Free Parking

At long last Autumn comes to St. James's Park.

I took these this morning on the way to work. This kind of thing is almost enough to cure old Dive of sweary cynicism … almost, but not quite.

Fuck it; let's just look at the pictures, shall we?

The Lake in St. James's Park.
One of my very favourite places in London, if not the world.

Just look at those crowds of people!
Why, oh why am I the only person here?
Why am I the only person in London looking at this?
Am I the only sane person in Metropolis?

Yup, that's old Dive showing Lynn some more leaves.
Lots of 'em.
I spent a delightful few minutes kicking them everywhere.
Wheeeee!

This beech had stayed frustratingly green for weeks.
Suddenly it's got the painters in.

No excuses for this one.
I just love morning sun in the parks.

I was talking about words that are nice to say in my last post.
One of my personal favourites is the latin name for this glorious deciduous conifer (the dawn redwood):
metasequoia glyptostroboides.
I love saying that.

"Quack"

And the inevitable shot of the Parasite House for our Lynn.

Note not just the giant plod, but the three tiny plods on the roof.
Today was the day when the old German bint who lives here pops down the road to Parliament to listen to Fat Gordy droning on, so plod were everywhere.
There were a bunch of around twenty of 'em on Birdcage Walk, all tooling up with Heckler and Koch sub machine guns. The buggers told me not to photograph 'em.
Spoilsports.

Anyhoo. This is what makes my commute bearable.
Pretty, eh?

Hope I Die Before I Get Old

Fuck!

Too late …


Vic did a lovely post at the weekend about one of her local bands, Cellar Door, with some great pictures of the gig they played to launch their EP.

Cellar Door is the old linguist's chestnut; it's always quoted when talk turns (as it sometimes does in my house) to words that are really nice to say - in this case, probably because it sounds like cod-French: "C'est l'adore".

The band probably got their name from a much cooler source than a linguistics textbook: Drew Barrymore comes out with the phrase as the English teacher in übercool movie Donnie Darko.

That always threw me a bit. I mean, suspension of disbelief is pretty essential in movies, but while I could easily accept Frank the six foot scary rabbit, the idea of Drew Barrymore teaching English ranks up there on the absurdity scale with David Bowie in Labyrinth or Milla Jovovich in … well, anything really.

Anyway, Vic's photos reminded me so much of the seventies, playing in bands during the punk explosion that I thought I'd post a photo of what happens to musicians in their fifties, as a warning to (a) enjoy every minute of their youth, and (b) to give up at thirty.
This is Michael, Chris, Jann, Clive and yours truly (the kid of the band at forty-eight, and mercifully behind the camera) dicking around in Trellis Studio's rehearsal room last weekend.

Look back at Vic's photos, then look at this one again.
Do you still wonder why I am as bitter and twisted as I am?

Late Monday Melee

Hoorah, for Prudence!
We've had normal melees, lyrics melees, (take a bow, Groover) single artist, single album and even (thank you, Robyn) a melee entirely from the musical Oklahoma, but now Prudence has introduced the latest mutant Fracas Monday Melee: the "theatrical" melee.

Act One: Scene One:

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

"War always finds a way."

Bertolt Brecht: Mother Courage.


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

"War is Capitalism with the gloves off."

Tom Stoppard: Travesties


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

"Life is but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hours upon the stage,
And then is heard n0 more; it is a tale told by an idiot,
Full of sound and fury,
signifying nothing."

Sounds a lot like Dive, but is actually
William Shakespeare: Macbeth

… or:

"I wasted time
Now time wastes me"

William Shakespeare: Richard II


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

"Can this cockpit hold the vasty fields of France?
Or may we cram within this wooden "O" the very casques
that did affright the air at Agincourt?"

William Shakespeare: Henry V

I'm giving him credit for the first line in particular, which is now engraved in the stonework on the outside of my new theatre at Wimbledon High School For Girls.
There are theatrical quotes all over the building but I insisted on that one because the idea of an all girl "Henry V" tickled me tremendously …
The thought of the girl Henry shouting "Cry God for Harriet, England and Saint Georgina!" before the entire cast pile into one another with lacrosse and hockey sticks is something that keeps me warm at night.
Hee hee.


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

"I am a vulgar man, but my music is not"

Peter Schaffer: Amadeus

… or perhaps:

"I hope you have not been leading a double life, pretending to be wicked and being really good all the time.
That would be hypocrisy."

Oscar Wilde: The Importance Of Being Dive … er … or was it Earnest?

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

More people to think like me:

"Oh, isn't life a terrible thing, thank God?"

Dylan Thomas: Under Milk Wood

Exit Dive, pursued by a bear …

Arse

Oh, joy of joys.
A stupid training day.
I'll be stuck here most of the day.

I'll post my melee and pop round to see you all when I get home.

Pip pip!

Celebrity Cockbooks

Fucking fuckity fuck!
Christmas is coming. Time to hide.

I committed a dreadful sin against "Dive-ness" this morning by succumbing to a festive mince tartlet in the coffee shop.
Festive!
A mince tartlet with a pastry star on the top and a huge "festive" mark-up.
What a twat I am.
I almost bought a muffin but they reminded me rather too much of the delicious-looking muffins that Rich baked yesterday.
Check 'em out!
Unfortunately they looked so good he appears to have got over-excited and spurted "man-juice" over the tops.
Sorry, Rich, but I'd have to scrape that off before munching into your yummy baked goodness.

Anyhoo; back to Dive's patented festive sweary Scrooginess …
As you know, my Saturday breakfast-time coffee shop (NOT a Starbucks) is one of those in a bookstore and has big comfy chairs. This time of year I usually stop coming into the city for breakfast because they play fucking Christmas muzak at me. They've not started that nonsense yet but they have already filled their shelves with Christmas non-books.

One of the multifarious reasons for hating Christmas (at least the modern mammon-worshipping greed-fest that passes for it these days) is the phrase I can hear my friends and relatives muttering to themselves already: "Dive likes books. Let's get him a book."

NO!

I cannot stress this firmly enough.
Most of these people have a room in their houses containing a big comfy sofa, a fucking great television and no bookshelves.
The only time they go into a bookstore is to buy Dive a book at Christmas. They wouldn't know a good book if I smacked them around the head with it, and I just might have to start doing that. I end up opening Christmas non-books and having to pretend to be delighted.
"Oooh! Thank you! A book on amusing garden gnomes. I'll treasure it!"

No I will not.
If you have to get me anything at Christmas (and I keep telling you not to), get me a book token. That way you are buying me a book I will truly treasure and I will like you a whole lot more for it.

Phil and I walked despondently through the bookshop this morning, gazing in despair at (yes) the book of gnomes, shelves groaning with fucking crappy TV tie-ins, and "celebrity" cockbooks (yes, you read it right … they're called cookbooks but they are utter cock).

I know that publishers can only afford to print the lovely books I like to read because hordes of brainless morons suck up this festering crap at Christmas but it really depresses me. Not the state of the publishing industry (I mean, I'm as greedy as the next man; if somebody is going to pay me good money for crap I'll drop my pants on the spot and give 'em a handful), but the state of the general public.
Dumb, unimaginative, drooling fuckwits.

Here's an example:
Last year, the BBC ran a rather good (if tragically abridged) adaptation of Bleak House. They rushed out a paperback with the "stars" on the cover (TV viewers would never find it in the Penguin Classics section) and just about everybody I know bought a copy.
Did they read it?
Did they fuck!
"I tried, but it was a bit heavy-going".
Fucking Hell … It's LITERATURE you dumb fuckers!
It's NOT like the twat-brained Harry fucking Potter books that people WITH NO CHILDREN read on the tube so they can say "I've read a book". It's PROPER writing!

Oh I give up.
It's a fucking cultural desert out there.
Roll on new year when I can recycle the book of fucking garden gnomes some twat will no doubt buy me for Christmas …

More Stupid Autumn

Lynn has once again laid down the gauntlet with her lovely Cheltenham leaves.
So I had to suffer Tube Hell again this morning to go leaf hunting in Green Park and St.James's Park on the way to work.

This is the best I could do, I'm afraid, so Lynn's Cheltenham leaves go unchallenged.
There's never any sunshine when you need it, dammit!

Everything is brown today, rather than gloriously autumnal.
Of course, now I am in the office the sun is shining but it's too bloody late.

As this is for Lynn, here's the Parasite House again; this time with those grumpy pelicans.

And some stupid pigeons pretending they grow on trees.

Gymkhanas

Another meme nicked from Maria, a regular fount of memes.
Let's start November the way I mean to go on:
Boring.
No National Blog Posting Month crap for me this year. I did that last year and it drained me. Before last November my posts were scintillating gems of wit and insight; since Nablopomo sucked me dry and spat out the husk, my posts have been like this …
Dull, flat, uninspired crap …

Name one person who made you laugh last night.
Chris, my drummer. He phoned me about a rehearsal on Sunday and said something about gymkhanas that I will not repeat to anyone.

What were you doing at 8:00?
This. It's eight o'clock now.

What were you doing thirty minutes ago?
Drinking coffee and watching the news.

What happened to you in 2006?
I can't remember that far back.
I think I must have gone to the toilet a few times, maybe went shopping, did some housework, and I started blogging. What a sucky year.

What was the last thing that you said out loud?
"Ow! Fuck!" as I splashed boiling coffee on my hand in my greedy haste to get it into my mug.
I probably did some more swearing at politicians on the news, too.

How many beverages did you have today?
One so far, but it's still only eight in the morning.

What color is your hairbrush?
I don't have a hairbrush. I wash what's left of my hair, then just muss it up with my fingers and leave it at that.
And it's "colour", not "color". If you live in a country that professes to speak English, at least learn the fucking language.

What was the last thing that you paid for?
Two kelp onigiri, two avocado and tofu hand rolls and a bag of edamame from わさび to eat on the train home last night.

Where were you last night?
On the train, in the car, then back here.

What color is your front door?
It's wood. Woody brown. And that's "colour", dammit!

Where do you keep your change?
I cut the tops of two-litre plastic bottles and fill 'em up with change. Then when they're full I hand'em over to the next charity that comes knocking. I can't be arsed bagging 'em up and taking 'em to the bank and besides, giving 'em away lets me feel good about myself once in a while as each bottle holds at least seventy quid.

What's the weather like today?
Sunny. Crisp. Actually fairly mild for this time of year.

What's the best ice cream flavor?
Vanilla, ginger, chili or pistachio, but only if they're home made.
I don't like bought ice cream, though I used to like Ben and Jerry's Rainforest Crunch, with the brazil nuts in, but they stopped making that years ago.
Oh, and "flavour". It's got a fucking "u" in it!

What excites you?
Beauty. In anything.

Do you want to cut your hair?
Nope. I had it cut last week.

Are you over the age of 25?
Way over. In less than a fortnight I collide awkwardly with my forty-ninth birthday.

Do you talk a lot?
I'm either silent to the point of rudeness or you can't shut me up. Nothing in between.

Do you watch The O.C?
I have no idea what that is.

Do you know anyone named Steven?
Nope. I know a few Stephens though.

Do you make up your own words?
All the time. I'm fluent in Gibberish. I've lived alone for so many years I sound like an old tramp as I shuffle around the house.

Are you a jealous person?
No. But if you touch that I'll kill you!

Name a friend whose name starts with the letter A.
Aga. She's Polish and there aren't enough consonants on my keyboard to spell her name properly.

Name a friend whose name starts with the letter K.
Kaf. She's Maori. Same thing applies but with vowels.

Who is the first person on your received call list?
What the fuck is a "received call list"?

What does the last text message you received say?
I've never received a text message and I never will.
You know my views on mobile fucking phones.

Do you chew on your straw?
What? I'm almost fifty!

Do you have curly hair?
Nope. That would just be a pain in the ass.

Where's the next place you are gonna go?
Into Norwich to shout at contractors.

Who's the rudest person in your life?
Me. No fucking question.

What was the last thing you ate?
A handful of dried cranberries.

Will you get married in the future?
I hope so.

What was the best movie you have seen in the past two weeks?
I don't have time to watch movies. Except old black and white ones on a weekend, but I've not seen any in the last fortnight; I've been too busy.

Is there anyone you like right now?
What a dumb question. Other than my girlfriend I hate the whole world.

When was the last time you did the dishes?
Just now. At least I washed up my coffee mug.
Again; I live alone. I do the dishes every time I eat.

Are you currently depressed?
Just a bit tired and deflated. If you want depressed, check out the posts from this time last year. Sheeit!

Did you cry today?
I cry at old movies. It's eight in the morning so I've not seen any today.

That's your lot.

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.