperatures as low as -12C (8F in old money) and had got used to the shower not working. The shower had however now come back, and we weren't worried about the cold tap in the kitchen because we could just use the water from upstairs. We now know that this was because the water upstairs comes from a tank in the loft, and the water downstairs comes straight from the main. This was discovered after the toilet cistern no longer was refilling and the water also went from upstairs. The front of the local newspaper has the headline "The Clare Drought," and is full of bilious comments about how it wouldn't have happened if such and such a political party was in power, or because of the immigrants, or because of aliens. The truth is the frozen weather damaged a lot of pipes, and the thaw meant that leaking had drained the local reservoir. The council had one choice, turn off the water to everyone and ration the water. So, this I can cope with. I can understand that it's needed. I can also understand the importance of the restrictions. What I can't understand is that the water is only available between 10 and 12 in the morning. 2 hours a day, and all the local residents have to queue to fill their collected water bottles. We have 4 bottles, totalling 20 litres. I can use one of those bottles just flushing the loo, I can use another doing any washing up. So, I can spend 30 minutes queuing for the water, and by the time I've used it, I can find that it's gone past 12 and I have to wait another day to get more. So, drastic measures have been called for. We're leaving later today for the land of the free and watered, Galway. We're booked into a hotel where we're going to drink large amounts of water, bath and shower, swim maybe and do lots of other things with the water we haven't got here. In the meantime, the official comment from the guy dishing out the water at the standpipe in the village centre when asked when the water was coming back on was "Christmas." Maybe the guy has water on the brain. All I know is we don't. We don't have any water anywhere.

On Christmas

2010-12-24T13:18:00.000Z

Just a quick message to wish you all a Nadolig Llawen, Nollaig Shona Diabh and Merry Christmas from Tania and me. Best wishes for all of my readership in 2011, and hope your God brings you everything you want. I know mine has.

On old friends

2010-12-23T11:51:00.000Z

Six doors away from me lived Jonathan He was a year and a half older than me, and a lonely child, so eventually it was inevitable that we became friends. Being a typical child of the 80s, we'd play on each other's computers. I had the Spectrum (All hail the Spectrum!) and he'd wanted to be different and so he got an Atari (!) 800XL. We also had similar tastes in music, and we'd both spend the summer holidays sat in his backgarden listening to Phil Collin's album Sussudio or the Miami Vice soundtrack. He was of similar build, so we'd find ourselves in the same clothes shops, and whereas I couldn't afford a lot of clothes, he worked for his Dad and would buy the latest fashions. I'll never forget the day he got himself a cotton suit and cotton loafers without socks just in the style of a certain Don Johnson character.
As we grew up together, we slowly worked our way through our firsts. We first got drunk together, and spent our first alcohol fuelled new years eve together in the pub in Crystal Palace. I got my first Saturday job through him, when he was the manager of the shoe concession in Burton's in Croydon. I'd spend my Saturdays advising people on shoes and trainers, from our dark and dingy corner, for a substantial £1.46 an hour. The problem with Jon was that sometimes his loyalties would appear elsewhere when it came to his 'best friend.' One such time was whilst working for Burton's. Jon and I would cycle to work and cycle home again, and it was around this time that he thought it would be funny for him and the branch manager to tamper with my bike. So they loosened the gears and sure enough on the way home the back wheel jammed, sending me over the handlebar and into the path of a car. He passed off the event as "Meh, you just can't take a joke."
Another time, I'd got into trouble with the Police. His mother was a very prominent stalwart, and neighbourhood watch coordinator (see 'curtain twitcher'), and made it clear that obviously the trouble making child that hung around with her son was responsible for 'things' going missing from the house. I knew otherwise, and my misguided loyalty meant that I took the wrap for him stealing foreign currencies from his father to buy a posh walkman and new bike.
When I moved away from the area, we'd meet up still. I'd catch the bus from Reading into London's Victoria, and he'd catch the train up there, and we'd spend the Saturday night in the bar by the station. As I moved away from the area, I kept in touch. He had a job a stone's throw from Buck House in London, working for what was then Midland Bank. We'd meet up regularly in the Blue Post pub, scene of the Blogger's bloody big booze up 2 years ago. Around the time John was born, he came and spent the weekend with BLS at our humble little flat in Southend, and spent a few other weekends there as well. It was only when he got promoted and transferred to Jersey the visits stopped. I'd chat to him on the phone, but we wouldn't see each other very often. Meanwhile, I moved to Manchester, and knew meeting up would be even more difficult. The following Christmas we'd made a plan. He was due back from Jersey, and was going to come and visit. We were then going to take a trip to Sedburgh, on the Scottish Border, where we could spend the night in a pub, good food, good conversation, and a general good old catch up. I wasn't working at the time, so I pulled out all the stops to ensure I had enough money to go with him. I sold things that could be replaced, and sure enough the night before he was due I had saved £150 for the much looked forward to night out. The phone rang...
"Hi Rik, it's Jon."
"Hi Jon. How's you, how was the trip over to the mainland?"
"It was fine. I'm just calling to let you know I won't be up. I can't be bothered."
"What, at all?"
"No, not at all."
I argued with him, almost begging him, but it was futile. I was hurt, but in the end I thought "oh well. We'll see each other soon." I sent him a Christmas card, care of his Mum. I didn't get one in return. I sent him a birthday card 7 months later for his 21st. I didn't get an acknowledgement. I tried writing to him, sending more cards, generally keeping the friendship alive, but it looked like his mother had finally got her wish. He didn't want contact with me, and I haven't seen him since.
Merry Christmas Jon.

On Christmas TV

2010-12-22T14:46:00.002Z

We just watched one of the greatest moments in Only Fools and Horses history. Batman and Robin.

Enjoy.

On snow

2010-12-17T13:35:00.002Z

Here in Ireland, we're devoid of snow on an epic level. The weather forecasters are saying it'll snow, the whole of the UK is under a foot of icy coldy stuff, a weather front is moving from the Arctic south, and yet the locals all say "It's Clare. It doesn't snow here."
Bastards.
Meanwhile, I remember one of the more fun aspects I had of snow as a teenager. My neighbours had all helped clear the road outside my house, and because our garden was longer than anyone else's, they dumped the clearage on what was the front lawn. This meant that we had something new to play in, a large heap of compacted snow, about 4 feet high, 15 feet long and about 6 feet wide. We started with snowballs, as you do, but soon moved on to something far more constructive. Starting at one end, I created an opening, and started to hollow out the snow. Before long, I had a not inconsiderable room cut into the pile of snow. I also took what snow I had hollowed out, and put it on top of the pile, meaning I could raise the roof inside the impromptu igloo. Within a couple of hours, myself and my mate Jonathan had a warm and cosy room, where we were capable of sitting upright and out of the cold and dark that had now descended on suburbia. The problem was, from the air, we'd have a long sausage shape with a large bulge at one end. We'd created the first eskimo domicile in the shape of a penis. Something had to be done and so, the following morning, we started at the other end. By sunset we'd created another substantial snow cavern, almost identical in size and shape, at the other end. The problem was, the "pen-ice" had now changed to a gigantic snow sculpture of a half buried cartoon bone. And so, over the course of the next few days (we were both off school, and had hours and hours of free time to play), we slowly moved towards the middle from each end.
As we neared each other, I decided to cheat. I went into my garage, and taking a bar from an old roof rack, I carefully shoved it into the snow wall between us. As I drilled through to Jon's end, I heard a "Yes, I can see the pole." I then hit the end with my gloved hand, and poor Jon got a long rusty pole into the front of his face.
"FUCK!" came the cry. "WHAT THE FUCK IS YOUR PROBLEM? You nearly had my eye out."
"*snerk*"
"It's not funny."
"Yes it is."
*thud*
"FUCK! YOU BASTARD. YOU DIDN'T HAVE TO DO IT BACK!"
"*guffaw*"
He did have a point though. We had about 3 feet of snow between us, and the now not insubstantial hole between us was letting the air through. The previously cosy and warm igloo in a cul-de-sac in Upper Norwood had become a slightly drafty and not so pleasant place. We realised as we opened it up we'd actually created a wind tunnel, with the iciest of winds running through it. This was a really really bad thing. I remember that it was dark outside, and with the aid of a couple of candles, we worked like a couple of tunnellers in Stalag Luft 3, chipping away at the wall. The following morning we blocked up the end of the igloo that Jon had made, and we again had a large cosy igloo, with enough room for about 12 kids. Sure enough, the neighbourhood kids came to play. The problem is, the neighbourhood thug also appeared. He was apparently impressed, and when we told him he had more chance of becoming an angelic choir girl then getting in, he stomped home, lonely and neglected.
The next day the sun came out, the thaw started, and the igloo collapsed. The rest of the streets for miles around got very wet and very drippy, and devoid of snow. Our front garden, therefore, became the central meeting point as every child from 3 to 23 had a stock of snowballs, and tried to hold to the winter as long as possible.
I want snow!!!

In memory

2010-12-16T11:26:00.000Z

Back in 1996, I was in the process of moving to South Wales when Sharon asked if I'd mind popping to his mate's to help him install a word processor on his PC. I happened to have my disks (yes, floppy disks, remember them kids?) with Word for Windows 6.1 on them, and so went along to help out.
Judge was receptive to the free software, and afterwards we met up a couple of times for drinks and a laugh. Unfortunately I started working away from home, and didn't see him as much as I did and we lost touch. A little while later and I'd passed my driving test, and whilst out for a spin one day I knocked on his door. The young lady that greeted me (I later found out it was his sister) told me that he'd moved just a few doors up, and I knocked on his door. He was so pleased to see me. We spent the evening, chewing the fat. He'd been working in Poland a lot, and had met and got engaged to a young Polish lass, and was looking forward to life. A couple of weeks later he needed to pick up his son (from his first marriage) and needed a lift. I was happy to help and we spent the day in and around Swansea.
At the time he was quality engineer for a large motor wiring loom manufacturer, and held a position of high esteem. It was shortly afterwards that they announced they were shutting down the plant, with the loss of 800 jobs, but he was one of the 31 that was staying. He worked for a short while in the area, before getting promotion and moving to Romania to set up a new factory with his new bride. Things didn't go to plan and he returned home, looking pale and unwell. He'd quit the job, the stress was killing him, and I was glad the have my old friend back.
Every Friday he'd finish work early (Poet's day, y'see), and we'd spend the afternoon and evening at his place or mine, playing Warcraft 2 against each other, watching movies, chatting, and generally doing things friends do. In 2004, I was faced with homelessness and he was there to help us find a new home. I was so fed up at that point, I just wanted to bury my head in the sand, but he drove me on and helped immensely. Meanwhile he started to face his own demons, and admitted that he liked a drink a little too much to be healthy. I'd never considered him as having a drink problem, but he'd lost his driving licence and was unemployed and sitting at home all day seemed to be a perfect breeding ground for the problem. In the meantime, our friendship went from strength to strength. He got a free kitchen (see here), we went to the Red Bull Air Race together, we went camping together, and generally did loads of things together. The whole time he didn't seem to have any real problems. He was looking for a job, and was also repairing PCs at the same time. His wife was working in Swansea, and was the main breadwinner. He got a job as a night watchman/receptionist for Premier Inn in Swansea, and that's when the chinks started to show. He would come home, drink a bottle of Vodka, and pass out on the settee. He'd started to go to Alcoholics Anonymous, and was taught that he had an illness. This in his eyes meant that it was ok to drink, and as long as he knew that. A few times he was late to work again in the evening, and eventually he lost his job there. He then got a job selling beds in a supermarket about 20 miles away. Again, with no transport, he was either walking there (leaving at 4am) or getting a taxi and owing the driver. It took it's toll on him, and he hit the bottle. This then took it's toll on his marriage, and he split up from his most excellent wife. He ended up helping out someone with a house needing doing up in the back of beyond, and trying to come of the drink once and for all. It was at this time that I lost touch with him. Without a phone, and miles from anyone, he was uncontactable.
About a year later and Sharon was shopping in Port Toilet, when a voice boomed out his name from behind the tills in the supermarket. It was Judge, and he was living in Port Toilet, in a rehabilitation centre. He was looking grey, dishevelled and unkempt, but the old laughter was identifiable. I then had him add me on facebook last year, and whilst in the area I met up with him for the afternoon. He had a local pub, and still drank heavily, but he seemed to have it in check. He was a single man, in his 40s, enjoying a bit of freedom. I tried to catch up with him a couple more times when in the area, but failed. Then I got an email from his now ex-wife last night. He'd been admitted to hospital last week with liver and kidney failure and had passed away yesterday afternoon. He'll be missed terribly.

Rest in Peace, Andrew.

Ok, who answered correctly?

2010-12-14T16:12:00.001Z

Here's the answers to last week's music quiz.

Track 1: Maggie May, by Rod Stewart
Track 2: Ain't no sunshine, by Bill Withers
Track 3: Country Road, by John Denver
Track 4: Brown Sugar, by the Rolling Stones.
Track 5: Riders on the storm, by the Doors.

Now you know the answers, does anyone care to guess what links them all?

And here's this week's question, in the same vein...

On Christmas Parties

2010-12-13T20:27:00.000Z

It was Christmas 2001 I last went to a Christmas party. Pontardawe College's Christmas bash was in a pub in the town hysterically named "The Other Place." This wasn't the only hysterical feature of the party. The "excellent" food was laughable. Cold, small and miserable, it was pathetic. I left at 7pm, and stopped at the chippy on the way home.
Before that, the last Christmas party I'd been to was in 1997. We ended up in a cafe bar in the village, myself, Sharon and the boss all sat together whilst the other boys of the main shop floor had a competition to see who could drink the most vile concoction quickest without blowing chunks. Meanwhile, the 3 of us left and headed to a pub no longer in circulation. I've only ever been there twice in my life, and all I will ever remember is the smell of feet. Big, sweaty feet, worse than mine, and definitely worse than TDT's.
So, Friday saw me returning to the land of the drunken office party, with the office joker trying to get off with the office bike in the gents toilet. TDT had a real bee in her bonnet, I had to make myself presentable. I got a new pair of trousers (TDT left my smart ones back in Wales), a new shirt (TDT left my smart ones back in Wales) and a new tie (TDT left my smart ones back in Wales). I also had to get my jacket dry cleaned. We got me a haircut, nice short and tidy (ish), a good hot shave, eye brows decluttered, ears cleaned, and even that horrible gooey yellow stuff out from between my toes. The pic above is the result. I have also got an amazing picture of us both made into a keyring, but as yet have not got it scanned in. Apparently I scrub up well. TDT always does anyway, as you can see.
Anyway, we had a great night. I won't go into details, but needless to say we ate, drank, and got very merry. We played a large game of Guess who, and I went out in the first round (apparently the Red M&M is male, who'd of thought it?) TDT won a voucher for somewhere, for some amount. But neither of us can remember what happened to it, where it was, or how much. I won a scratchcard for the lottery. I nearly won €10,000, but didn't. I embarrassed TDT by having a really good conversation with the big big boss, and he was genuinely interested in our story.
Unfortunately this would be the last time the whole company will be together for Christmas parties, redundancies are starting next year. In the meantime, another work related festivity will be chalked up to experience. Maybe next year it'll be TDT coming to mine, not the other way round. I do hope so.

On gauging couples

2010-12-10T12:56:00.000Z

I had a dream. No, it didn't involve freedom for all men peace in our time. It involved taking couples and working out their 3 letter name. So, according to my theory, TDT and I would be RAT. Rik and TDT. Easy. So then I got thinking about others.
BLS and Cuz'n Doug would be SAD. *guffaw*
Welsh Druid Bryn would be BAD.
Pseudonymph would be KAG. Sounds like an Aussie word if ever I heard one.
Scaryduck would be AAV. Maybe he should set up a computer firm called "AAV IT."
My Dad has been AAR, AAJ, AAR2, AAE (never a truer word said on that one!) or currently AAP.
TDT's Colleague Mary, and her husband Des. Yes. MAD.

Do you have any you can think of? Maybe have a ponder over the weekend. TDT and I are off to drink a hotel dry at the company's Christmas party. My liver can't take much more of this.

Ireland, the truth...

2010-12-09T15:52:00.001Z

'Nuff said.

Name the music tracks...

2010-12-07T16:59:00.003Z

Answers please...

On Irish economies.

2010-12-06T15:45:00.000Z

And so, our friend Brian Cowen has managed to get us a loan. As he breaks out the champagne, the citizens will be paying for a loan of a staggering 8 Billion Euros. And how did they end up in this situation?
When Ireland wanted to join the Euro, one of the conditions was they became more "European" instead of "British." The pound would be going, the country would go metric, they'd improve to road system, and the farmers in Kerry would stop shagging sheep (I know I know, that's rich). And the cost of this was to be burdened by the country's people.
So, first they made everything metric. This means that every roadsign had to be remade, every car had to now be sold with KPH instead of MPH, every steak in the butchers would be sold in Kilos per Euro instead of Pounds per pound.
The roads were in Brussels' eyes woefully inadequate (something even the Irish would have to sort of agree with), and so the transport budget was to be thrown away, and a new one was to be spent on nothing else except motorways. This is still happening, a decade later. Meanwhile, the other roads fall into decay, road users have to replace shock absorbers and tyres more regularly because of potholes, and in a round about way they have again burdened the cost. Oh, and road tax went up. A lot.
So, as they moved into the Euro, they were incredibly powerful with their new found wealth and not insubstantial exchange rate. This lead to the Celtic Tiger, something I thought was like the Beast of Bodmin or The Loch Ness Monster until last week. The Celtic Tiger was a boom time for builders, and anyone associated directly with the industry. Real tradesmen were wringing their hands with glee as they cleaned up. As the rest of Europe took their new found, the government just taxed the hell of out of it's patrons. And then the money dried up.
So, Cowen got us a bail out. Apparently until the bail out, the country had enough money to last until July. Now they have enough money to keep afloat, and yet the penny pushers in Dublin can take more from us, and will. The budget's tomorrow, and everyone is reeling, expecting the (predictably) high taxes, price increases and general curbing on spending. And this is what then gets my goat.
The cost of living over here on the surface is about 200% the cost of the UK. A pint is about €5. A packet of 20 cigarettes is about €8. So, if you want to save money, don't go to the pub. Don't smoke, or at least cut back. And most importantly, shop around and find where things are cheapest. They have "LALDI" here, and whilst it seems to be based around the Polish population, it is a lot cheaper then most places. Tesco are slowly moving into new markets, much like they did 20 years ago in the UK, now selling TVs, clothes and even mobile phones (just). And the real money spinner in my opinion is technology. IT companies are charging a fortune! People moan and bitch about it, get lousy poor service, move onto another company, buy spares from the high street, and basically pay for everything two or three times more than they should. Ebuyer, my supplier of choice, ship to Ireland. They charge UK prices, and people over here are horrified to see what they get and how much cheaper it can be. Last week I spoke to someone about my favourite router. He'd got it for over €100 from his ISP, the nationalised communications company Eircom. I mentioned that buying it online is only €25-€30, and he then said "ah yes, but this was easier."
And there in lies the problem. If you want cheap, then work for it. If you don't mind paying through the nose, don't complain when it costs more. It won't help the budget, but it might help yours. Tell me I'm wrong, please?

Infantile and Childish

2010-12-01T17:09:00.000Z

Yes, I know it's infantile and childish, but it's funny. For those of you with snow, it's a good idea. For those of you without snow, find something else to occupy yourselves with...

On bad answers

2010-11-30T12:57:00.000Z

So, here for your entertainment, is the answers given at last week's quiz. You can see why we didn't win.

What gas is the earth's atmosphere 80% made up of? - I said Nitrogen, TDT wrote down Hydrogen. Can you imagine the fun to be had with voices and naked flames.
Where are Hyundai cars made? I said Korea, then (in)corrected myself and changed it to Malaysia. Oops.
What is the capital of Haiti? (we did get this right in the end...) Porter Prints. *cough*
What is Tiger Woods' real first name? Leopard.
Where was snooker invented? Scotland. Something I'm sure of, because it was invented by golfers unable to get on the course.
When did England first win the Rugby World Cup? I said 1992. I was right. Eddie, God of all things Rugby, said 1996. I was outvoted.
Who refereed Saturday's Rugby game between Ireland and South Africa (Not sure on the Irish opponent, but I'm taking a wild guess) Brian Cowen. We were closer then some of the answers.
Where are the Lachrymal Glands? Lac = Lactate, so I said in the boobs. It was enough to make a man cry.
Who's this? I thought it looked like Sarah Jessica Parker. Gordon Ramsey would disagree.
What were we doing, expecting to actually win? Pissing in the wind, I think.

On Poorly Pussies

2010-11-29T11:50:00.001Z

Poor Shallot. His persistence in spraying, and the ensuing smell meant that he had to become slightly less male. So an appointment was made for him to be neutered. The phone call to the vet on Wednesday was interesting.
"How much will it be?" I asked.
"Between €45 and €60" came the reply.
TDT and I started to ponder what the price difference could entail. She asked was it dictated by the size of the bits, whereas I replied that it might be if they have to use nail scissors or garden shears.
*watches the male readers grimace*
Meanwhile, the vet was welcoming on a chilly Thursday morning. Whilst I was there, I asked him to check out Shallot's teeth, because he had problems eating and would sometimes let out a scream. The vet explained that he could give the cat a full dental examination, cleaning away any tartar (why he'd been eating a fish sauce, I've no idea) and plaque, and removing any teeth beyond repair.

Sure enough, I got the call mid afternoon to go and collect him. The vet produced a small bottle, with cotton wadding inside. I knew by his body language he was going to show me something unpleasant. Poor Shallot had broken two teeth side by side in the past, and now the raw nerves were sticking out from the broken teeth. You can see the image here, but be warned, it's not for the squeamish. Meanwhile, Shallot returned home in a slightly shaken state. He went for a walk in the garden, and fell over. So, I returned him to his favourite bed and he slumbered. In the evening he appeared when he heard TDT's voice (as he always does), with a face as if to say "What have you both done to me?" before returning to TDT's seat where he zonked all evening. The vet had told me he'd be thirsty, so plenty of water or milk to drink. I know he doesn't drink water because he can't really see it, so I gave him milk. Those who know cats know that this is a bad thing, because it can cause diarrhoea. Next morning saw TDT helping him down from his corner, and she was shocked to hear dribbling on the floor. Yes, Shallot had become a squitty kitty. TDT left for work making "boilk" noises. I know I shouldn't find this funny. But I do, ok? Shallot, meanwhile, is all back to normal. In fact, he seems so relieved that his toothache has gone that he hasn't seemed to realise that his knackers are now in a cheap Tesco packet of Sausages somewhere.

More on pub quizzes

2010-11-26T11:25:00.003Z

And so, Saturday night saw us invited to the local fundraiser of the children's division of the Rugby Club. Our invitees, Barbara and Eddie, had asked us along weeks ago, and we knew we'd have a hoot. As TDT and I got ready, we had a likkle drinky, her usual Vodka and Coke, and I treated myself to 4 cans of Bulmer's Berry. This drink is a sort of alcoholic Ribena, and is very tasty. This is not a good thing.

We went into town on a clear but chilly evening. Arriving far too early for the hall where the quiz was to be open, we migrated to a tiny typically Irish pub where the barmaid couldn't do enough for us. I almost felt guilty leaving. They also had Bulmers Berry in cans. When we returned to the hall, (A converted church, now a large hotel) we settled in and prepared to make mincemeat of the competition. At the front was a large projector screen, and the questions were displayed on there as well as being read out by the question master. Each round (10 in all) was punctuated with adverts for sponsors. For example, "Now the sports round, sponsored by Daly's Sports Shop, for all your Rugby needs," or "Coming up next, the round on Sexually Transmitted Diseases, sponsored by Durex and available in the toilets of this establishment."
I then found out that they have Bulmers Berry in pint bottles. Yum! No, we didn't win. In fact I'd go so far as to say we lost. I did however win a rugby ball. Barbara and Eddie won a tin of Roses (mmmm, choklit) amd a bottle of Hennessy Brandy (mmmm, alcohol). We left about midnight, after what seemed like a scene from a West End Farce as one person went to the loo, another went to talk to someone about the kids Rugby game in the morning, the third went off to the cashpoint. Finally we all reunited in the reception, and agreed to head up into the main town. I had heard about the nightlife in the town, and boy was it how I imagined it. We went into a late night pub with added bouncers, where a band was playing well but too loudly (I sound like my Dad). The place was heaving, and we found a table right at the back with enough room for Barbara and TDT to sit down. Fortunately, next door was a quieter room, looking decidedly empty and easier to get more Bulmers Berry, so we went into there. In the corner was a DJ, packing up after his stint, and we sat and chatted. I say 'we,' meaning me, TDT and Eddie. Barbara was on a mission just to hold her head up at this point. She'll be the first to admit the table looked very tempting as a pillow, and they left before us. As TDT did her usual trick of buying 16 Large Vodkas and Cokes at last orders, this meant that the bouncers were pestering us to leave and we eventually left just before 3. We'd discovered Barbara's handbag was still with us, and as I texted Eddie from her phone to let them know it was safe, he appeared at my shoulder. He'd been home, realised they had no bag and no keys, left poor Barbara snoozing on a window sill, and dashed back into town. The three of us stumbled back out into the street. Eddie said his goodbyes again, and raced off into the night. TDT was doing her best Boeing impression, with arms outstretched and "weeeeeeee" noise as we walked down the street.
"I want something to eat" she begged.
"No you don't. You'll be fine. Please, let's just get a taxi and go home." I replied.
"No, I want something. I really do."
Eventually I agreed we'd get something to eat. The local kebab shop ("Abrakebabra") and a chippy had queues out of the door, so we headed over to the other side of town to a Burger joint. It was busy. but not as busy, so TDT carried on with her one sided conversation.
"What do you want to eat?"
"I don't want anything."
"Really. I'll get you something."
"No, don't. Just get yourself something."
She disappears inside, whilst I stay outside and watch the 16 year old bimbos in miniskirts flirt with the local Garda (Police).
"I got you a chicken burger and chips, ok?"
So much for not eating. We walked up to the town centre and the main taxi rank. TDT is waving at any and every car, in the hope it's a taxi. "I can't see if it's a taxi or not" she says, "so if it is, they'll stop for me." The bright light on the roof with Taxi written on it should have been a sign. Literally. As we wait for a taxi, a man is stood atop a local monument shouting. "I'm on top of the monument. I'm taking my top off. I'm going to strip for you all." Another Garda appears, and he carries on. "Ok, I'm not going to strip any more. I'm going to put my top back on. I'm now stepping down from the monument..."
Meanwhile, TDT is still stood in road, flagging down vans, bicycles, Police Cars.
"Why won't anyone stop for me?"
"Because they're not taxis."
The Garda that saw off the Monument stripper was now standing alongside us.
"Wha's with the taxis?" TDT slurs. "Where are they?"
"I'm sure one will be along in a minute madam." he courteously, if not slightly wearily replied.
"But I've *hic* been waiting fer agessssss. Can't you do something?"
"It'll be fine madam. There'll be one along in a minute."
"Do you have a car?"
Yes. TDT had resorted to desperation. She wanted a lift home in a Police Car. Not good. Luckily, just at that moment, a Taxi pulled up. We clambered inside and headed the 3 miles for home. Inside, the driver was of African descent. Very dark, he had a friendly smile and was quite chatty. I was asking him about how busy he'd been when a booming voice from the back seat chimed up.
"Where are you from?" Obviously making reference to him being from far afield.
"Ennis" he replied.
"Ennis? Oh." TDT said. Not the answer she was expecting, she went back to cooing about her bag of food, still waiting to be eaten.
We got in and ate, and I finally retired just after 4. TDT had said she'd follow me up, and was sat eating and checking facebook. I went out like a light.
I was woken up at 6:30 by that "gnnngh" feeling from my stomach. TDT was still downstairs, I could hear the snoring. I went to the loo, and returned to bed. Half an hour later and the big white phone in the bathroom was ringing. I answered it, it was God, and he was treated to purple vomit of the highest order. TDT came upstairs.
"You ok, m'love?"
"Do I, *boilk*, sound *ack* ok?"
"Do you want me to come and rub your back?"
"No. It won't help."
I finished what was needed, and returned to bed. We bother stayed there until 2 in the afternoon. I have been put off Bulmers berry, and even drinking isn't that tempting anymore.
Well, it wasn't. Today's another day...

On the greatest Canadian TV show ever.

2010-11-24T14:33:00.001Z

I have to admit, I do like some daytime TV. I'm addicted to Bargain Hunt, and deliberately sit down every day with my lunch to watch two muppets lose £130 on a pair of faux silver candlesticks. Immediately afterwards however, at the moment, is the best Canadian TV show ever. Back in 1995 I remember a new series being shown at 8pm on Monday nights on the BBC, all about a Mountie who had followed his father's (and hero's) murderer to Chicago. He has learnt everything about being a most excellent constable, but nothing about the ways of the world. He's dramatically polite, eloquent, dry and calculated. He also comes with a deaf wolf sidekick (!) and the ghost of his now dead father haunting him. He made friends with the wideboy US/Italian Chicago detective, and through bureaucracy, ends up living in Chicago, where he works for the Canadian Consulate as a doorman (!). He spends his time then help his fellow detective, solving crimes in a truly inspired way. Yes, of course I'm talking about Due South, the best Cop show ever.

It went on to also have guest star Leslie Nielsen, as the slightly unhinged officer. It was nice to see him doing such a strong role, with such a strong cast. Now admittedly, towards the end of it's life, it just got silly. Vecchio, the US detective was replaced by someone else, but insisted he was the same person. Frasier (the main character) was going off the rails too often. They blew up Vecchio's 1971 Buick Riviera every episode, and even though there were only 48 left in circulation according to him, they would find another by the next episode. They should have stuck with the original cast, similar story lines, and the most excellent background music. So, this week's video is a homage to Due South.

Enjoy.

On pub quizzes.

2010-11-23T12:35:00.000Z

In a tale of woe to follow on Thursday, I went to a quiz for the local Rugby Club on Saturday night. There were four of us in the team. TDT's friends Barbara (specialist subjects, General Knowledge and gossip columns) and Eddie (specialist subject, sport), TDT (specialist subject, filling in the answer form) and me (specialist subject, the crap that no-one else should ever know). We didn't win, but we did have some real pearlers when it came to wrong answers. So, this week, I'll give you some of the questions we failed historically badly, and I'd like you to guess at the answers given. Obviously, TDT, you can't answer these questions...

What gas is the earth's atmosphere 80% made up of?
Where are Hyundai cars made?
What is the capital of Haiti? (we did get this right in the end...)
What is Tiger Woods' real first name?
Where was snooker invented?
When did England first win the Rugby World Cup?
Who refereed Saturday's Rugby game between Ireland and South Africa (Not sure on the Irish opponent, but I'm taking a wild guess)
Where are the Lachrymal Glands?
Who's this?
What were we doing, expecting to actually win?

Answers on a postcode... etc etc.

On Bullying

2010-11-18T11:55:00.000Z

As the resident fat kid, I was a) subjected to bullying, and b) a good bully. Unfortunately, my good nature (you there, stop laughing) meant that I was better at being bullied than being the bully. I don't really remember being bullied much in my very young years. I remember being terrified of twin girls in my sister's year, but this was mainly because I fancied one of them something rotten as well as they played with me when I was very very young. I guess the worst bullying I had in my very young years would have to be from BLS. She'll sit and look hurt at this point, and maybe even get upset with me, then the realisation that her loveable and friendly kid bruvver was actually picked on on a regular basis. How else can she explain the "finger in the fire" and "finger in the sunbed hinge" moments. But as I got older, I got bullied and more importantly, I picked on younger kids. By 9 or 10, I had been subjected to picking on even by my teacher, and this just opened up the floodgates. If I'm honest, it was so common place, it was really water off a duck's back. I had a lot of friends, and they would stick up for me if someone else had said something unfair and hurtful. This was a good lesson in life, and so much better then today's system of post traumatic counselling and disciplining of the bully by exclusion. By my final year of primary school, I would spend a lot of my time with children from the year below. I wasn't over powering, and I wasn't unfair, but I was however hauled over the coals by my Glaswegian teacher Mrs Crease (who I'm sure hated me) for being a bully. I remember crying uncontrollably, and being told to stop with the crocodile tears. I really felt a misjustice had been done.
I started secondary school, and almost immediately one of the biggest bullying incidents of my life started. Near my road lived an older boy called Chris and his sister of my age Lisa. Chris had this shock of blonde hair, and loved to pick on anyone prepared to take it. He got me to put my hand on the pavement whilst he pushed his skateboard over it. He set fire to my jacket. He 'accidentally' dropped my Game and Watch, rendering it unworking. He didn't just do this to me though, everyone in my neighbourhood was subjected to his tyranny. I remember him once retaliating against my father, something about him not being house-trained and him retorting that my father wasn't house-trained. Anyway, my father warned him that one day I'd return the favour and he'd regret it. Sure enough, after many years of picking on everyone, he kicked over my socket set whilst I was working on my bike. I screamed at him, shouting at the top of my voice "you complete and utter wanker!" Unfortunately for him, I also had in my hand a large old brown monkey wrench, which immediately swapped place with the front of his head. He ran off down the down, screaming at the top of his voice. His father had to take him to hospital for a skull x-ray, and he left me alone again. His mother tried to say I was the bully, but the consensus of other kids persuaded her that maybe he'd been asking for it.
Curiously enough, I saw him some 10 years later in a pub. He made some snide remark without even looking up from his pint, then realised it was me, now slightly taller and slightly better built. He then apologised, and looked dejectedly back into his pint.
Bullys, I piss 'em...

On learning from my mistakes

2010-11-12T11:37:00.000Z

An Irish friend of mine back in Wales had mentioned before I moved that he'd be visiting in November, and would pop to see me. Sure enough, a couple of weeks ago and he phoned me to remind me he was in the area, and did I want anything. The obvious thing was cheap Vodka from Tesco, where it costs £7.49 a bottle as opposed to the €17 a bottle we've been paying over here. My slow puncture on the car had also become a quick puncture, and knowing that tyres are about €80 here and £30 over there, it made sense to ask him for another tyre. He's also a mechanic, so I knew he'd get a cheap tyre or even better, a freebie.
So, on Tuesday night we went to meet him. Instead of him coming here, we'd agreed to meet him halfway, and headed up one of Ireland's new motorways towards Dublin. Sure enough, 2 hours later, and we meet him in a lovely pub in the middle of a village called Stradbally, and got in the beers. I thought he said Chad Valley, and was wondering why we'd be meeting where toys for Woolworths were made. And then here's the crunch. He had two bottles of vodka, and no tyre. So we'd spent about €30 in fuel, a couple of rounds of drinks which had cost us €40, food on the return journey and not forgetting the time lost, for a couple of bottles of vodka costing £15. TDT was livid, but I was more subdued. Unfortunately it's happened to me more than once, and so I just took it on the chin. It seems to be something I have happen to me, whereas TDT was disgusted. We finally got home just after midnight, and lessons had been learnt. Next time someone asks me to meet them and offers to bring stuff over, I think I'll make sure they have what I ask. I sound like an ungrateful bastard, but if you're going to offer your help, then give the help as well. Don't make me waste time and money when I can't afford both.

On rare footage

2010-11-10T12:06:00.000Z

As anyone will tell you, I'm as big a fan of Only Fools and Horses as they come. Back in 1996, the writer John Sullivan decided it was time to call it a day, and made them become "Millyunaires." It was the following year they decided it would be time the best TV comedy ever did something in return for their viewers and also for charity, so they did a short skit for Comic Relief. No reference was made to the previous news of making their fortunes, and it was just treated like a normal episode. At the time, David Jason was also working on "Frost", a crime drama based around Detective Inspector Jack Frost, a far departure from Del Boy. Nicholas Lyndhurst was also working on another sitcom called "Goodnight Sweetheart," the tale of a normal man who found he could walk down an alleyway into 1941 and wartime East End London. You'll note in the episodes how references are made to both, and is very well written. The best thing about it is if you've never seen them before, you get an idea of what they're about. Watch out for Uncle Albert's "during the war..." and them both mumbling "Oh gawd..."
Enjoy.

On movie stills

2010-11-09T12:31:00.000Z

I feel like a quiz... So, I was thinking, what about if I took screen grabs from some well known (and some not so well known) movies stored on TDT's PC. See how many you can guess?

Let's start off easy.


For bonus points, can you name the actor/ess?

Another easy one... Can you name the three stars?

Hmmm, not so easy. Which year was it?

This isn't easy at all. What year was this nominated for an Oscar?

What was the question behind the answer 42?

Which shielded community did this film make famous?

We watched this last night.

Out earlier this year, we haven't seen this yet.

Which director?

Damn, left the title in. Ok then, who does Alvin's voice?

An Englishman, a Welshman and an Irishman

2010-11-08T13:33:00.000Z

An Englishman, a Welshman and an Irishman are taking a trip of a lifetime, across the British Isles. As they drift slowly across the green fields of Wiltshire, John, the Englishman, pours a pint of finest Ale out of the basket.
"What are you doing?" asks Dai, the Welshman.
"It's ok," replies John, we have loads of it in our country.
A few hours later, the drizzle sets in. They cross over the Bristol Channel, and find themselves choking in the mire above Port Talbot. Suddenly Dai throws a sheep out of the basket.
"What the...?" asks Paddy the Irishman.
"It's fine," says Dai, "We're over Wales. We have loads of sheep here."
They drift out over the sea, and as the sun sets in the west, they come upon Wexford, in the south east of Ireland. Standing there admiring the view of the Green Isle, Paddy throws out Janek, a former native of Warsaw.
"Hey, what's the big idea?" asks John, the Englishman.
"It's ok, we have loads of them over here."

Remember remember, the 5th of November.

2010-11-05T12:20:00.000Z

405 years ago, a gang decided they didn't like what politicians stand for, and tried to blow them all up. They failed and were caught, and were then hung, drawn and quartered.
Now correct me if I'm wrong, but wouldn't they be called terrorists today? If they'd succeeded, would we be sending in thousands of troops to Belgium to flush them out, or Spain because that's where the gunpowder came from?
The date is also significant. November the 5th is remembered by children all over the UK. From their very first year in existence, children are taught the story of Guido Fawkes, the gunpowder plot, and the attempt on the King's life. They're also taught about how they were caught and the significance of fireworks and more specifically the gunpowder in them. Also that the plan was foiled, and how they were the minority whereas in reality we know how unhappy the people of the age were because only 37 years later civil war broke out. This got me thinking where will we be in 400 years time from some of the things we've had since.

September the 11th, Osama Bin Laden day? Where you fly your personal transport into an local skyscraper.
October the 12th, Patrick McGee Day. Where you blow up hotels on seafronts in the hope of cooking your bacon properly and removing the 1960's interior from the reception.
July the 7th, Mohammad Sidique Khan Day. Where everyone wears backpacks onto the tube and watches the staff sweat profusely.
November the 9th, Ali Ali (Ali Hussein Ali al-Shamari) Day, Where we blow up expensive hotels. Radisson aren't keen on this day.
April the 19th, Timothy McVeigh Day. Where we blow up Government buildings with trucks of explosives. Sound familiar?

On streetlights

2010-11-03T13:16:00.000Z

Surely you remember this video, from about 5 years ago?

Well, imagine my delight when I came across other videos done by the same guy. He has a channel on Youtube, and in recent years he's uploaded his light shows for us all to see. I only found this out yesterday, and I sat and watched with delight as one video followed another of his work over Halloween. Apparently most of these shows don't use much more electricity now than boiling the kettle, which is staggering when you look at the amount of light. The advent of bright LEDs has made this possible, and if you know what you're doing you could sequence a priceless display, in time with anything. Most amazingly however, this guy doesn't do it for personal gain. Apparently he has a collection for the local charity, and viewers contribute. I say he should get a knighthood, if nothing else, for being so original.
Here are my favourites, Michael Jackson's Thriller and The Halloween song from the "Nightmare before Christmas"
Enjoy.

On advertising

2010-11-02T13:43:00.000Z

When I was younger (yes, I know, I know, it was a long time ago...) advertising wasn't very common place. On TV, in magazines, on the sides of roads and on formula 1 cars were only a handful of places where you could be told to "buy soap" or "eat food."
Now, unfortunately, we're bombarded. You can't get a pay and display ticket without an advertisement on the back, advertising the space on the back of the ticket. A ride on a bus or taxi sees the back of the seats covered in adverts for cars for sale at the local Mazda dealership. If you wanted a car, why would you be in a bus or taxi anyway? I go for a pee in a motorway service station, to be sold a solution to bladder weakness ("nopee, now with added absorption") and even a visit to a call box has you learning of the joys of Albanian refugees and their sex trade, alongside a more legitimate advert for the latest Motorola mobile phone.
I can understand some of this advertising. Formula One has always been a stalwart for advertising. How else would you be able to raise the millions of dollars required for each race. But, really, do we need Eastenders to be sponsored by a furniture superstore or Gordon Ramsey's kitchen nightmares to be viewed alongside adverts for alka-seltzer. I remember hearing a tale a few years ago about a documentary all about Auschwitz, and how there was an advert in the break for Calor Gas. This is not a good thing. And let us not forget about everyone's favourite TV adverts. The "no win, no fee" compensation ad, the "consolidate all your debts into one loan" ad, and most importantly, "go compare!" I wish someone would run him over with a formula one car, that would make him scream "Mummy!"
How much further will it go? We did have a spate about 10 years ago of adverts appearing on your mobile. Luckily they seem to have stopped. What about getting car parts with the manufacturers emblazoned across them or TVs that only work after watching one minute of advert for every 4 minutes of TV. Even worse, what about sponsorship on your bins? You wheel out the wheelie bin on the Thursday only for it to tell all your neighbours that you've run out of butter and you're too cheap to pay for textured toilet paper.
As the advent of intelligent recording on PVRs, TV's popularity as the best medium for advertising will suffer immeasurably. Before you know it, we'll have gangs of door to door salesman offering to sell you new carpets, windows, Sky and funerals, before being culled by the advertising being force fed into our sub-conscious minds and telling us that TUC biscuits really are the best biscuit ever (which they are, especially with slices of cheese).
Just remember, buy my book. (The one I haven't written yet.)

Best game video evah

2010-10-29T11:45:00.003+01:00

Take an old and simple game of noughts and crosses, and watch (and listen) what happens when you (or the computer) wins a line...

Taste, the difference.

2010-10-28T12:26:00.000+01:00

I eat anything really. I'll certainly try anything once. TDT however doesn't, and she's horrified at the things I would eat on a regular basis if she let me. Back in school I was of the "packed lunch" variety, and one of my favourite sandwiches was cheese and jam. I also liked cheese and pickled onion. Both are not traditional tastes.
I'd like to introduce you to true student fayre. TDT never went to college, so she was never subjected to the breadline caused by student loans and the need for 1p tins of baked beans from Aldi. The other staple of students is bread. A 20p loaf would last the average family at least 3 days, but it would last a student an attack of the munchies about half an hour. BLS was at college in Cardiff when she introduced me to brown sauce on toast, and it would be the one thing I'd eat forever. I never tire of it as you get the sweetness of the sauce, the saltiness of the butter and the crunchy bitterness of the crust.
The other night I introduced TDT to Chicago Town pizzas. Yes, I know, it's shocking she's never tasted them before but the education continues. She was delighted with the taste of them, and yet was horrified when I mentioned that they're great as sandwiches.
"What do you mean, sandwiches?" she asked.
"You know, where you put one in between two slices of bread. Yum!" came the reply.
"Yuck! That's disgusting."
As I said, the education is continuing. Another true level of student fayre was curry. The problem with curry is the chicken/beef/lamb isn't cheap, so when I was 19 I was introduced to the student curry with three ingredients. Boil the rice, and put on a plate. With the now empty saucepan, add a 1p tin of baked beans, and a large spoon or two of curry powder. Heat and dish up on the rice. Simple, edible curry on a truly cheap budget. You buy the curry powder in bulk, you buy the rice in bulk. The beans are cheap enough. And it doesn't need to take up space from your fridge filled with Harp lager or Merrydown cider.
I have to admit that my tastes can sometimes go too far, but no more than eating oysters or snails. I've eaten snails, but I find my bogies taste better but have the same consistency. I haven't eaten oysters, but you can be sure they'd be bungee food, in that they'd go down and come straight back up. I don't mind the budget stuff in supermarkets. TDT likes real diet coke, costing about €2.50 a bottle, whereas I'm perfectly happy with the cheap shit put out by Tesco for 45c each. I'll take anything in the bargain bucket of the supermarket and use it if it's almost out of date, whereas TDT will look at product's sell by dates so she can pick the freshest.
Like I said, it's all done in the best possible taste.

On street performers.

2010-10-27T13:05:00.000+01:00

Those that have been to Covent Garden will have seen decent quality street performers. I remember seeing one in Amsterdam who tickled me, and who can forget the most excellent Stomp, from Brighton. I was pointed to this earlier this week, and I had to share it with you. I can't tell you who they are, or where they are, but I can tell you they're brilliant. The lead singer's a very talented voice, and the overall choreography is astounding. I know if I saw this in the street, the entertainment value would be unsurpassed. Why can't people like this be on the X-factor? I'll tell you why, they don't conform to Cowell's impression of talent. Meanwhile, I'd watch them again and again.

Enjoy.

See more funny videos and funny pictures at CollegeHumor.

On news...

2010-10-26T11:49:00.000+01:00

Ok, so update time... MILTB is doing a lot better. The hospital is operated by hopeless nurses, who don't know what's wrong with their patients (one nurse told us last week that MILTB hadn't had an MRI scan, then she had when we corrected her). Meanwhile, MILTB is able to talk a lot more, and a lot more correctly. I took down my portable DVD player for her, and the difference in her speech (presumably because she is hearing conversation again. No nurses would sit and talk to her) is amazing. She's been causing fights with night porters and tea ladies, so we know she's feeling a lot better.
Meanwhile, elsewhere, TDT's work has made an announcement. They're closing the Irish office down over the next two years, and yes, that means just about everyone's out of a job, including TDT. She's the union rep, so she's got her work cut out to say the least. As you can imagine, poor TDT is feeling a little low at the moment. We spent Sunday evening with her colleague Mary and hubby Des, and a truly wonderful evening unfolded without the aid of *much* alcohol.

So, apologies for lack of postage. But, in the meantime, here's 3 stories for you to choose from for Thursday's post.

Media whore.
Charity begins at home.
Unusual tastes.

On Illness

2010-10-21T14:11:00.005+01:00

It was Sunday evening, and TDT's phone rang.
"It's Ianymeany. Mum's not well, can you get home?"
"What's wrong," TDT asked.
"Just get here," he replied.
We leapt into the car, and raced down the road to the house. Upon arrival, Ianymeany greeted us with hushed tones and a concerned look on his face.
"She was complaining the TV was broken, but had forgotten how to plug it in. She's talking all sorts of gibberish."
We went into the room, and sure enough MILTB (Mother-in-law to be) was sat in her favourite chair. She had a vacant look on her face, and you could tell that even years of watching Judge Judy wouldn't have caused damage to this level. Something was wrong, very wrong. TDT and her brother were both sceptical about calling an ambulance, "it'll take ages to get here" she said. Eventually she called the emergency services, and the guy on the other end of the line asked us to do some tests. Her face wasn't drooping, and she could lift both arms, but when he asked her to quote "the early bird catches the worm" she replied "the erm, early?, worm, thingy, ah, y' know." This warranted a real bona fide visit from Mr and Mrs Paramedic, who turned up in 10 minutes. I waited out on the road for them, and filled them in when they arrived. "My mother in law seems to have lost some marbles, but not all of them" I told them. We were all concerned it was a stroke, but without so many prominent symptoms I was hopeful it was something less serious and less dangerous. Again, inside, the paramedics asked some questions. She knew who we were, and the dog's names. They asked her the day, and she identified it was definitely Wednesday. When they asked what month she replied, "2, no 16, or is it 48?" They agreed the condition required further investigation and a trip to Limerick and Ianymeany's favourite A & E department (see here) and left. Ianymeany and I left immediately after locking up the house and sorting the dogs etc.
Arriving in Limerick just after 9:30, and I park in the huge 'pay a couple of euros an hour' car park, and we rush in to see how MILTB's doing. TDT is thirsty, and so I got her a chilled bottle of water, hopefully to calm her down. It was whilst sat there, waiting to see someone we make the horrific discovery we have no money. I have just over 2 Euros in change, of which I'd just spent €1.50 on cold H2O. TDT and Ianymeany have nothing. And to be fair, MILTB wasn't in a condition to remember her purse. I then realised I wouldn't be able to get the car out of the car park, and raced back to the car park to get the car out in the free 20 minute period. 21 minutes had passed. I needed €2. Eventually I asked someone if I could tailgate them out of the car park, and they agreed, so then I parked up on the main road outside of the hospital and returned to A&E. Meanwhile, Ianymeany was inside with MILTB, and TDT was outside, puking up her ring in a real hedge.
Anyway, after a couple of hours of nothing much happening, TDT said to us to go home and she'd stay with MILTB. Meanwhile, whilst I slumbered back at home, TDT heard some funny tales. The highlight was Michael, a local drunk who had turned up, truly paralytic. Sat across from her, the nurses had propped him up on a bed where he was settling into whole new levels of comatose. The nurses were trying to stir him from his slumber, with pulled ears and hair, but nothing was working. One nurse was particularly stern with him...
"Michael. MICHAEL! Do you have to do this every time you're drunk?"
"Mumble mumble mumble mumble."
"Michael. Do you know how many times you've been here like this? Well let me tell you Michael, 93 times. That's 93 times you've called an ambulance when you're drunk Michael."
"Mumble mumble mumble" *fart*.
Then the priceless question was asked. "Do you not think you have a drink problem Michael?"
I promised to be back first thing, and sure enough left home just after 6 the next morning to return to the hospital. Her mother was to be transferred to a ward soon, and we could phone up later to find out where. So, we returned home where we caught up on sleep.
Numerous trips were made back and forth to the hospital, twice a day, every day this week. I now know how to get to the hospital in numerous routes, and which ones are quickest. The long and the short of it all is MILTB has a couple of things wrong. First of all, she has Pneumonia. A quick look online on Monday morning showed that lack of oxygen to the brain can lead to confusion. This would explain a lot. But when we were there on Monday afternoon a large white board with all the patients had what was wrong and which doctor was dealing with them. There was TDT's mum, with "TIA" after it. I racked my brain, wondering if I'd ever heard of that term and what it could stand for. Only on Tuesday did the nurse mention the thing we'd been dreading. A Stroke. More importantly, and positively, it was probably a mini-stroke, or transient ischemic attack (TIA). It would appear that almost everything was functioning apart from the circuit that controls memory with regards to speech. She goes to say something, then forgets what it is she wants to say or how to say it. On Monday I asked about her lunch.
"Did you have anything nice for lunch?"
"It was ok. It was mash."
"And what did you have with the mash? Was it sausage?"
"No, not sausage... it was... erm...."
TDT then asked, realising she couldn't say it, "Was it meat or fish?"
"Yes, fish, that was it. It was chicken."
All these symptoms signified that she was still confused. I kept reassuring TDT that everything would be ok, and that the brain would probably re-route the systems and heal itself. Sure enough, yesterday afternoon she seemed a lot better. TDT came home with a definite skip in her step, and I looked forward to seeing her last night. She was however very tired last night, the 6am starts and lack of comfortable sleep not helping, and you could see the old confusion starting to return. At least we know it is repairable and she should recover fully. In the meantime I have written this blog today to let her family know that she is loved and will be better. Most of all, I'm missing her most excellent cups of tea, something it would appear so's she.
"The Nurses couldn't make tea for toffee."
The mind boggles.