Dumpster Diving

Hey ho. Back in London after the office refurbishment and chaos rules.

We've had to fit lots more people into our lovely relaxed space, so my old car park sized space full of G5s is now gone and I am trapped in a tiny group of four crappy little workstations.
Not only am I now the proud owner of one-third of my previous space, but I am also overlooked, so blogging will be severely restricted (arse!).

Among the inevitable problems such as none of the computers working until almost lunchtime, my personal filing "thing" had gone missing in the move. After a prolonged search turn up zilch, myself and the maintenance man headed out to the car park where there are seven large dumpsters.

Yaay for dumpster diving!
I've not had as much stinky fun in ages.
At long last an advantage to being anosmic.
So we stomped around in the dumpsters, gleefully hurling crap all over the car park and it was nowhere to be found.
I didn't care though. This was better than work!
Somewhat predictably, the very last dumpster had my filing "thing" right at the bottom, in amongst all the orange peel and rotting detritus.

So … A shower and a change of clothes later (I always keep a change of clothes at the office because commuting is such a cack-fest that I am in need of a second shower of the day as soon as I get to work).
A quick trip to the dry cleaners is in order at lunchtime.

But at least I have all my personal stuff back on my desk, probably reeking slightly but nobody's complained yet.

… yet …

My crappy new workstation.

Amble

I can only take so much rushing around and shouting at builders before I need to go wandering off through my local countryside.
I've had a particularly shouty couple of days, so just now I took an early lunch and went for an amble.

There's a lot of this kind of thing where I live.

It's fairly flat and more than slightly moist in places.

It has oodles of pretty little footpaths leading nowhere in particular.
At long last the oaks are beginning to turn.

This one has a nice bracket fungus on it.
I mean how much more autumnal can you get?

Pretty.
I like living here.

Back to London tomorrow though.
Hey ho.

Back Shortly

A brief hiatus will ensue.
My office in London is being refurbished and I won't be back there until midweek. In the meantime I am dashing around between schools so blogging must take a back seat.

I'll still comment when I get a minute free.

Toodle pip.

More Crappy Non-Autumnal Photos

Poor Old Dive is still obsessed with finding some autumn colour to compensate for the shitty cold and damp that chill my ancient bones at this time of year.
Prudence's photos from her drive to work made me put a bag over my head and cry like a baby, hating this dank, rainy, windswept, freezing crappy excuse for a country even more than usual.

This morning I took a walk in the little park on St.James's Hill overlooking Norwich but it was too bloody cold and misty to get any decent shots. And the trees were stubbornly refusing to give it up with some pretty colours.

So I moseyed on into town feeling somewhat despondent and took it out on my bank account with some therapeutic retail therapy.

The mist burned off after a while so I checked out the archæological dig going on at the cathedral. But it needs a week or two more to get interesting; at the moment it is just a mudpatch. Still, the cathedral always looks nice.

This is the inside of Ethelbert Gate at the top of the Cathedral Close. Look at those stupid bloody trees! Do they not have a calendar? It's November this week and they're still giving it summer!
Dorks!

Jules-Baiting

Hokay.
So the colours are nice, but it's cold, damp and miserable unless (like me) you are working from home and wrapped up in front of the fire with a big fat mug of coffee.

It's time for a blog vote, people.

Our wonderful Jules has asked me to stop posting photos of autumn leaves because the trees where she lives don't do that and she's jealous and feeling left out.

I - on the other hand - would happily throw all this cold and foggy autumn weather and any amount of pretty leaves straight in the trash in exchange for the view from Jules' house.

So …
One of us is sane; one of us is quite alarmingly dotty.
You decide.

This is the view out of my studio window this morning.

The photo below is of Jules' house (sorry Jules, I stole it from your blog).

Yes, she lives there!!!!!

Okay, so sometimes the skies are blue here and sometimes Jules' volcano erupts, but tell me: who's the crazy one?

At Last

At long last I've found a teensy little bit of autumn colour.

Deep in the nether recesses of the overgrown mess I like to call my nature garden (all that means is that I've let nature reclaim it), a Japanese Elm decides it cannot wait any longer and declares Autumn.

Okay, so it's a half-hearted kind of honey/caramel autumn; not the riot of flame-coloured leaves the Yanks have been posting.
But it's a start.
And it's mine.

Right. Perhaps we can have some proper colour now. Bring it on.

A Bag Of Handguns And A Nasty Twitch

Look out. He's going off on one …

After my gripe in yesterday's comments about screeching fucking kids invading my quiet commuter train, Lynn told me how she had been driven out of Morrison's by a screaming, whining kid and its doting and indulgent parent.
Ooooh … That gets to me, too, like fingernails down a blackboard.

When we were kids and there were adults about, we were "seen but not heard" and we only spoke "when spoken to" (God, what bliss that would be on my commuter train). The rest of the time we could have as much fun as we could stand, but we had a fear of adults much like our fear of God and so respected them.
And they cared for us and spent time with us, too.
My Mum taught me to read and write before I started school; this week came the news that most kids are still illiterate when they start high school.

These days, the moronic parents don't actually seem to want the screaming brats they squirt out.
Today's teens have way more hormones than brain cells and they sprog out too young and for the wrong reasons ("If I get pregnant I can keep my boyfriend, and get on the council list for a free flat"). Then they whine to the world that they want to go out and have "fun" instead of being stuck indoors with a screaming kid so they park the brat in front of a bloody TV and feed it junk food all through its formative years while they go out binge-drinking and fucking in their own vomit, leaving trails of chlamydia around the city centres.

We end up with drooling imbecile teenage parents who "can't be bothered" and their hyperactive, bullying kids who have no social skills other than the screaming tantrum. It is way too late to save these brats from becoming anything other than brainless, drunken, fag-breathed breeding farms for more of the same.

No wonder we're going to Hell in a fucking handcart.

Hey! Here's a completely new idea: only have a kid if you are prepared to love it, teach it, interact with it and care for it responsibly (look at Lynn and Maria and Robyn, parents from the last generation who actually wanted their kids and whose kids are a sheer delight).

Right!
Before I board the train with a bag of handguns and a nasty twitch, here is Dive's new rule:
Considering the responsibility they are taking on, prospective parents should be tested and screened before they are allowed to breed, and any broody teenage morons should be sterilised or simply culled and used as landfill or fertiliser.

You know it makes sense.

Any newbies had better read this, too.

Expedition Time

Hokay …
After Maria and Jules' comments on yesterday's post, I thought I'd do a little photoblog of my journey to work this morning.
If nothing else, it saves me from having to think of anything to write, and you know what a lazy bastard I am.

Here's Maria's comment:

"I rather like the image of Mr. Grumpy trousers shuffling out of a nice warm house in the dark and scraping ice, probably muttering.
And the train...I always picture you sitting by men with Star Trek logos now or little old ladies with shopping bags...
No heat would suck, though. That ruins the nice image of you in soft train lighting taking photos out of the window....
And walking along...puttering on the way to work.
Nope, can't see a grumpy trouser man in sight.....Right"

… and Jules':

"I hate to rub it in Mr Grumpy Dacks but if I told you how I got to work this morning - no smart arse it wasn't by outrigger canoe but I do have one parked next to my car and I could if I wanted to, as the school is just down the big river to the left- no I can't - it will just get you more snotty than you already are!!!!
Oh how I would love to be in London - well for a few weeks!
Bad luck re the rugby - hee hee!!!!"

Thank you, ladies.
If you would care to join me on a little expedition …

Oh, and for comparison, this link shows you how lovely my walk to work can be in midsummer.
But midsummer it ain't.

So …
4:40 AM.
Wake to the sound of two loud and exceedingly annoying alarms, inconveniently located in the furthest reaches of the bedroom.
Leap out of bed, screaming profanities …
Shower and hairwash …
Dry hair and get dressed …
Exit nice warm house, bleary-eyed …

5:10 AM
Scrape ice off the windscreen.
Drive into Norwich.

That's my crappy train on the right.
The 5:40AM to London.
Note the lovely blue sky … er … freezing black void.

Once again we have no heating.
Just as in hot weather the air conditioning always fails.
The train is pulling in to Colchester.
Still dark at 6:50AM.
In a few minutes it is standing room all the way up the aisles.

7:53 AM
Late as always.
Disembark at London Liverpool Street Station.

Buy paper.
Head out on to the street to start my walk alongside The Thames …
… but not this morning.
This morning I am going to amuse Rich by taking the tube part of the way and walk across Green Park and St. James's Park.

You are about to find out why I walk almost five miles every morning after my drive and my train journey.
The alternative is the tube … the "scenic route" as we call it.

Welcome to Hell.

Those people not coughing are drenched in repulsive perfume.
Even in the cold they are all sweating.
In olden days when I took the tube regularly, a woman sneezed a whole lungful of snotty phlegm all down the back of my lovely cashmere overcoat.
They loved that in the dry-cleaners'.

After six stops on the Central Line and a desperate, thrashing fight down endless underground passages to change to the Victoria Line, I eventually emerge into Green Park, just by The Ritz.
At last!
Sanity.
"The sun is up. The sky is blue. It's beautiful and so are you …"
Singing Dear Prudence (Hi, Prudence!) I amble across the park toward the Parasite House and St. James's Park and my office beyond.

Here are a couple of shots for Lynn, to make up for hiding it behind gates yesterday.
The Parasite House from the top of The Mall.

… and from the bridge in St. James's Park at around ten to nine.
Just time to buy coffee and a croissant before bumping into the office door and realising I've left my electronic keytag on my bedside table again …

In a few hours I'll have to do the whole damned thing in reverse.
Hey ho.

Not The Monday Melee

Fucking trains …
It's Monday morning so it must be "over-running engineering works."

Mister Grumpytrousers leaves home at ten past five this morning in the pitch fucking dark, chipping ice off my car windscreen; drives to the station, gets on the stupid train and sits in the dark in the middle of fucking nowhere for hours.
With no heating.

I've just arrived at the office.
Four hours, fifty minutes to get to work this morning.
And as it's Monday, we'll probably have a fucking jumper this evening and have to sit for another couple of hours while the police hose and scrape the inconsiderate twat off the bottom of the train.

So, no time to write a Monday Melee this morning.
Instead you get a couple more shots taken this morning on the way in to work.

Nothing much to report.
The Thames is still wet.

The Parasite House looks a lot better hidden behind gates.

But at long last, some of the trees are beginning to take a hint that it's almost November and they should really be taking their kit off.

Hey Ho

"All the leaves are brown,
And the sky is grey …"
Well, The Mamas And The Papas certainly got it wrong about autumn.
So much for California Dreaming …

Here in Norwich, all the leaves are green and the sky is blue.

I popped down to The Close to capture all the wonderful autumn colours of the trees around the cathedral, but - you've guessed it - they are still all green.
I do hope Joy has more autumnal luck on her visit to Fairhaven this weekend.

This is the only one I found. In front of City Hall, looking across the marketplace. So that's a grand total of two trees in Norwich and one in London that have dared to go autumnal this week.
Bum.

Oh, Joy Of Joys

Joy has tagged me.
Hee hee hee.
Joy is newly landed on the Small Glass Planet and has not yet encountered the sweary heart of darkness that awaits the unwary.
Joy is from the splendid Norwich Daily Photo (it's in my sidebar) and makes me homesick while I'm at work, for which I thank her most effusively.

Oh Joy, you should know that Old Dive cannot resist a meme.
But this one's the old "eight random facts" meme, so I will simply refer you to the last time I did it, which can be found here.

Should you be at all curious to find out more gruesome details, you may be foolish enough to check out the "Fives" meme and Old Dive's Favourite Meme, or any of the other, myriad memes lurking in my archives.
Consider yourself tagged on any that you might fancy filling in.

With her other hat on, Doctor Joy dispenses sage advice from her blog: Your Love Coach; advice I wish I'd known thirty years ago!
… or even last year …

Joy, should you ever fall short of clients or feel the need to delve deep into the tortured male psyche and have a good giggle, you might want to don rubber gloves and rummage furtively in the catastrophic emotional wreckage of Dive's Dating Posts … see also my "Non-Dating Posts".

If ever a man was in need of the Love Coach …

Parky

Brrr … It was bloody parky in the park this morning.

It was even worse stepping out of the door at ten past five in the A.M. to have the breath sucked out of my body by invisible dæmons, lurking in the freezing Norfolk darkness (much like other freezing darkness but with a faint hint of duelling banjos and squealing pigs).
Fuck it was cold!

In search of autumn colour, when I reached London I swapped my usual walk along the Thames Embankment for a stroll through Green Park and St. James's Park.

It was still pretty green.
The pelicans were happily pootling across the lake in front of the Parasite House.

As with Norwich yesterday, I found one tree …
Just one smegging tree in the whole of St. James's Park with enough balls to give it some autumn.

In Green Park the planes were staying green, though somebody from the parks department had emptied some bags of dead leaves on the grass to make it look a bit more seasonal.

I know just what will happen: I'll wait a couple of weeks and the whole place will be a blaze of colour but it will be too dull and rainy to get a decent photograph.
Hey, ho …

Still Waiting …

I'm "working from home" today.
I just got back from a meeting at our school in Norwich and I took my camera as the school has hundreds of beautiful trees and I was after some nice flaming autumn shots.

Ha!
One tree … One measly tree, behind the caretaker's garage has switched on its autumn lights; all the others are resolutely staying green.

This is the only tree in Norwich that has realised it's half-past October.
And it was tipping it down with rain, too, which makes for a dull photo.
Hey ho.

Now I'm back in the village it is gloriously sunny, but every stupid tree in Brundall still think's it's midsummer and it's just green, green green here.
Bollocks to global warming.
Yesterday, walking through St.James's Park in London the fucking CROCUSES were out!
I mean WHAT!?!?
If it's sunny at the weekend I'll go see if I can find some trees who have the sense to know what season it is. Don't wait up …

We Interrupt This Programme …

… to bring you a word from our sponsors.

Criminy!
Old Dive, the man who hates Christmas and never has any decorations or cards or tree and rails against the crass commercial greed-fest with lots of splendid swearing is posting a Christmas advertisement!
Dammit!
They've got me cornered.

As anyone who's been listening will know, I design girls' schools for a living.
The girls from Happy House (one of my recent projects) have got together with the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra to record an album of icky, sing-along festive songs in aid of Unicef.

It's by MY girls - and I can never say no to them - and it's for a good cause, so I can't moan too loudly about commercial crap.

Anybody less grouchy than myself can buy it from Amazon at:

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Celebrate-Christmas-Howells-Philharmonic-Orchestra/dp/B000WD66GC

(non UK folk can buy it from Amazon.com).
Yes, I've ordered a copy. I'll give it to Mum. She'll like it.

In case anyone's worried, this is the last happy Christmas post of the season. From now on it's back to the usual misery.
Ho ho fucking ho.

Groover Again

Another splendid musical meme from the Groover.
You were right, Vic; of course it's going to snare Old Dive.
Inevitably, I've twisted it a bit and added stuff.

Hey ho; here we go …

What music are you currently grooving to?
What, right this minute?
I'm not actually grooving at the moment; I'm chilling. To "Blue In Green", from Miles Davis' "Kind Of Blue" album.
Were I grooving, it would probably be to the same thing the Groover grooves to: some genital stimulation from Medeski, Martin and Wood with John Scofield. Or maybe something sleazy from the Dan twins; Aja or Gaucho.
Intercoursingly groovy, baby …

What music do you chill out to?
Other than the above, The Orb's "Little Fluffy Clouds" is a goodie. That girl's accent never fails to tweak me gently just behind the old scrotum. MMMMMMMMMMMM …
Alternatively, the albums Jann Garbarek made with the Hilliard Ensemble are so chilling they could stop global warming in its tracks (yes, I'm an ECM freak; Mannfred Eicher is a God and only one step down in deity-hood from the mighty Steve Albini … Sheeit, if you're culturally challenged enough not to know who these people are, Google the buggers, then buy all their music).

What, if push comes to shove, is your all-time favorite album?
No need to push; no need to shove.
My all time favourite album is (as you well know) Miles Davis' "Kind Of Blue".
This is invariably followed by:
"What's Going On" - Marvin Gaye
"Blow By Blow" - Jeff Beck
"Hejira" - Joni Mitchell
… and then any one of over eighty gigabytes of compressed crap on my iPod; depending on my mood.
There's bound to be some Steely Dan floating around near the top, and some Beatles, and Bach's Goldberg Variations, Stravinski's Rite Of Spring and side one of Keith Jarrett's Köln Concert.
My top four, however, have remained unchanged for longer than most of you have been alive.

What was the first record you ever bought? And where did you buy it?
The first record ever bought for me was Adam Faith's version of "A Message To Martha" in 1964. Little brother Phil out-cooled me by having Gerry and the Pacemakers' "Ferry 'Cross The Mersey". Good call.

The first L.P. (shit, that sounds so archaic … long-player) I ever bought was The Beatles' "Revolver" album (1966), from Morlings' Music Shop in Lowestoft. Back then I got a tanner a week pocket money (the old sixpence … 2.5 pence since decimalisation) and albums were 17/6. Thirty-five weeks of maniacal saving and it was worth every second. I remember Mum's raised eyebrows at the strange start, and then my heart leaping with joy as the riff from Taxman slammed out of the old radiogram. Sigh …

Which musician have you ever wanted to be?
Like Groover; I only ever wanted to be me.
And I got that wish, so hoorah!

What do you sing in the shower?
I don't sing in the shower. That's a good way of getting a mouthful of shampoo.
I sing as I walk along the Embankment each morning, watching the old Thames flow by.
It's good to see the rush hour joggers veer away from the mad person.
As for what I sing; it depends on my mood. This morning it was pissing down with rain and I ambled along, twirling my brolly and vocally murdering Aretha's "Say A Little Prayer" among others. I also did Patti Smith's "Rock And Roll Nigger", a perennial riverside favourite.
Sing along now: "Out-side of societeeeeee …"

What is your favorite Saturday night record?
For about a hundred and fifty years I've gigged on Saturday nights, so I never got to go out and party (it's a verb if I say it's a verb) … ergo … I have no idea what a Saturday night record might be.
If it means a record that gets me off my fat ass and up and dancing, then it would probably be something like Kanda Bongo Man's classic "Amour Fou", or Joy Division's "Love Will Tear Us Apart" or just about anything by The Smiths.
Bouncy heaven!

And your Sunday morning record?
Sunday mornings are housework, so something loud and anarchic to drown out the vacuum and the washing machine's spin cycle.
Big Black's "Songs About Fucking", or the Arditti Quartet going apeshit.
My neighbours are really glad I live in a detached house a fair distance away from them.

What music will you have played at your funeral?
"Diamond Dust" off Jeff Beck's "Blow By Blow";
"Somewhere (from West Side Story)" by Tom Waits;
"Sweet Sucker Dance" by Joni Mitchell.
And something silly at the end; perhaps The Banana Splits theme tune.

What records shook you to the core and changed your life forever, and why?
First up has to be Jeff Beck's "Blow By Blow" album from '75.
At that time I was a precocious and arrogant sixteen-year-old virtuoso lead guitarist playing Yes and Focus and Mahavishnu covers; my sole twatty purpose being to humiliate any guitarist I came up against. Then "Blow By Blow" came out and changed everything.
This was the album that taught me "less is more".
This was the album that taught me to express myself through my playing rather than to simply wank off on stage.
This was the album that made me a musician as opposed to an arrogant little twat.
Vic, you're already a musician, but you should buy this. At first listen you might think "what's all the fuss about?" but let it sink in and it will stay with you forever. This is the only album other than "Kind Of Blue" that I have played at least once a week for decades and not a single note has ever sounded stale.
The best album of guitar music ever made.
The drums are good, too; skittering over the surface, deft and slinky.

Next up: Stravinski's "Rite Of Spring".
Whoa, Nellie!
A good little choirboy, brought up singing Handel's Messiah and Verdi's Requiem, listening to pop and rock and jazz and then suddenly I hear the Rite Of Spring and it knocks me clean off the planet.
THIS is what has been missing all my life! THIS is what I always thought music should do to me but it never had. It sent me off into modern and avant-garde territory and I love it here. I'm never going back.

Punk had the same effect; Patti Smith and The Clash exploded onto my turntable when I was seventeen. A good year for all sorts of reasons.

Last up; after my lost decade (80s to 90's) when I was stuck inside Satan's arse, living with Ming the Menstrual, I heard Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit" and it reminded me that I was alive.
The creature known as Dive was born then, from the burnt out wreckage of my plane-crash previous life.

What truly crap record do you really love?
Mary Hopkin's "Those Were The Days."
If you don't get up and drunkenly sing and dance around the room to this then you have no soul.
It's great for Cossack line-dancing at parties.
Try it.
Drink lots first.

What's the last album you bought (be truthful rather than cool)?
"The Bairns" by Rachel Unthank and the Winterset.
Four hefty Scouse gals singing folk songs in their front room.
Sublime.

I could make this meme go on forever but I really do have to get on with some work.
Toodle Pip.

Monday Melee

I enjoyed last week's single album melee, so this week we're going from a 2007 album right back to 1963 and one of the classic albums of my childhood.

That deceptively romantic cover showing the sweetest looking couple wandering arm in arm down the street; the lovely Bob and the considerably lovelier Suze; concealing a big, heavy slab of vinyl, scratched with some of the rantiest protest songs ever (and some classic silliness).

Ladies and gentlemen, Old Dive, in association with Fracas Monday Melee gives you "The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan."


1: The Misanthropic.
(Name something - about humanity - you absolutely hate).

"Come you masters of war
You that build all the guns
You that build the death planes
You that build the big bombs
You that hide behind walls
You that hide behind desks
I just want you to know
I can see through your masks

You that never done nothin'
But build to destroy
You play with my world
Like it's your little toy
You put a gun in my hand
And you hide from my eyes
And you turn and run farther
When the fast bullets fly

Like Judas of old
You lie and deceive
A world war can be won
You want me to believe
But I see through your eyes
And I see through your brain
Like I see through the water
That runs down my drain

You fasten the triggers
For the others to fire
Then you set back and watch
When the death count gets higher
You hide in your mansion
As young people's blood
Flows out of their bodies
And is buried in the mud

You've thrown the worst fear
That can ever be hurled
Fear to bring children
Into the world
For threatening my baby
Unborn and unnamed
You ain't worth the blood
That runs in your veins

How much do I know
To talk out of turn
You might say that I'm young
You might say I'm unlearned
But there's one thing I know
Though I'm younger than you
Even Jesus would never
Forgive what you do

Let me ask you one question
Is your money that good
Will it buy you forgiveness
Do you think that it could
I think you will find
When your death takes its toll
All the money you made
Will never buy back your soul

And I hope that you die
And your death'll come soon
I will follow your casket
In the pale afternoon
And I'll watch while you're lowered
Down to your deathbed
And I'll stand o'er your grave
'Til I'm sure that you're dead"

"Masters Of War" from The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan


2: The Meretricious:
(Expose someone or something that's phony, fraudulent or bogus).

Southern hospitality.

"Oxford Town, Oxford Town
Ev'rybody's got their heads bowed down
The sun don't shine above the ground
Ain't a-goin' down to Oxford Town

He went down to Oxford Town
Guns and clubs followed him down
All because his face was brown
Better get away from Oxford Town

Oxford Town around the bend
He come in to the door, he couldn't get in
All because of the color of his skin
What do you think about that, my frien'?

Me and my gal, my gal's son
We got met with a tear gas bomb
I don't even know why we come
Goin' back where we come from

Oxford Town in the afternoon
Ev'rybody singin' a sorrowful tune
Two men died 'neath the Mississippi moon
Somebody better investigate soon

Oxford Town, Oxford Town
Ev'rybody's got their heads bowed down
The sun don't shine above the ground
Ain't a-goin' down to Oxford Town"

"Oxford Town" from The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan


3: The Malcontent:
(Name something you're unhappy with).

"I saw guns and sharp swords in the hands of young children,
And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall."

"A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall" from The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan

I would have put the whole song in but Blogger doesn't have that much memory.


4: The Meritorious.
(Give someone credit for something and name it if you can).

"I got a bird that whistles,
I got a bird that sings.
I got a bird that whistles,
I got a bird that sings.
But if I ain't got Corrina,
Life don't mean a thing."

"Corinna Corinna" from The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan

Yes, I know he stole it from Robert Johnson, but it's still true.
And no, her name's not Corinna.


5: The Mirror.
(See something good about yourself and name it).

"Well, ask me why I'm drunk alla time,
It levels my head and eases my mind.
I just walk along and stroll and sing,
I see better days and I do better things.
I catch dinosaurs …
I make love to Elizabeth Taylor …
Catch hell from Richard Burton!"

"I Shall Be Free" from The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan



6: The Make-Believe:
(Name something you wish for).

"I wish, I wish, I wish in vain,
That we could sit simply in that room again.
Ten thousand dollars at the drop of a hat,
I'd give it all gladly if our lives could be like that."

"Bob Dylan's Dream" from The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan

See you next Monday …

Norfolk Regional Cuisine

Seen in John Lewis' store in Norwich.

At least it's better than Mc.Donalds …

I think Boba Fatt from yesterday's post must eat here.

Jabba Jabba Hey!

Boba Fett?
Dream on, fatboy.
Beware the seductive power of the Dork Side.

Snapped on the tube by the evil lens of Dive.
Click on him and he gets even bigger!

Tie of the week. No contest.

金曜日 Crapfest

金曜日 already.

Another seven crappy days to stick in the box marked "USED WEEKS" and kick under the bed.
Friday in Japanese (yes, I had Japanese class last night; can't you tell?) is 金曜日(きんようび - "gold" day).

Let's hope this Friday is slightly more "gold" than last week's somewhat browner attempt.
Last Friday, the Safety Officer for Essex Fire Brigade was driving up the A12 beside the mainline railway when his van caught fire (yup; that's a hee hee).
Being the Safety Officer, he pulled over, got out and legged it.
Unfortunately, his van contained some gas bottles and the latest Health and Safety Executive guidelines specify that once the fire is put out, nobody can approach the van within a ludicrously large radius for twenty-four hours.
This meant that both the A12 (the only major road into the area) and the mainline railway running alongside it were effectively shut down for a day and a night.

Through long and bitter experience, Old Dive always checks the real-time rail website from lunchtime onwards every day. Which meant that I wasn't one of the tens of thousands of angry commuters at Liverpool Street Station in the evening rush hour being informed that they must find accommodation in London for the night (HA! Yeah, right! Form a queue for the cardboard boxes) …

As soon as the bad news hit the website I immediately emailed the gang (the bolshie and extremely litigious Radical Wing of the Norwich to London Commuter Club … We took the bastards to the European Court last year and won compensation and improved conditions and we're itching to do it again).
Then I jogged the five miles to the station (the quickest way across London), leaping aboard the last train out to Cambridge (on the face of it, completely the wrong way) with thirty seconds to go before the whole lot shut down, and dragging with me a little old lady from my village who I found staring in horror and confusion at the big board with all the "CANCELLED" signs on it.

Fourteen crawling stops and an hour-and-a-half later, having been stood, jammed against the doors all the way, we reached Cambridge. Only to find the platforms so full we couldn't get off the train.
There was a virtual riot going on there and after much tactical use of both the elbow and brandishing an old lady at people, I managed to get us two seats on a train heading in what would appear to those with less bitter experience to be yet another wrong direction.

Another fifty minutes brought us to a little used intersection with the Central Line, somewhere in the midlands.
This is the "last resort" route home. Kinda like going from Noo Yawk to Chicago via Miami, but not many people know about it.
There stood most of the gang; sweat-drenched, clothes awry, but grinning that we had made it out. Dive, Wiggy, Spike, A Woman Called Horse, Underbite and Backspace, Monkey-boy, Scab-head, Breakfast Boy and Mary Hopkin (Witchfinder General); all the regulars, plus my little old lady and her miraculously unscathed shopping bags.
We picked up a stopper coming from Liverpool to Norwich and spent another hour-and-a-half dawdling our way home.
Having grabbed my car and dropped the old lady at her house in the village I actually pulled in to my driveway at exactly the same time I usually do. The entire trip took seven hours instead of my usual three-and-a-half, but I was home in time to watch the chaos on the news.

Then on Monday we broke down …

I love commuting.
It's a constant stream of unfettered joy and great training for when I descend into the lower circles of Hell.

Half-Nekkid Thursday

You know those days when, no matter how hard you squeeze your brain, nothing comes out but squishy stuff?
Well, this is one of those.
So what's a boy to do when I can't think of anything to write about?
Yep … You've guessed it …
Get nekkid!

I've finally given in and joined Groover's Half-Nekkid Thursday set.


Just hope and pray that next Thursday I can think of something to write because you don't want to see any more, believe me!

Bad Nose Day

Hokay.
We're back to the pitfalls of Dive's anosmia.

First off, let's play catch-up so you know what I'm moaning about.
This is what I wrote about it way back in the mists of time:

"I lost my sense of smell when I was fifteen.

I'd been rushed to hospital with a burst appendix and a fully functioning pheromonal facility. A couple of weeks of hilarious japes with abdominal drainage tubes later and I left hospital with neither appendix nor sense of smell.
My doctor shrugged his shoulders. Had I been a private patient, he could have made a lot of money from me, but this was the NHS, so his reaction was best summed up by the word "whatever".

Recently, this condition seems to have become fashionable and even has a name (anosmia) and lists of famous anosmics such as William Wordsworth and Michael Hutchens (and somewhat more yummily, Ben Cohen, of Ben & Jerry’s Ice Cream) have appeared in the papers.

While this condition is classed a disability, we anosmics don't qualify for disability allowance like those scrounging slackers in the blind and deaf communities (smug bastards with their "proper" disabilities, curse their cotton socks).

Apparently, permanent anosmics like old Dive often have a much more developed sense of taste than those sniffy people with real working noses. It's kinda nice for an arty-farty snob like me to have my superior taste officially recognised.

Weirdly, I can still remember smells and that can be a real pain.
I sometimes wake up from a dream (I can still smell in dreams, how freaky is that?) with a smell stuck in my brain that stays there all day. The most annoying "virtual smell" I get stuck with is the smell of washday from when I was a little kid. We had a cold tap and a copper by the range for heating water. The awful smell of damp, soap-powdery clothes in a tiny back room sometimes assails me for days at a time. And oranges … which is a real pisser if I'm hungry.

Some advantages I have over "normally nosed" people:
- I can sit quite happily beside a farting dog and not notice a thing, while the rest of the room runs away, gagging.
- I am a demon at raw chili-eating contests.
- er … that's about it.

Some disadvantages:
- Being unable to smell burning.
- Being unable to smell gas.
- Being shaken awake in the dead of night with a "What's that smell?"
- Having to follow a frantic woman round the house as she tries to locate the "burning smell" or "leaking gas" she is convinced has woken her. And being bawled out for my inability to help.
- Not realising I have a drainage problem until someone visits and reels back, going "What the fuck is that stink?"
- Not realising I've got dogshit on my shoe at work.
- Becoming a fanatically clean person so I don't risk being smelly.

And a couple more:
Having no sense of smell and an enhanced sense of taste, I tend to "taste" smells, but can only pick up on a tiny amount of any smell. And it's usually the wrong part of it …
Ame (and a lot of other people besides) loves Lush products. While I can understand that they might smell very nice to her, all I can pick up on is a horrid taste of washday soap powder and rotting fruit.
And I know a lot of you like perfume …
Well should we ever meet, please, PLEASE don't wear any. It's an effective Dive repellent (maybe I shouldn't have given that away).
Even with the most expensive perfumes, all I can taste is the solvent. Chanel No5 tastes like a petrol/paint-stripper flavour and is the last thing I want to inhale close up.
I'm with the Japanese in finding the neck the most erotic part of a woman. For me, there is nothing nicer than nuzzling into that bit under her ear and inhaling lovely fresh, clean woman. If she's wearing perfume I have to reel away and have (once or twice) been known to involuntarily gag. EWW! That stuff is repellent!

So. That's me and my anosmia.
At least I have better taste than you. Official."

So … back to this morning and my "bad nose day".
I woke up this morning and could smell something icky.
After a few seconds confusion I realised that this was going to be a bad nose day. A very bad nose day indeed.
My brain was registering the smell of stale vomit.
Eww!
I know, it's disgusting.
I looked around … No sign of vom in the bedroom or indeed anywhere in the house. The smell stayed constant as I moved around and sniffed at various smelly things like vanilla pods and coffee beans so I knew it was an hallucination. Much the same way as amputees can still feel their missing parts itching from time to time, anosmics get a "virtual smell" stuck in our brains and it drives us crazy.

Today's stale vomit smell made me get back in the shower and scrub my saggy bod and wash my hair twice, then it made me throw all of my fresh clothes in the washing basket and put on new stuff.
It kept me awake on my train journey, paranoid that people could smell sick on me.
It ruined my coffee and breakfast and it has just ruined my lunch.
These stupid smells usually linger for around forty-eight hours, so if I appear tetchy you know the reason why.
Fucking fuck!

And it is NOT funny!

… Okay, so it's funny, but laugh amongst yourselves, not where I can see you.

Scrooge Starts Early This Year

What is wrong with people?
I mean what the fuck is WRONG with people?
I was talking to someone yesterday who said she had been buying Christmas presents.

Hello?
The leaves are still on the trees.
It is still the tail end of Summer here.
I was mowing the lawn and cleaning my car in a teeshirt at the weekend.
Then I sat out on the lawn with next door's cats and a glass of wine enjoying the sunshine.

CHRISTMAS PRESENTS?

Fucking fuckity fuck!
Just how hard do you people want to be slapped?
Stop it!
NOW!

Meanwhile, Forty Years Ago …

From declassified NSA documents:

OCTOBER 9, 1967: 6:15 a.m.: Félix Rodríguez (CIA) arrives by helicopter in La Higuera, along with Colonel Joaquín Zenteno Anaya. Rodríguez brings a powerful portable field radio and a camera with a special four-footed stand used to photograph documents. He quietly observes the scene in the schoolhouse, and records what he sees, finding the situation "gruesome" with Che lying in dirt, his arms tied behind his back and his feet bound together, next to the bodies of his friends. He looks "like a piece of trash" with matted hair, torn clothes, and wearing only pieces of leather on his feet for shoes. In one interview, Rodríguez states that, "I had mixed emotions when I first arrived there. Here was the man who had assassinated many of my countrymen. And nevertheless, when I saw him, the way he looked....I felt really sorry for him." (Rodríguez:2)

Rodríguez sets up his radio and transmits a coded message to the CIA station in either Peru or Brazil to be retransmitted to Langley headquarters. Rodríguez also starts to photograph Che's diary and other captured documents. Later, Rodríguez spends time talking with Che and takes a picture with him. The photos that Rodríguez takes are preserved by the CIA. (Anderson, 793; Rodríguez:1, 193)

10 am: The Bolivian officers are faced with the question of what to do with Che. The possibility of prosecuting him is ruled out because a trial would focus world attention on him and could generate sympathetic propaganda for Che and for Cuba. It is concluded that Che must be executed immediately, but it is agreed upon that the official story will be that he died from wounds received in battle. (my emphasis) Félix Rodríguez receives a call from Vallegrande and is ordered by the Superior Command to conduct Operation Five Hundred and Six Hundred. Five hundred is the Bolivian code for Che and six hundred is the order to kill him. Rodríguez informs Colonel Zenteno of the order, but also tells him that the U.S. government has instructed him to keep Che alive at all costs. The CIA and the U.S. government have arranged helicopters and airplanes to take Che to Panama for interrogation. However, Colonel Zenteno says he must obey his own orders and Rodríguez decides, "to let history take its course," and to leave the matter in the hands of the Bolivians. (Anderson, 795; Harris 128, 129; Rodríguez:1, 193; Rodríguez:2)

Rodríguez realizes that he cannot stall any longer when a school teacher informs him that she has heard a news report on Che's death on her radio. Rodríguez enters the schoolhouse to tell Che of the orders from the Bolivian high command. Che understands and says, "It is better like this ... I never should have been captured alive." Che gives Rodríguez a message for his wife and for Fidel, they embrace and Rodríguez leaves the room. (Rodríguez:2; Anderson, 796)

According to one source, the top ranking officers in La Higuera instruct the noncommissioned officers to carry out the order and straws are drawn to determine who will execute Che. Just before noon, having drawn the shortest straw, Sergeant Jaime Terán goes to the schoolhouse to execute Che. Terán finds Che propped up against the wall and Che asks him to wait a moment until he stands up. Terán is frightened, runs away and is ordered back by Colonel Selich and Colonel Zenteno. "Still trembling" he returns to the schoolhouse and without looking at Che's face he fires into his chest and side. Several soldiers, also wanting to shoot Che, enter the room and shoot him. (Harris, 129)

Félix Rodríguez has stated that, "I told the Sargento to shoot....and I understand that he borrowed an M-2 carbine from a Lt. Pérez who was in the area." Rodríguez places the time of the shooting at 1:10 p.m. Bolivian time. (Rodríguez:2)

In Jon Lee Anderson's account, Sergeant Terán volunteers to shoot Che. Che's last words, which are addressed to Terán, are "I know you've come to kill me. Shoot, you are only going to kill a man." Terán shoots Che in the arms and legs and then in Che's thorax, filling his lungs with blood. (Anderson, 796)

Murder is a sordid business.

¡Viva Che!

¡Hasta La Victoria Siempre!

Monday Melee

Hokay.
Fracas Monday Melee time.
I enjoyed my single artist lyric melee so much last Monday that I've decided to narrow it even further and do a single album melee.

In case any Joni Mitchell fans are wondering if the new album's any good after all those years of tetchy "retirement," I'll do today's melee purely from Shine.
It may not be "Blue," but it's her best album for twenty-five years.

1: The Misanthropic.
(Name something - about humanity - you absolutely hate).

"Holy war
Genocide
Suicide
Hate and cruelty...
How can this be holy?
If I had a heart I'd cry."

"If I Had A Heart" from Shine - Joni Mitchell


2: The Meretricious:
(Expose someone or something that's phony, fraudulent or bogus).

"Strong and wrong
What is God's will?
Onward Christian soldiers...
Or thou shall not kill?
Men love war!
Is that what God is for?
Just a rabbit's foot?
Just a lucky paw
For shock and awe?
Shock and awe!"

"Strong And Wrong" from Shine - Joni Mitchell


3: The Malcontent:
(Name something you're unhappy with).

"Let your little light shine
Shine on good humor
Shine on good will
Shine on lousy leadership
Licensed to kill
Shine on dying soldiers
In patriotic pain
Shine on mass destruction
In some God's name!"

"Shine" from Shine - Joni Mitchell


4: The Meritorious.
(Give someone credit for something and name it if you can).

"So they paved paradise
And put up a parking lot
With a pink hotel
A boutique
And a swinging night spot.
Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you got 'til it's gone
They paved paradise
Put up a parking lot."

"Big Yellow Taxi 2007" from Shine - Joni Mitchell

I'm giving credit to Joni for forty years of beautiful songs and protest against all things shite.


5: The Mirror.
(See something good about yourself and name it).

"Strong and wrong
You lose everything
Without the heart
You need
To hear a robin sing
Where have all the songbirds gone?
Gone!
All I hear are crows in flight
Singing might is right
Might is right!"

"Strong And Wrong" from Shine - Joni Mitchell

I've spent my whole adult life as a bolshie Marxist awkward bastard; fighting the "might is right" brigade.
And I feel pretty good about that.


6: The Make-Believe:
(Name something you wish for).

"Sparkle on the ocean
Eagle at the top of a tree
Those crazy crows always making a commotion
This land is home to me.

I was talking to my neighbor
He said, "When I get to heaven, if it is not like this,
I'll just hop a cloud and I'm coming right back down here
Back to this heavenly bliss.""

"This Place" from Shine - Joni Mitchell

Next week? Who knows.

Jolly Rugger

Hoorah for the northern hemisphere!
First up, after all the Aussie taunting at our crap rugby team (remember, guys, WE are still the world champions), Australia 10 - England 12.

I'll just say that again as it feels so sweet rolling it around my mouth:
AUSTRALIA 10 - ENGLAND 12.

hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee …

And much as this country loves New Zealand and hates the accursed French, we were all cheering the underdog last night as we get to play the winner in the World Cup semi-finals next weekend and we know we can beat France but the Kiwis are another story.
And those lovely Frogs unbelievably beat the favourites after unblinkingly facing them down at the Haka.
New Zealand 18 - France 20!

Yee - fucking - haaaaaaaaa !!!

Apologies to my lovely Aussie blogpals, but I've been forced to suffer weeks of taunting from our Australian and New Zealand contingent at work and Monday morning is PAYBACK TIME!
Or it may be Tuesday as I have a feeling that most of them will call in sick on Monday.

I've said it before and I'll say it again, because it needs saying:
Hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee !!!!!

Binge Drinking Babies

Start 'em young, I say …

People wonder why this country has a problem with underage binge-drinking.

Well, pop along to your local Boots and check out their "baby food" section.
Bucks fizz, scotch whiskies, Bailey's and Stella for the little ones, and all at three for the price of two!
The side aisles were chock full of ciggies, prescription drugs and condoms.

Uncle Dive says:

Hey, kids!

Swearing, smoking, drinking, drugs, sleeping around …

If your parents do it then you can do it too.

Don't get left behind.

Start now!

Oh, and talking of babies (or at least annoyingly young people):

Happy Birthday, Vic!

Yaaaay! Drink Sydney dry tonight, Groover!

Old Folks

Moan, moan, moan.
That's all us old folks ever seem to do.
And now we (or at least three of us) are officially old folk.

I was just over at Scout's place and was startled to discover that it was a year ago today that she and Sassy first got together.
Yikes!
Prompted to check back in my own dusty and slightly foxed archives I find that Sassy first invaded the Small Glass Planet on the third of October last year, followed almost immediately by Robyn.
Our original little gang of two cuties and one saggy old whopperjaw is a year old.
I'm quite choked with emotion.
We looked so young back then …

Happy Birthday, Blogville.
Sigh …

Duh

It's Friday and I'm stinkingly busy today, so here's a quick no-brainer (yes, another one … I know, I know … One day I'll kick my fat ass into gear and actually write something).

This is one that our Scout posted a couple of days back.
Apparently it's some game called Scattergories …
I hate it when a twatty manufacturer with no ideas if its own takes a game you can play with a piece of paper and a pen and sticks it in a box and charges people money for it.
This is one of those.

We play a dirtier version of it at work.
Using a piece of paper and a pen.
I've filled in Robyn's and added a few of the cleaner categories from our office version at the end.
By the way, we call it "girl's name/boy's name".
Duh …
And we don't charge money for it.

If you have no brain today, fill it in. Use the first letter of your name (or any other letter you fancy; it doesn't bother me).

1. Famous Singer/Band: Deanna Durbin (2 points)

2. 4 letter word: Dodo

3. Street: Downing Street

4. Color: Damask

5. Gifts/Presents: Dirndl (Crap present, I know, but that's all you're getting so shut up and play with it).

6. Vehicle: Daimler Dart (2 points)

7. Things in a Souvenir Shop: Devon fudge (How come you can buy Devon fucking fudge in every single tourist tat shop on the planet)?

8. Boy Name: Dilbert

9. Girl Name: Dede

10. Movie Title: Donnie Darko (2 points)

11. Drink: Drambuie

12. Occupation: Dustman

13. Celebrity: Dom De Luise (2 points)

14. Magazine: Dirty-Pillows (I dunno? I can't reach the top shelf but there's probably one called that).

15. U.S. City: Detroit

16. Pro Sports Teams: I have no idea what US sports teams are called (other than the Cornhuskers and the Indians and the Cubs, thanks to Maria and Scout). But as they don't begin with "D" I'll say the Detroit Something-or-Others.

18. Reason for Being Late for Work: Dead person splattered all over the bottom of my train … again.

19. Something You Throw Away: Dirty Dishcloths (2 points)

20. Things You Shout: DAMMIT!

21. Cartoon Character: Daffy Duck (2 slightly unhinged points)

22. Author: Dickens

22. Book Title: David Copperfield

23. Composer: Dvorak

24. River: Dee

25. Country: Denmark

26. Vegetable: Dulse

27. Fruit: Damson

28. Flower: Dandelion

29 Body part: Duodenum

30 Rude body part: Dick

31. Disease: Dengue Fever

32. Bodily function: Diarrhoea

33. Expletive: Dagnabbit!!!

I win.
Can I go home now?

Fuck! It's Autumn!

The leaves haven't yet started to transform the local countryside into a riot of reds and yellows, but I just got home from a meeting to find this outside my garage.

'Tis the season for garden spiders to go apeshit with web spinning.
This'll freak Robyn out for which I apologise. Hee hee …
Sigh …
Another week or so and I'll have to put the heating on.
Hey ho.
Roll on Spring.


Also in Autumn news, next Tuesday brings the fortieth anniversary of the murder by the CIA of Ernesto "Che" Guevara.
I won't be doing a boring rant as that will only wind up some of my American blogpals.
I'll be celebrating Che's life in my own way.
But if anyone wants to read about him and why he still matters, here's a nice little piece from Socialist Youth.

And here's Fat Old Dive playing at a gig on the fiftieth anniversary of the start of the Cuban Revolution last year.

By the way, if you're going to wear a Che teeshirt, at least have the decency to buy it from the Cuba Solidarity Campaign, so that your money goes to help the Revolution rather than to some fucking fashion house.

And don't go telling me I'm "too old" to wear a Che teeshirt. You're too fucking young!

¡Viva Che!

¡Hasta la Victoria Siempre!

Fat Bastard

Before we start, I just want the Oxford English Dictionary people to know that I lay claim to the word "Gojirabilia" (noun … Gojira memorabilia … see the last lot of comments).
That'll mean I get two new words in the next edition. I got "Knudsenesque," too.
Stop looking at me like that. It's a long standing ambition, okay?

Hokay … confession time.

I was on the phone to my lovely girlfriend yesterday.
That's not the confession.
I've got an old retro phone, not one of these jobbies that you can wander round the house with and lose. Mine's attached to the wall with an umbilical.
I like the old fashioned seventies phones because they come with a "MUTE" switch for the ringer and my commuting routine means I need to be asleep by nine in the evening and any fucker calls after that and wakes me up is gonna die!

So anyhoo. We were chatting away and mooning like a couple of teenagers and the phone was sitting on my lap.
Here's the confession bit:
I leaned forward to grab my glass of wine and my FAT GUT squished down on the phone and hit the redial button!

And yes, I fessed up.
Hey ho.
As if I don't do enough bloody sit-ups as it is …

Seven Diddly Sins

Groover came up with this one a few days ago.
I know you're sick of memes but I couldn't give a toss.
And at least this one has a theme to it.
Sort of …

Deadly Sin numero uno: WRATH

With whom did you last get angry?
General Tan Shwe. What a fucking twat!

What is your weapon of choice?
Sarcasm. And I'm the bitch from Hell, so don't try it.
I get sick of weak-brained whingers who say "Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit."
Twats!
They simply don't have the wit for sarcasm.

Would you hit a member of the opposite sex?
"Hit on," yes, but "Hit"? Never.

How about the same sex?
Lots.
To date - other than general contusions, I've broken one nose (sorry, Glen but you asked for that), two wrists, and an assortment of ribs. Fortunately all on other people. And all in self defence. I prefer to walk away, so if you insist on going to hospital it's your own damned fault.

Who was the last person who got really angry at you?
Nobody could possibly get angry with me. I'm way too cute.

What is your pet peeve?
Evangelical Christian fuckwits.

Do you keep grudges, or can you let them go easily?
I'll forgive you when I'm dead. Until then, stay the fuck away from me.


Next up: SLOTH (the sin, not the lazy-assed hairy thing that lives in trees)

What is one thing you're supposed to do daily that you haven't?
I was supposed to do something?
I've not yet jerked off today. But hey, it's early yet.

What is the latest you've ever woken up?
In my youth, six in the evening was not unusual. These days, because of my commute, my body clock wakes me at 4:39AM, a few seconds before my alarms go off.

Name a person you've been meaning to contact, but haven't?
Jesus.

What is the last lame excuse that you made?
Lame? LAME? My excuses are masterpieces of creative genius.

Actually, the last excuse I made was the absolute truth … it just sounded like an excuse:
I popped in to see the lovely Doctor Amanda last week to pick up a new form to take to the hospital for my regular chest X-ray.
She said "Didn't I give you one of those already?"
To which I could only (and truthfully) reply: I had some friends over the other week and their kid had been playing in the dirt so they asked if the little tyke could have a quick bath.
"Sure", I said and made a quick run into the village shop for some milk (I don't usually keep any in the house but when tea drinkers turn up unexpectedly …).
When I got back, they were all outside on the lawn, happily playing, so I walked into the kitchen to find they had turned on the bath taps and forgotten about them.
The bathroom was flooded and so was the kitchen underneath.
I quickly switched off the electricity as the light fittings were fizzing and shorting, then grabbed a mop and bucket.
The first thing they knew about it was when I carried the ruined and dripping bathroom carpet outside and dumped it on the driveway. They were somewhat mortified, but I was too busy with damage limitation to get angry with them.
Anyhoo, my X-ray form had been in the letter rack in the kitchen and was now a squishy lump with some smears on that might once have been writing. Hence the excuse.

I used to have a rule before I went soft: "No Kids, Dogs or Smokers in the house".
That rule is now reinstated, though I should probably add "No Fucking Stupid Parents", too.
It took two weeks to get rid of the stink of damp "stuff between the floorboards". Plus all the redecorating and new carpets.

Have you ever watched an infomercial all the way through?
Not knowingly. What the fuck is an infomercial?

How many times did you hit the snooze button on your alarm clock this morning?
My alarm clocks don't have snooze buttons. There are two of the spiteful little bastards and they lurk in the far corners of my bedroom so that when they go off at 4:40AM every weekday morning I have to get out of bed to shut them up.


Aha! A personal favourite: GLUTTONY

What is your overpriced yuppie beverage of choice?
Shizuoka sen-cha. The real deal. See yesterday's post.

Are you a meat eater?
Nope. I was veggie for decades before it all ended in tears one mad night in a sushi bar.
I'll cook meat for carnivorous visitors, but only good, local organic meat. I'll occasionally eat it to be polite, but not through choice. Seafood I am totally addicted to.

What is the greatest amount of alcohol you've had in one sitting?
There's no way I could possibly answer that as I would have had no recollection of it the next day. The closest I can get is "a lot". A fucking lot!

Are you comfortable with your drinking and eating habits?
If I'm sitting in a nice chair, yes.
I eat and drink what the hell I like.

Do you enjoy candy and sweets?
Only Green and Black's organic chocolate.
And occasionally those dark chocolate coated coffee beans you get in coffee shops. Addictive little bastards, those.

Which do you prefer: sweets, salty foods or spicy foods?
Spicy. No contest. I'm a chili-eating demon!

Have you ever looked at a small house pet or child and thought, "lunch"?
I am so totally with Vic on this one. I tend to think "DIE, you little fucker!"
Small children are only good for one thing. To find out what that is you'll need to rummage in my very first month's posts.
Small yappy-type lap dogs have no discernible use whatsoever, except perhaps to give me a good laugh at their owners' expression when I tread on the little fuckers (it was an accident! Honest!) … though terriers are exempt from treading as they make me giggle.
Cats are groovy.
Fish are delicious.
Hamsters and gerbils are only fun if you have the cardboard tube from the inside of a toilet roll and Richard Gere to hand.

Another doozy: GREED

How many credit cards do you own?
None.

If you had a million dollars, what would you do with it?
Wait until the dollar/pound exchange rate gets back to normal, then buy sterling.
At the moment, a million dollars would buy around one and a half peanuts in England.
When George stops fucking his economy with warmongering perhaps we can have a bit of sanity again.

Would you rather be rich or famous?
Rich. He's a handsome chap.
Nobody in their right mind would want to be famous. Just look at all the Z-List "celebrities" out there and count their brain cells.

Would you accept a boring job if it meant that you would make megabucks?
No way. The one important thing I've learned in forty-eight years is how lucky I am to be doing a job I love. Of course, the fact that it pays ludicrously well is no hardship.


Look out, here comes : PRIDE

What's one thing that you have done that you're most proud of?
I'm not telling you that. I could get into a lot of trouble.

What's one thing you have done that your parents are most proud of?
They loved my music. Mum still does.

What thing would you like to accomplish late in your life?
Dying would be nice.
A messy, comedy death that people can have a good giggle at.

Do you get annoyed by coming in second place?
I always win. What a fucking stupid question.

Have you ever entered a contest of skill, knowing you were of much higher skill than all the other competitors?
Every time.

Have you ever cheated to get a better score?
No. I never play anything I'm not going to win. Duh!

What did you do today that you're proud of?
Lived through this much of it.


Ah. Inevitably we must touch (quiveringly) on: LUST

How many people have you seen naked (not counting movies, family, strippers, locker rooms)?
Shee-it! Too many!
Probably the worst was on a beach in Portugal. I was laying there with some friends, chatting and eating when a fat, ugly, elderly German couple came and plonked their disgusting naked bodies right in front of us and the woman lay down and opened her legs.
I couldn't eat for days.

How many people have seen you naked (not counting physicians, doctors, family, locker rooms, or when you were a young child)?
If I'm allowed band and theatre dressing rooms or beaches, then probably hundreds. If not, then God only knows. I like being naked.

Have you ever caught yourself staring at the chest/crotch of a person of your chosen sex during a normal conversation?
Of course I have. All the time!

What is your favorite body part of a person of your gender choice?
Neck and shoulders.

Have you ever had sexual encounters (including kissing/making out) with multiple persons?
No. It's hard enough to persuade just one person to let me touch 'em without pressing charges.
Unless of course communal penis and boob sculpture sessions and chocolate starfish and camel toe contests in band dressing rooms counts. When you've spent several hours a night locked in a tiny room with the same people over a period of years it is startling what diversions you can come up with.
Some of that exists on video but no fucking way is it going on to YouTube.

Have you ever been propositioned by a prostitute?
Many times. My old car park was in a red light district.
And way back in the early eighties, my band used to rehearse in a building at the end of King Street in Norwich. We got really chummy with a bunch of the working girls who used to congregate there. They were great fun and lovely people.
It's a crap way to earn a crust though, so I've never indulged; I like the girls too much.


And bringing up the rear: ENVY

What item of your friends would you most want to have for your own?
That's easy: Mikey's rubber Gojira.

Who would you want to go on "Trading Spaces" with?
I have no idea what that is.

If you could be anyone who existed in the world, who would you be?
Mrs. Trellis of North Wales (only Lynn and Phil will appreciate that one).

Have you ever been cheated on?
Nope. Rejected and humiliated, sure, but not cheated on. At least so they've claimed.

Have you ever wished you had a physical feature different from your own?
I wish my body hadn't grown old. Other than that; no.

What inborn trait do you see in others that you wish you had for yourself?
None. The whole world sucks ass except me and my girl …
Oh, and you lot, too.


What deadly sin...
Do you do the most often? Gluttony. I'm a fat hog.

Do you do the least often? Wrath. I'm a pussy-cat.

Is your favorite to act on? What kind of fucking stupid question is that? DUH!