Dear Diary…. today was a bad day

“Dear Diary, today was a bad day………..”

It doesn’t happen often, but today I had one of those days – you know the ones – where everything seems to conspire against you.

You always know when it is going to be one of those days, because things go wrong right from the very beginning. In my case, I got out of bed at 7.15am after not sleeping very well, went downstairs and promptly stood in a pile of dog crap that Naughty George had deposited on the living room floor. At first I didn’t know it was dog crap because the lights were off, but even through the haze of sleepiness, it slowly dawned on me that floorboards don’t have that amount of ‘give’ or ’squelch’.

I turned on the lamp and surveyed the damage. The widespread configuration of the dog sausages seemed to suggest that Naughty George had not only gone for a crap, but that he had revelled in it. What. a. git.

So, not only did I have to suffer the humiliation of hopping my way to the garden to wipe my slipper on the grass, but it took me fifteen gag-tastic minutes to clean up the mess, which in turn made me late taking Izzy to school. Grrrrrrr!

Once Izzy was dropped off, I decided to go back home and work there for the day (I had lots of admin to do), rather than go into the office. I put the kettle on and fired up my trusty new super-gadget; my Sony Vaio VPCF11Z1E laptop; scrumptious thing that it is – £1400’s worth of gizmos and widgets crammed into a lovely, shiney black case.

I sat down to work, flexed my fingers, and then moved the mouse, only to find the pointer remained static in the centre of the screen. I checked that the mouse was plugged in and tried again. But that evil little pointer remained steadfastly in place. I pressed alt + ctrl + del in an attempt to bring up Task Manager….. but nothing.

Oh yeh, my laptop had locked-up solidly. I pressed the off-switch and did a hard reboot. First, the welcome screen appeared and then my desktop, and then….. it locked up again. Sacre-bloody-bleu! I repeated the process a few times, just to confirm that the bloody thing was indeed knackered (technical term), and indeed it was.

Computers are funny things. One minute they are all sunshiney and let you do fun things like setting up cool screen-savers, play games and watch TV on demand, and then, without warning, they plunge you into the abyss. The abyss consists of msconfigs, hardware diagnostics, system restores, partioning and other such vagaries that you really know nothing about……. and so you become an outcast, randomly poking your finger into a big, huge ball of technological, acronym-babble. Yep, my once trusty Vaio had morphed itself into a binary pirahna pool.

I won’t go into much detail, but suffice to say, I spent six hours today flailing around in various Sony Vaio help forums…….. and was the problem fixed? Nope. Nowhere near. So, tomorrow I face the prospect of spending all day on the phone to Vaio Support Technicians asking me questions which I don’t understand, and then (resulting from exasperation on both sides), my laptop will probably be recalled under warranty and I won’t see it for two months.

So all in all, a pretty crappy day, and that’s without even touching upon the ‘Izzy tantrum’ or the ‘Naughty George fighting two Rottweilers on his walk’ episodes.

P.S. Sorry to sneak back, but I couldn’t resist finding out if you like the video as much as me!

Fancy trying something new?

Because I am a bit like Mother Theresa (but without the teatowel on my head), I thought that I would share with you a weekly Podcast that I subscribe to; quite simply because I like it and you might too.

It’s called ‘This Reality Podcast’, and it’s produced by two (fairly) local people called Brennig and Sophie Jones who live in Witney which is in Oxfordshire, just like me. And they have a blog, just like me, but theirs is called Brennig Jones (and friends).

Bloody hell, thinking about it, we seem to be virtually cloning each other [note to self: buy some radical underwear as a differentiation strategy].

Anyway, I digress. Every Friday evening I download their podcast and listen to it (in part), for three subequent days whilst I take Naughty George on his daily drag. It’s pretty handy like that, because the duration of the podcast is literally three dog-walks long [for the remaining 4 dogwalks of the week, I listen to 'Friday Night Comedy from BBC Radio 4'].

‘So what’s the score with this podcast?’ I hear you cry.

The answer is twofold. Firstly there is some nice easy mentalist banter to listen to, and secondly is the quality of the music. They specialise in unsigned, chilled alternative bands, and (if I knew how to do it), I would probably download 90% of the music they play to my ipod.

‘Ok, you have convinced me to give it a try,’ I hear you cry, ‘how do I go about it?’

Aaah crap. I knew that you would go all technical on me, but still, I’ll try and be helpful like my Mother Theresa alter-ego.

This is what you do if you have an iPod and iTunes account:

First, go to iTunes and open up the the iTunes Store.
Then click on ‘Podcasts’ on the top menu
Type ‘this reality pod‘ in the ’search store’ box in the top right of the screen
If you have done it correctly, ‘This Reality Podcast’ should be the first one in the list (see below)

Pic.No.2. Screen shot of ‘This Reality Podcast‘ website

So give the podcasts a go, and once you have done that, I encourage you to visit the website (like I do) to take the mickey out of one of the presenters (Brennig). Allegedly, he has pointy nipples. Isn’t that weird? 

Anyway…. enjoy, and if you have any recommendations that you can pass onto me, I’ll be glad to hear ‘em.

My new toothbrush

Last week I went to the dentist for a check-up. It was the usual ghastly routine, not too far removed from torture. I was made to lie in a chair, staring into a bright angle-light, whilst various implements buzzed, shrilled and squealed inside my mouth, occasionally showering my face with water and bits of pink gritty powder.

Once the excavations had finished, the Dentist picked up a tool that looked like a hook with a long steel handle. He then proceeded to stick the hook into each of my teeth, one by one, muttering strange codes to his assistant; “occlusion, 17, mesial 3……” etc. Yeh, you read right, he was actually making holes in my teeth with the big hook thing…. surely that’s not right?

I don’t know, this dentistry milarky is a mystery to me. However, you will be pleased to hear that the Dentist concluded; “you have got good teeth, but I would recommend that you get a new toothbrush to get to the more difficult to reach areas.”

“Yep, I can do that,” I replied.

The Dentist continued; “You need to look at a toothbrush called Oral B Triumph 5000.” Cool name or what? It makes it sound like a sports car.

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On the way home, I stopped at Boots to try and find an Oral B Triumph 5000. I looked in the regular toothbrush section, but nothing. Eventually I resorted to asking a member of staff who led me to a locked, glass security case.

‘Toothbrushes in a security case? What on earth is that all about?’ I wondered, as the assistant unlocked the case and placed and Oral B Triumph 5000 in my hands.

All became clear quite quickly.

“Yep, that’s the one I am looking for, how much is it?” I asked turning towards to cashiers desk.

“£156.00,” she answered blithely.

“WHAT?” I exclaimed, throwing the box back into her hands as though it was on fire, “it’s a bloody toothbrush, not a Faberge Egg.”

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Forty five minutes later and I was back at home, and on the internet reading about the Oral B Triumph 5000. Man alive, it was brimming with amazing features…….. but oh dear, that mist which appears everytime I see a gadget, started descending upon my decision-making ability. 

Pic.No.2. Introducing the Oral B Triumph 5000, the Ferrari of toothbrushes

I. Had.To.Have.One.

So here I am, feeling guilty because I have actually gone ahead and ordered an Oral B Triumph 5000. The only saving grace is that I found it for sale on Ebay for £88.00, but it is still a hell of a lot of money for a toothbrush. Just when did oral care become so technologically advanced?

The General Election has turned me into a treehugger

My friend Sarah and I were idly discussing the upcoming General Election the other day, when I asked her; “do you think people tend to vote for personalities or policies?”

Blimey! That was quite a profound question from someone whose longest word is ‘marmalade’, and wondering why we have to dry-clean raincoats, is the closest I have ever come to philosophical debate.  

“I think that people do tend to vote for personalities,” Sarah said (somewhat ironically, given that the three potential party leaders don’t have one to rub together between them), “but I don’t think that it’s right.”

Then, almost as an aside, she added, “actually there is a website where you can rate how important certain policies are to you, and at the end, it will tell you who to vote for.”

“Crikey, I fancy giving that a go,” I replied, “but before I do, have you been to this website?”

“Yes,” replied Sarah shiftily.

“And who did it tell you to vote for?” I asked. She told me the outcome, and (without going into the detail), suffice to say it was the exact opposite party, to the one she has staunchly supported since she was a foetus.

Obviously, that prompted much sympathetic guffawing from me.

“I knew I shouldn’t have told you,” said Sarah with a frown. “Anyway, why don’t you have a go?”

“Okey dokey,” I replied, “although being a small business owner, it’s almost a foregone conclusion that the Conservatives will be the party of choice.”

I typed the website address into my browser and the following screen appeared.

I duly answered all the questions, and then pressed the button entitled ‘who should you vote for’. A couple of seconds later, the results appeared in my browser….. and bloody hell…. I nearly fainted.

Apparently, the party most aligned with my views is the Liberal Democrats, headed up by Nick ‘Shagger’ Clegg. I didn’t see that coming.

Even more bizarre, was that the Green Party came second. Surely that means that I am am now an honorary treehugger? (I reckon it was the question about Cannabis that swung it).

Take the Who Should You Vote For? England quiz

Liberal Democrat				29
Green				19
Conservative				15
UK Independence				8
Labour	-3

You expected: CON
Your recommendation: Liberal Democrat

To err is human, and it makes Elections interesting

Really sorry to dash in and out, but I have had a bit of a hectic day, and I want to watch the Leadership Debate at 8.30pm. Oh yes, only two weeks to go before the UK’s general election, and the televised spats between the leaders of the political parties has really injected some life into the proceedings.

And it seems as though this evening’s debate will be even more lively, quite simply because Gordon Brown cocked-up spectacularly yesterday.

He was on the campaign trail when he had a face-to-face encounter with a voter called Gillian Duffy. After being subjected to a barrage of difficult questions, he finally parted company with Gillian and got into his Prime Ministerial car…. and herein lies his big, fat ‘DOH!’………..

Oh yeh, once in the car, Gordon forgot that he still had a TV microphone attached to his lapel, and proceeded to launch a scathing attack on the ‘bigoted’ voter Gillian, going on to describe the visit as a ‘a disaster’. TV and Radio stations managed to record the lot. Oh dear.

So, one of the main reasons that I wanted to watch the Leadership Debate tonight, was to see how Gordon Brown was going to handle the situation. And if you think I am rubbernecking the car-wreck, I am.

Gotta go, the debate is starting ………………………

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Update! I know that you are all sitting on the edge of your seats wondering how Gordon Brown explained his gaffe away.

I am sorry to say, it was all a bit of an anti-climax. The incident was only referred to once, in Gordon Brown’s opening pitch; “There’s a lot to this job [as Prime Minister]. And as you saw yesterday, I do not get all of it right. But I do know how to run the economy in the good times and in the bad.”

‘Surely,” I thought to myself, ‘that’s not it. The other Party Leaders, Nick Clegg and David Cameron, are bound to grab this opportunity to belittle our beleaguered Prime Minister?’

 Pic.No.2. Ugh – don’t smile Gordon – it’s horrible

But bizarrely enough, neither of them decided to seize the moment to heap more sleaze on Gordon Brown. How disappointing. Politics just isn’t what it used to be.

I did learn something very interesting about all this though, based on the quotation, “to err is human.” The fact that Gordon Brown dropped a bollock made him more human, and therefore more interesting. It made a change from the super-polished ‘all things to all people’ speeches that we are normally subjected to.

So in summary, I feel a little lacklustre about the proceedings. None of the party leaders stand out as potentially iconic leaders, and I think we need someone who isn’t afraid of a little controversy … or to speak their mind … with some charisma … whilst tackling old establishments head-on …

Pic.No.3. Anyone got a spare one of these that we can borrow?

Newsflash – The Killer Cows are Back

It was a bad day in Forest Hill yesterday. As I was taking Naughty George for his daily drag in the fields behind my house, I saw a sight that struck terror in my heart…… just guess who’s back? Yep, the killer cows have returned.

For those of you who aren’t familiar with the killer cows, it has been an ongoing saga since I abandoned Starbucks and civilisation, for a life in the country [some previous posts: Killer Cows 1, Killer Cows 2, Killer Cows 3]. I mean, once upon a time I was sitting in cafes in London, sipping skinny lattes and quaffing hummous wraps, and then (almost without a by-your-leave) I ended up stood in a field, donning a pair of wellies, with a cow dead-eyeing me. Bad cow.

I digress – back to the recently reappeared cows. Oh yes, those brutal bovines spent last summer and autumn terrorising me and Naughty George. I kid you not, I have lost count of the number of times that I was nearly stampeded to death by a flock of cows. The countryside is a cruel and unforgiving place.

But just before Christmas last year – all of a sudden – all the cows disappeared from their field. It was a wondrous day, even though I did wonder where the bloody hell they had all gone [actually, if you do know where cows disappear to, can you let me know? It's been bugging me. I have some vague notion that they headed South like Geese, but I can't back that up].

But now they are back. Admittedly (as you can see from the photo above), they didn’t try to storm me, but don’t be lulled into a false sense of security. They are probably a bit stunned from their journey back to the killing field, and it’s only a matter of time before they mount an offensive.
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Once back home, I tried to put the cows out of my head, and decided to eat dinner outside with Izzy because it was a lovely warm, spring evening. As I was setting the table, I noticed movement in the corner of my garden.

It was then that I spotted Steve (Izzy’s dad) in my back garden looking all shifty.

“Oi!” I cried, “What are you doing?”

“Trying to fix my tent. I haven’t got enough room to lay it out at my house,” he shouted back.

“Oh ok,” I replied, “do you want to stay for dinner? I’ve got more than enough.”

“Yeh, sounds good,” he shouted back, even though he was stood next to me by this time.

And so, even though the mysterious re-appearance of the cows had left me a little taken aback, we had a pleasant sun-drenched meal…. it was almost like being on the French Riviera.

P.S. After our meal, Izzy brought out her toy guitar for everyone to play with. It must have been a slight of the hand, but I accidentally captured this footage of Steve jamming. But sssshhhhhh…. don’t tell anyone!

Marvellous Optical Illusions

Question: What is an optical illusion?
Answer: It is an optical phenomenon resulting in false visual impressions

Firstly, I think that the definition above doesn’t even scratch the surface of the complexity of illusions, and secondly, I reckon that optical illusions are intrinsically fascinating for two reasons: (1) because they produce something that is not as it seems, which in turn makes us challenge ‘face-value’; and (2) most of them are master-classes in physics and psychology (in varying degrees).

If that wasn’t enough to establish the credibility of optical illusions, Bristol University actually has a ‘Professor of Illusions’. Oh yeh. This is serious stuff.

“So!” I hear you cry, “what on earth has made you start banging on about optical illusions?”

Well, I was listening to the radio today when I heard a discussion on the subject, and (being the saintly soul that I am), I decided to have a scout around to find some gems to keep you entertained.

The optical illusion above, apparently came about entirely by chance. Have a look at the picture, and in particular the two frisbees that you can see. Initially you might think that the picture has captured a moment when both frisbees are in the air. But that is not the case. Only one frisbee is actually airbourne.

The black frisbee is in the air, and the yellow one is on the grass. But the photographer has captured the moment when the shadow of the black frisbee is in just the right place to convince us that it is the shadow of the yellow frisbee, and that the yellow frisbee is actually in the air. How cool?

The pattern above is stationary – yet it seems to expand, especially if you don’t look directly at it, for instance when reading this text. But here is a bizarre fact. There is a percentage of the population for whom these illusions don’t work…… that isn’t logical surely?

If Carlsberg did gigs, they wouldn’t do this one

I forgot to tell you about a gig I went to last week at the O2 Academy in Oxford.

It was all really quite exciting because my friend Sarah had got us tickets to see…… da dahhhhhh…… none other than the legendary Lou Reed.

Oh yeh baby, the creator of classics such as ‘Perfect Day’ and ‘Take a Walk on the Wildside’ was coming to Oxford.

I was moderately excited about the gig, because although I like some of his stuff, I was never a die-hard fan like Sarah. Even in the olden days when we were both students at University, I remember the melancholy tones of Lou Reed’s ‘Heroin’ blasting out from her room whilst she was writing her history essays. 

Fast forward eighteen years (bloody hell! That long?) from University ….. to Oxford last week, and Sarah and I were waiting in the queue to enter the venue.

After studying my ticket, I turned to ask Sarah why the concert was called ‘Metal Machine Trio’;

“I didn’t know he had ever done an album called that,” I mused.

“Me neither,” replied Sarah, rather worringly (hang on – she lurrrrvvvves Lou Reed, but she hadn’t heard of the album).

A lady behind us in the queue – a middle-aged, eccentric looking lady wearing an Easter bonnet and sporting a folded copy of The Times under her arm – had overheard our exchange and leant forward, commenting; “I’m rather worried about the concert too. Someone told me that there is no singing, and that if the audience boo, then Lou Reed will walk out.”

Oooookay. From the snippets of information I had garnered, things weren’t looking too promising. But then again, quite often the best gigs can pop up when you least expect them.

Once inside, we surveyed our surroundings. It was an all-standing gig, and the stage was dimly lit meaning that the whole venue was very dark and only the shadowy silhouettes of other people could be made out amongst the buzz of anticipation.

After ten minutes, a ripple of applause from the front of the auditorium indicated that Lou Reed and his band (consisting of two people) had entered the stage. The ripple spread throughout the venue and was accompanied by whoops and cheers.

Then the bizarre happenings started. Lou Reed didn’t speak a word. He just knelt down next to a piece of kit towards the back of the stage and after a couple of minutes of him fiddling, the auditorium was filled with a weird, repetitive sound – a bit like the blades of a helicopter rotating very slowly but continuously.

After ensuring that the drone was working properly, Lou Reed and Band then oddly departed the stage, to leave the audience listening to dull throb for the next 40 minutes (the first audience members starting leaving after only 15 minutes), but not Sarah and I. Nope, we were going to stick with it…. the tickets cost £25.00 after all.

Once the 40 minutes of drone had elapsed (we soon realised that this drone was actually the intro to the performance), Lou Reed and Band re-entered the stage accompanied by a smaller ripple of applause and no cheers or whoops this time. Once again, Lou Reed didn’t say anything and proceeded to sit down in the centre of the dimly lit stage, whilst his other band members positioned themselves behind a computer and a saxophone, respectively.

With the drone still going in the background, Lou Reed and his band started making out-of-tempo, shrieking noises, wailing, and squeaking with their various instruments of choice….. and so it went on….. and on. [Note to reader: I later found out that Metal Machine Trio belonged to a genre called 'Noise Music' - yep it does what it says on the tin. If you want to read more, click here].

After enduring an hour or so of this ceaseless clamor, we nipped outside for a moment of respite and a little fresh air.

As I passed one of the doorman on the way out, I commented, “oh my god, it’s shite,” and he laughed as though laughing at the victim of a practical joke.

Sarah turned to me,”Yep, Lou Reed’s just tekking the piss,” adding, “and I’m never going to buy another album of his.”

At that point, an arty looking chap who had nipped outside for a (roll-up) cigarette turned to us – the two uncouth, uneducated and unwashed northern types – and derisively commented, “I think you will find that it is Avant Garde”.

“Avant Garde?” I queried, “Isn’t that the term you use when you want to make crap sound arty?”

Sarah starting laughing and I decided that we had better go inside before we got into trouble.

And so, after a further hour of listening to the cacophony of unbroken, grating ‘noise’ the concert finally came to a close. Only about a third of the initial audience still remained, and to my great surprise, there were some people at the front who clapped and cheered this pitiful excuse for a concert……. and Mr Avant Garde was probably one of them.

So, Lou Reed goes down in the annals of [my] history as the worst (by a long shot) gig I have ever been to. But in a weird kind of a way, bad gigs are just as interesting as good gigs …….. indignation can sometimes be as exciting as adrenaline.

So, I ask. What is the worst gig that you have ever been to? Can you come close (or even beat) Lou Reed’s Metal Machine Trio?

Don’t you just love spontaneous village life?

Weekend sunshine. Don’t you just love it? Yesterday, Izzy and I were returning from the fields after walking Naughty George, when we heard the sounds of splashing and much gaiety coming from the garden of a house belonging to some relative newcomers (like me), who lived in the village.

As we approached, we saw two of Izzy’s school friends jumping around naked, in a large inflatable paddling pool. They spotted Izzy and started shouting hello, just as one of their mothers, Julia came out from the house.

“Would Izzy like to come paddling?” she shouted to me.

“Yeh, sounds great,” I shouted back, joining her in the garden with her husband Will, and friend Amanda.

“The plan is,” continued Julia, “that the children wear themselves out in the paddling pool whilst us adults drink gin and tonic.

“Bloody civilised,” I nodded approvingly, taking my place on a sun drenched bench.

Within moments, Will had placed a large humungous gin and tonic, stacked with lime and ice in my hand. Ah, I thought. This is the life.

So for three hours, we sat under the blue sky and chatted, watched life go by, and laughed at the antics of the children in the pool.

It could have been described as idyllic if it hadn’t been for Naughty George. He broke free from his lead, peed up the side of one of the chairs and then proceeded to eat from a bowl of pasta that had been served to one of the children for supper. Even worse, whilst aforementioned sobbing child was being placated, he found the grated cheese pasta-topping and ate the lot.

“I’m really sorry,” I shouted, trying to pin Naughty George into a corner.

“No problem,” shouted Julia, “he’s probably over-excited.”

“No, you misunderstand,” I responded, “he is called Naughty George because he is actually a complete naus.”

“Yes,” mused Will, regarding Naughty George disparagingly. Then without even trying to keep up the pretence of ‘oh he’s a nice dog really‘, he added “he isn’t the most endearing of mutts.”

So finally, the sun started setting, and I thanked everyone for a lovely afternoon and set off, striding through the village, and back to my cottage …….. where, upon arriving, I realised that I had left NG tethered to a bench at Will and Julia’s house. Doh! Too many gin and tonics.

So I had to endure the ‘walk of shame‘ (which is generally characterised by a slightly wobbly gait), and traipse back through the village to retrieve mutt, and back again through the village again to get home.

All in all though, a very pleasant afternoon, made more so because of its impromptu-ness (yeh, yeh, I made that word up, but I can’t think of a better one).

So what have you been up to this weekend?

The prodigal daughter returns as a pop star

As you might remember, last weekend I received news that my daughter Izzy was stranded in France because of the volcanic ash cloud. In an attempt to make it home, Izzy and her Dad had got on a school bus and headed for Calais in northern France.

Then the trail went cold.

“So”, I hear you cry, “did you get your daughter back, or is she still missing in action?”

You will be pleased to know that last Sunday morning I received a text from Izzy’s dad, Steve;

“We’re back. It took nearly 23 hours. I know how the victims of torture feel. I need sleep.”

I turned to my friend Sarah who was staying for the weekend, “do you fancy picking up Izzy and taking her for lunch?”

“Sounds good,” she replied and so we headed off to Steve’s house. I rang the doorbell and Izzy answered.

“Izzy!” I shouted, “you’re back, I missed you” and I ran to give her a hug.

She didn’t seem to share my enthusiasm and answered, “I’ve got a new ‘Hello Kitty’ DVD, do you want to see it?” Oh. What an anti-climax. That’s four year olds for you. With the minimum of fuss, things were back to normal.

I have eaten here before and the food and service is normally impeccable. But not this time. The place seemed to have buckled under the strain of the extra crowds drawn in by the sunshine. And of course, me being a miserable old git, I take great umbrage to bad customer service.

It wasn’t that they were under-staffed, the problem seemed to be more that they were badly organised. We queued for twenty minutes at the bar to try and book a table, during which time there was one person serving customers and three other people chatting, and putting away glasses and cutlery. How bloody annoying is that? It wasn’t just me that found it irritating because I witnessed at least two sets of people leave altogether in exasperation.

Anyway, you will be pleased to hear that we did eventually get a table, and, one a half hours after arriving at the pub, our food finally turned up. The food was ok, but the quality was down on their normal standards. 

So the moral of the story is ‘avoid the Old Fisherman if the sun is out’.