A Short Break

Just to break things up so that my comment box doesn't get too long again:

If anybody misses the debauchery of the past few days and has not yet been over to her blog today, young Spinny has a splendid post up.

I for one, am determined to keep it clean(ish) for a bit as it's been so long since I indulged in any nudie prod games that even the thought of them may provoke an unfortunate injury.

Oh, and THIS turned up on the Engrish site today. Kinda reminds me of National Drunk Blogging Day … Eurgh … Never again.

The Circadian Rhythm Method

Let's update that pesky Brontë bird, shall we?

"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in
possession of a bloody good job and a nice house (and who also irons), must be in want of a wife/partner/girlfriend/shag/good cuddle/whatever."

Thankfully, now that I'm back in the hectic routine of commuter hell, the lonelies seem to have receded a bit.

Before I expand on that, I feel I must apologise to my dear blogpals for my appalling mood swings over the past week or so.
While they've certainly brought in the old comments - 46 yesterday, 55 the day before - I don't really enjoy bouncing from euphoria to despair every few hours.
And then yesterday, exhaustion hit me … BAM!
I know some people pay good money to experience those effects. Well, they're welcome to 'em. They fuck me up big time.

After two lovely weeks of natural circadian rhythms (groovy), my poor old body is going through the transition shock of getting back into the old "4:40AM leap screaming out of bed/seven hour commute with a full working day in the middle/get home knackered, check my posts and tumble into bed" routine.

The first few days back after a break are always hard and my body gets its revenge by kicking my brain around my skull until I don't know which way is up. Hence the mood swings followed by exhaustion. It's like jet-lag, only nastier.

The one good side-effect of all this is that I now don't have time to get miserable and lonely. It seems that if I keep moving and keep busy, I can keep the lonelies at bay. Depression can't be arsed to catch up with me; it's too much like hard work.

The down side of course, is that loneliness lies in wait, ready to drag me down into despair whenever I so much as stop for a breather. Douglas Adams was right about Sunday afternoons: "The long, dark teatime of the soul" …
I've learned to do my ironing then; around tea time, in front of something funny like a Red Dwarf DVD.

So basically, I've not really got anything to say this morning other than I'm exhausted, but gradually getting back into my routine, and that even with all of your wonderful dating advice over the past week I still don't have a clue about how to find my "wife/partner/girlfriend/shag/good cuddle/whatever."

Hey ho … Same old same old Dive …

Enough, Already

My God. What have I done?

I've just got back from work and seen the comment total from my last post. I'm not even going to bother to open it as I have a good idea about what's in there and its not pretty.

As Sassy has pointed out, we children have got a little overexcited and need to calm down.
I admit I kind of asked for it and apologise for that, but I've had a knackering journey home and now I just want a nice sit down with a glass of wine before bed … and no more debauchery …

So I'm putting the toys back in the box. If you'd like to tiptoe quietly out and go play at Mister Knudsen's house, I'm sure he would be glad to accommodate you.

He has posted a lovely picture of some kittens.

Nighty-night …

Boswell On Puffin Frottage

So at last young Sassy's eyes have been uncovered and she becomes aware of that deliciously tactile French term for "rubbing" (we shall ignore the appalling "modern" usage of the term "dry hump").

The more observant among you will have noticed the occasional reference in this blog to "puffin frottage", an arcane Hebridean practice which, when introduced to Norfolk, with its singular lack of puffins, has led to the almost total extinction of the delightful bittern.

Digging through my second edition of Boswell's Travels With Doctor Johnson, I stumble upon the earliest known literary reference to the practice of puffin frottage.
This passage was mysteriously omitted from subsequent editions, much - in my view - to their detriment.

To further my young colonial correspondent's education on the subject (notwithstanding and acknowledging her Masters Degree in History), I shall now quote verbatim from Boswell's admittedly verbose chapters on Scotland:
(the following passage to be proclaimed slowly and in a pompous voice):

"Our second day upon these desolate Northern Isles sees the inestimable Doctor Johnson engaged in financial negotiations with one of their fiercely parsimonious inhabitants, that we may bear witness to an arcane practice of these shores, the viewing of which the Good Doctor, in his immeasurable wisdom has long since desired.

Presently, negotiations concluded, we are ushered in to a rude stone hut under a turf roof. Inside, peering through a stygian gloom, I behold a circle of thickly clad women, of varied yet indeterminate age, surrounding an open peat fire, the smoke from which tears mine eyes.

The women sit upon crude rocking chairs, excepting the youngest, who is seated by long custom upon a tussock of peat. Beside the hearth lays a rough sack, the contents of which appear in constant and agitated motion.
These are the "Puffins". For we are here to witness that most secretive of all winter practices in these barren Northlands; that of "Puffin Frottage", a traditional and communal afternoon's diversion for those of the Island's women who are unable - through injury or lack of wit - to knit.

The puffins have been brought here as every morning by the men of the broch; said birds being simple creatures to capture by the very method of placing netting over their burrows at night. They are a smallish seabird with a white breast, but are possessed of a fearsome beak disproportionate to their size.

At a given signal the eldest woman reaches into the sack and produces a puffin. We see that - to protect the participants' "delicacies", each bird's head and beak is encased in a decorative padded leathern hood, or "hoood" in the enchanting dialect of this outlandish folk. The puffin is apt for use, being easy to grasp in one hand, even for so delicate a creature as one of the fairer sex, and the bird appears soft and downy, yet with a firmness of body within.

The Good Doctor and myself are seated at either side of the hearth and watch, transfixed, as bird after bird is revealed from within the sack and passed around the circle until at length all but our good selves are possessed of the means to "frot".

By and by, using their free hand, the women lift their heavy skirts and - eldest to youngest and always in a clockwise direction as tradition dictates - the "frot" commences. The hooded puffins are at first rubbed vigorously to excite and agitate them to frenzied movement and then applied to the womens' delicate regions where a more gentle motion is subsequently pursued.

Propriety forbids me to elucidate further, yet I may inform you with some authority - for we witnessed this activity daily during our stay - that the "frot" continues for some hours, the womenfolk whiling the afternoon away in traditional song, or by turns chattering and gossiping among themselves in their soft brogue, only interrupted by the occasional strangled gasp or squeak from one or other "frotter".

Custom further dictates that if, during the "frot" a puffin should become asphyxiated by one of the younger and less experienced "frotters", this unfortunate woman shall be summoned forthwith to the hut of the "Puffin Catchers" where she shall bare her nethermost region and endure summary and severe chastisement with leathern strops, and after, be constrained to wear the deceased bird hung around her neck until two full moons have passed.

Doctor Johnson later became unduly distressed when, during our entire week's sojourn in the Isles not one bird was lost; as he had expressed a passionate interest in witnessing this quaint local custom.

Upon our return to the Metropolis, the Good Doctor attempted - with limited success - to introduce the practice to London Society, utilising the common pigeon as a device of "frot" due to the paucity of puffins hereabouts."

A bit of a pompous windbag, our Bozzer, but 'twas the spirit of the age (or something) …

Apparently - and I would ask our esteemed Mister Knudsen (the Doctor Johnson of our generation) to confirm this - the practice is still current in the nether reaches of Scotland and the Isles.
I would advise anyone wishing to try it at home, however, to Watch That Beak!

So it was a boring train journey last night.
I did what any sane man would do and wrote about frottage.

Normal blog service will be resumed if I ever get out of the seminar I'll be stuck in all day today.
Meanwhile, here is some light music …

Ironing

Okay, let's get away from this stupid dating business. It's not going to happen so why bother?

Let's talk about ironing.

Letting slip the fact that I iron (never mind the fact that I also cook, clean, dispose of spiders humanely and provide a warm body for cold feet in bed, ladies) has provoked almost as much of a reaction as when I pointed out that denim skirts are slightly less sexually attractive than unblocking drains with your tongue.

Do none of you have a partner who irons? … None? … NONE?

Okay. Let's do something about it.
First up, try not ironing their clothes for a couple of weeks and see how much of a stink they kick up. Then just hand 'em the iron and go sit in their favourite chair in front of the TV with a beer.
The reason I iron is not because it's as much fun as drugs and sex; I iron because I don't like to go out looking like a moose slept in my clothes. And if I don't do it, then who the hell will?

Listen up, girls. Men say they're crap at ironing and do it really badly for a reason. The same reason as claiming they can't cook (except at barbecues where they can wear a pinny openly).
It's because we like having you around to skivvy for us. The same as we like sitting in front of the TV with a beer, or surfing the net for porn.

So rise up, sisters! Make the lazy fuckers do their share.
Deprive them of your sexual favours (or at least ration them to when you are in the mood) until they can do a decent job of ironing their own shirts.
Sneak up on them when they are online, then click on their "history" button to see the kind of filth they look at. Then, while they're still in the room, surf for pictures of men with huge cocks, to see how they like it.
And remember, if your partner has a personal password for "his" computer, he is hiding something.

Hee hee …
I do like stirring things up …
If I can't have a relationship, at least I can mess up other peoples'.

Bowie's Sixty

Fuck, I feel old …

Hunky Dory Day

So I fancied a nice long soak in the bath in the middle of the day.
What of it?

One of the few advantages of living alone is that I can do what the fuck I want, when I feel like it. The same goes for eating and drinking.

Actually, now that I come to think of it, it IS rather nice that there's nobody trying to call me up or wondering where I am or what I'm doing all the time;

nobody filling every square inch of the bathroom with crap and making my bath stink of rotting fruit and washing powder (yes, Ame, I dated a Lush addict);

nobody saying "You've got thousands of books, what do you want another one for?";

nobody throwing a strop and scoring fucking points;

nobody saying "You're not thinking of wearing that, are you?";

nobody to moan that it's black and white or it's got subtitles;

nobody shouting, swearing, abusing and slapping me around every fourth week while expecting me to be angelic and supportive about it, yet never once apologising … ever;

nobody to stop me drinking scotch in bed;

nobody to scream at me for ironing her silk blouse on cotton setting;

nobody to stop me following that police car round and round Norwich with a fucking great spliff on the go;

nobody putting their COLD feet on my nice warm tummy in the middle of the night;

Hmm … perhaps this dating business is all just a cunning and fiendish trap set by weemen to get me to cook and clean and iron for them … Damn my stupid penis for getting turned on by nice perky little boobs …

Anyway, back to my lovely hot, slightly overfilled bath … Brew up some yummy Cuban coffee and relax … Mmmmmm …
Today is a Hunky Dory day (thanks, Rich), so Hunky Dory goes on repeat play in the studio, whilst just down the landing I settle in to my wonderfully unperfumed bathwater and get to work on becoming seriously wrinkly.
Before I get in, I check my bum cheeks for the telltale signs of alien abduction and anal probing after reading Ame's mysterious description of her own experience (check Saturday's comments).

The upshot of all this crap is that I get to thinking about bathtub music, so when I get out, I click on the "play count" in iTunes and am genuinely shocked at what it says about my age.

Crikey!
Most of the top few hundred tracks (we're talking over 90Gig of music collected over forty-eight years) are stuck firmly in the seventies … The SEVENTIES! The decade taste forgot! The decade that saw the death of the mini skirt and the rise of flares. Fucking hell!

This is alarming. If you wander on over to my profile, you'll see the kind of music I actually profess to liking. And that's not it.
The seventies! Shame on me. Although I suppose it was my teenage years, so it must have been pretty formative (newer readers: check back on old Dive's musical history) …

Having said that; Bowie, Steely Dan, Joni Mitchell all loom large, together with Dylan and the Beatles leaking over from the sixties; then there's Jeff Beck's Blow By Blow album (the only record of guitar music ever made that is actually listenable), Marvin Gaye's "What's Goin' On", Elton, Zep, Beefheart, Neil Young, Zappa, a fair bit of (ahem) prog, some punk of course …

Actually, I'm not so ashamed now I look at it. That's some damned fine music.
Let's have a belated hoorah for the seventies!

The puzzling thing is that ever since it first came out in 1979, one song has been stuck in my head.
It's like it's been hard-wired into my brain.
I mean we've all got songs running through our heads pretty much all of the time, right? Yet whenever I'm too busy or distracted I find my brain reverts to default and there's ALWAYS the same fucking song there.
And it's Joni Mitchell's "Sweet Sucker Dance" off her Mingus album.
WHY?
It's not as if I have any particular attachment to the song; it's not even close to being one of Joni's best. But there it is … all the time … stuck in my head.
And it's not exactly something I can sing along to, or even dance to …
Somehow it just got hard-wired in there. My brain's default song … Weird …

So. This calls for a mini-assignment:

Question 1:
Does your iTunes "Play Count" say anything surprising or embarrassing about you?
And please be honest.

Question 2:
Do you have a song that's "hard-wired" into your brain? Again, be honest rather than trying to be cool …

And Question 3:
Given the small list of examples above, am I really sure that I want a girlfriend?

Sunday Gripe

Still stuck with my donkey-powered mud and straw local village telephone exchange, which British Telecom "have no plans to upgrade" to one made of twigs.

Having spent an hour and a half trying to read my last comments page (being disconnected twice and having to reload and reload 'cos it only loads the top three or four comments), I am yet again replying to my comments with a new post.

I'll be back in London tomorrow so things should return to "normal"
Oh, shit. That's three times it's disconnected me.

Right … Let's try again …

Robyn:
Blackpool (I'm still stunned that anyone in their right mind would go near the place).
I think your AAA guide must have been driving a Porsche flat out at around three in the morning to arrive at those journey times.
And as for your decision to take the TRAIN back again!!!

A seven hour a day commuter writes (with some authority and a nervous twitch):
Our British railways don't operate as a "transport service"; that concept would leave them baffled (both the words "transport" and "service").
Most of the time they are either on strike (like this Christmas) or closed due to "planned" or "overrunning" engineering works (like this Christmas and every single weekend).
These engineering works are basically panicky repairs; when the "service" was privatised, the first thing the private owners did was get rid of 60,000 (yes, you heard me right) maintenance jobs around the entire country, pay themselves fat bonuses and sell what was left. Several disastrous crashes and hundreds of deaths later we are now paying for their bonuses with our daily delays and cancellations.
For the past two years there have been NO trains from here to London at weekends, and one summer I had to spend eight weeks working from home because of them.

Anyway; enough of my gripes. (Shit! Disconnected again) … Just never even think about taking a train in Britain these days … or living in a Norfolk village if you want to use the internet …

Ame:
The journey from London to Blackpool does not come under the heading of driving and rambling along the British countryside. It's more like one of those bizarre ordeals you see on Japanese TV. Grinding stop-start traffic on endless miles of dull, grey motorway (with lots of roadworks), through the shittiest parts of dull, grey Britain (about half an hour of it up past Manchester is slightly less unpleasant, but that's all).

And I LOVE the new hair-do! It really suits you. Kinda reminds me of London in the swinging sixties. Cool …

As for giving me a year to do something about getting a date …
Okay, I'm up for that. I can't see it succeeding but I'll give it a go.

Kate:
Shouty bitches on trains make me glad handguns are illegal over here. Otherwise I'd be writing this from jail.

Old K.
You're welcome to 'em, mate. Just like in real life, they only want to be "friends" with me, so as far as I'm concerned, they're all yours. Go to it and good luck!

Yesterday's Comment-fest Continued …

Bloody Hell!

This "what women want and how do I get hold of some" business has sparked off such a deluge of comments that I'm somewhat overwhelmed.
As I'm back in Norfolk for the weekend, where - as you know - my broadband connection is made of mud and straw and powered by a donkey, my comments page (31 from the last post so far) takes a bloody age to load.
Therefore, I'm continuing it up here.

So: in answer to those comments thus far unanswered:

Kate:
Voldemort. Love it! Ew indeed …

Robyn:
Sugar daddy? The thought of bestowing my largesse upon a younger lady in exchange for her favours had never actually occurred to me before, yet it is strangely appealing …

Please thank your daughter for her suggestion. I would ask you to box her up and send her over, but Kundsen once sent me a girl in a box (we had airholes cut and everything); and our postal service is so dreadful that she never arrived.
She's probably rotting away in the corner of some postal depot in Dundee …

Old K:
I had always thought that romance in Scotland involved clubbing something over the head with a haggis, rummaging around under its kilt for a bit, then dragging it away if it was vaguely female …
Yet here you are distilling a lifetime's experience into "all a man ever need know about weemen". Wonderful and sage advice.
I'll definitely be buying a cap …

Ame! California Girl!
Yay! Definitely up for meeting in April. Just let me know closer to the time which day you're likely to want to meet up and I'll book some leave and we can "do" London. Whatever you want … And yes, I suppose that would have to include the big Lush shop in Covent Garden …

GG:
Boy, oh boy, girl; you've sure got me sussed. You've been poking around in what passes for my brain and found a biggie.
There are things that'll never appear on this blog that have shaped the way I am. I suppose I should say "thanks" for stirring the sludge and bringing them back up to the surface … and maybe making me think about changing things a bit.
By the way; a nice change would be if some Australian girl living in Japan developed an irrational passion for a tatty old English bloke and turned up naked on his doorstep … er …

Spinny:
There are indeed some regular women commuters on my train. I've referred to them in a past post.
"A Woman Called Horse", "Mary Hopkin, Witchfinder General", together with several who are grouped under "Shouty Bitch With Mobile Fucking Phone" are women I would perhaps date in some dodgy-prawn-curry -induced nightmare, but never EVER in real life … Yikes!

Oh, by the way; EVERYBODY please click on the "Shouty Bitch" link. I sincerely believe it is something the whole planet should read and act upon.

So thanks for all the advice, gang. I now know (sort of) what women want and how to go about getting it.

Will I actually do anything about it?

Date Dive Continued …

Hokay …
So with our last three posts and comment-fests, we've established the kind of things women want; and from our - admittedly restricted and probably biased - focus group, it looks like I shouldn't have any problems as long as I manage to speak to a woman before she runs away (basically, I should start looking for women standing in corners so I can establish my "confident, fun and intelligent" credentials while they're still trapped).

Next question:
Just where do I go to find these women?

Bearing in mind that:
- I commute seven hours a day and work the rest, so monday to friday are out.
- The kind of woman who chats up the lead guitarist at gigs is NOT the kind of woman I'm looking for.
- I don't go to "bars" (I'm kind of old-fashioned; I find the idea of casual sex pretty disgusting). Anyway, we don't have such things as "singles bars" like they do in the US, just grotty dives where frankly revolting people go to binge-drink 'til they puke.
- Related to the above, I'm not interested in a short term relationship. Hell, I'm forty-eight; this one's got to last me out.

As for what I'm looking for … the list I sketched out got so restrictive that it became plain that no such woman could exist in this universe.
So let's just take a few points:

The woman I'm looking for:
- must be a non-smoker
- preferably a veggie
- preferably no kids or animals
- politically aware and left wing
- smart, funny, strong and independent (she should have a life of her own outside the relationship as I'm very rarely at home; someone who just sits in front of the telly or calls me up every half an hour would drive me scatty)
- tattoos turn me right off

As for looks (though I know beggars can't be choosers):
- I like slim (I'm NOT a big boob man), quirky looking, bookish, academic types (the old "sexy librarian" / long hair and glasses thing), and I like "feminine" (I'm old fashioned) …

So come on, gang; where does old Dive start looking for a woman like that (if one actually exists) now that you've got his confidence up?