Oh hello 2020

Wow. How time flies, as the saying goes. Here we are in February 2020 and here is a random post on my dear old blog. As is usually the case with these intermittent musings, they occur by chance.

Today, I am sat at my computer in my office and I just happened to spy the 'Blogger' tab on my browser. And, as always happens, my interest is piqued and I find myself delving, wistfully, into my ramblings from years gone by. Actually, the very use if the phrase 'delving, wistfully' indicates that I must be entering that dreaded period know as 'late middle-age'. Otherwise known as 'over 50'. For this is where I now reside. An it's a strange old place.

For me, primarily, it is because of the sudden and unexpected arrival of medical 'situations' I have hitherto deemed to be exclusively reserved for old people. Ah, how cruel life is. It spends decade after decade convincing you that you're immortal, or at the very least mortal but you'll be just fine for ages to come ... and then, out of the blue, stuff happens. And you're suddenly a tad more mortal than you'd anticipated.

On the bright side, I'm not dead. As proven by the appearance of this very posting. Which can only be a positive. And positivity is something I seem to have quite a lot of. This despite, quite often, not feeling entirely chipper about, well life 'n' stuff. So, it often comes as a surprise to me that I seem to sail the dark, mountainous seas of adversity on my ferry of positive thinking.

And so I suppose the moral of today's rambling anecdote is: You're born and then you die, so you may as well enjoy the bit in the middle.

Hmmm, good name for a blog, I reckon.

Keep Right On

It's a tough life being a football fan. Especially if you're one of those poor sods who decides to actually watch your team in the flesh. And even more so if you follow them around the country. I am one of those people.

And as you may or may not know (or care), I am a Birmingham City fan. Which in itself could be considered a mental health condition. Alas, if it is, it's an incurable one. On the bright side, I am not alone in my er, affliction. Which is a real bonus. Knowing that when you're driving hundreds of miles, in the middle of winter to far-flung locations, other deluded souls are doing the same. They may be on a coach, a train or in a car but the calling is the same. And as a Birmingham supporter, that calling is often unrewarded.

Now if you have no interest in footie, that's fine. This is more about shared emotions. There can be moments of great joy. Sheer, unadulterated happiness and euphoria. There can be long periods of tedium, frustration and anger. And there can be times of desolation, despair and utter hopelessness. And all of these emotions are shared with thousands of strangers.

Sharing such intense emotions with people you don't know can be a liberating experience and one that is hard to replicate outside of a football stadium, unless you consider other sports which attract a lifelong, generational following. It's just that football seems include a wider spectrum of the population. A broader demographic range of people which makes that sharing of feelings so much more surprising.

And travelling to an away game intensifies the experience even more. You're surrounded by people who really care about their club. They make the time and financial commitment that others don't. So their passion and emotion is concentrated and heightened. And being amongst hundreds or even thousands of people with that much investment in 90 minutes of sporting action can be addictive. 

Which is why I drove a 310 mile round trip to see my team take on Ipswich Town. I won't bore you with the details of the match or even an account of our season so far (that really is another story) but suffice to say that 'turgid' is a word that springs to mind. OK, it was 1-1 but even this drab affair resulted in passionate discussions, shared frustrations and a sense of all being in it together. A kind of dark humour. A shared struggle couple with a wry smile and of course, some rude songs. 

It's kind of appropriate that the club's anthem (sung at every match) is 'Keep Right On (To The End Of The Road)'. And we do indeed keep right on. 

Even when the road is full of potholes.

Five Years On

Lawks. It appears that I last posted on here almost 5 years ago. Should I pleased about this because it shows just how busy and fun-filled my life has been since 2012, or should be full of morose sadness because I've not kept my blog going?

Answer?Neither. Well, maybe both. Oh I don't know. There are positives and negatives. On the bright side, my business (wot I began in 2011) has gone from strength to strength and takes up plenty of my time - hence my lack of posting on here.

On the down side, there have been so many amusing and entertaining moments in the last 5 years, I wish I'd shared them with you.

Ah, tis the old story isn't it? We all say that 'time flies' and before you know it, the years have zipped by and you suddenly realise how many things you never did that you wished you had. But there you go. Such is life. The best thing to do is just get on with it and never regret anything. Apart from that incident on the bus with sex toy and the badger.

Anyway, I may as well get on with it then. Last week I was filming in lovely Edinburgh. Considering it was mid-March, the weather was positively balmy. One of the highlights had to be filming at the rather stunning National Museum of Scotland (see pic). Not only did I get to film there I also enjoyed a posh dinner too. Oh lucky me.

However, the most memorable moment of my trip was, as I was driving back to Nottingham (a momentous journey of 5 hours) I headed up a slip road, there was a brilliant sign statin I was NOT allowed to take my horse and cart onto the motorway. Was this 1897? Nope, it was definitely 2017.

It just goes to show you however many years go by, some things never change.

Some summer

Well the summer of 2012, here in the UK, has gone down in history. The wettest May,June and July since records began in 1910, which is 102 years if maths isn't your strong point. And boy was it wet.

Now where I live it was certainly wet but we avoided any serious flooding. Unlike many other parts of the country. I lost count of how many times we heard that "a month's worth of rain fell in a single day". That's a lot of rain. And earlier in the, er, summer, there was also a spectacular irony in a number of areas around Britain where people found themselves under hosepipe bans, whilst watching a river meander through their living room.

And it wasn't just the physical effects of all the rain and flooding. Psychologically, us poor Brits were suffering too. Day after day of dark clouds, driving rain and decidedly chilly temperatures was beginning to make us feel rather depressed. Summer is always much anticipated here and to find out that one week in April looked like being our entire summer, was pretty hard to take. A bit like expecting a new iPad for Christmas and instead, receiving a box of haemorrhoid cream.

It turns out that the jetstream (that ribbon of fast-flowing air that zips around the world up in the troposphere) was to blame. It was stuck south of the UK and was dragging cold air down from the Arctic, which was causing all the horrendous weather. Bastard. Well the good news is that the jetstream has stopped behaving like a recalcitrant child and has finally shunted itself back up north. Oh joy. Joy like you can't imagine.

Two weeks ago, it was a slamming down with rain and the temperature was an abysmal 14 degrees Centigrade (or 57 degrees Fahrenheit). Today, as I sit in the garden writing this, it is sunny with blue skies and a thoroughly perfect 26C (79F).

Summer has arrived and so have my happy feet.

Vehicular oasis

I had the pleasure of having to visit Belgrave Square in London last week. If you didn't know, it's located in Westminster and is one of those truly salubrious parts of London which is filled with the kind of huge, pillar-fronted buildings you see in old films. They are impressive stuccoed buildings with big windows, high ceilings and feeling of true grandeur.

It's also where many of the foreign embassies are. Wikipedia describes it thus: Belgrave Square is one the largest and grandest 19th Century squares in London. And it's not just the buildings that exude a sense of wealth and luxury. The whole place is rammed full of Bentley's, Range Rovers, Porsches, Ferraris andAston Martins.

So as I strolled past Gordon Ramsey's Boxwood Cafe and the 5 star Berkeley Knightsbridge hotel towards Belgrave Square, I felt like I was the underclass, entering a world of caviar, fur coats and million pound deals. The array of exquisite cars lining the street only served to heighten my sense of inferiority.

And then my saviour appeared, partly in shadow, beneath an ornate, cast-iron street lamp.  I felt worthy again. I was not inferior. I was an equal to all of those around me in this alien, billion pound (dollar, euro) world. There, nestled between a  Mercedes-Benz SLR McLaren Roadster and a Bentley Continental GTC, was an 'M' reg Proton Saga. In red. And rust. Even better, it was parked in a permit holders' space.

Joy filled me heart. This alien turd of vehicles had sneaked into the hallowed land of the international playboy, film star and corporate banker and said "bollocks to the lot of you" I patted it's manky bonnet and continued onwards past a yellow Lamborghini, smiling to myself.


Proton 1 - 0  Financial excess

Blogging eh?

Where do I begin? The fate of so many blogs has been to explode into life in a riot of colour, fanfare and excitement. Only to fade and die after a short while, never to return. YBATYD has so nearly succumbed to this same travesty of online life but always just manages to rise, phoenix-like from the ashes of the Internet.

So here I am. Months after my last post and feeling a tad dismayed at all the wonderful things that have happened which would have been brilliant fodder for you to dine on. Odd things always happen to me and now that I have finally invested in an iPhone, I can truly exploit those magical moments by sharing them with you as they happen.

For example, last week whilst out in town - a town which seems to exist solely for its residents to doss about, drinking, fighting and stealing from each other (maybe some exaggeration there)- I walked past two 'yoofs', clad in obligatory tracksuits and hoodies, walking their ferrets. Yes. Ferrets. Now how much more wonderful and engaging would that story have been if there'd been a photo to accompany it? Exactly dear readers. Exactly.

So now I am iPhone'd up to the hilt I shall never again miss the chance to deliver amusing, witty, erudite and photo-supported postings for your enjoyment.

As long as I don't lose my phone.

Best before...?

Firstly - 'hello blog'. Crikey, it's been so long since I last posted, the World has changed a great deal. Birmingham City got relegated, tornadoes, floods and earthquakes have happened and the price of cider has increased. All major events indeed. Suffice to say, I am ashamed at my lack of textual input these past months. Maybe it's an age thing. Or possibly that I just kept forgetting that I actually had a blog. Either way, I've written sod all since last September and that's a shame because all sorts of berserk things have happened to me during my blogging absence.

Well, enough reminiscing about the recent past (although I must tell you about my mental arm-agony that I had to endure in the winter, sometime) and on to today's interesting life event. My good lady decided to avail herself of a small snack earlier in the evening. This was not a good idea because I was at work and thus not able to provide my usual 'health and safety' style checks on her savoury sustenance. Now don't get me wrong. She is no simpleton. No dunderhead. She is actually infinitely more intelligent than I am. Proof of this can be provided by reading the title of her dissertation that she wrote whilst at university - 'Equations of length seven over free groups'. That's pure maths. And no, I have absolutely no idea what it means either but I do know that it's immensely complex and you need to have a brain the size of Chad to understand it all.

So it's all the more curious then that, given her intelligence, she managed to scoff an entire bag of cheese Doritos that were seven months out of date. That's a 7 by the way. Now I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that not seeing the 'best before...' label on a packet doesn't mean you are stupid. I agree. However, this packet was vegetating right at the back of a dark, hard to reach cupboard. This would have provided most people with a small clue as to the age of the item. Furthermore, we haven't bought cheese Doritos for months. Another fairly large clue. To be honest if I found an unexpected item of food lurking at the back of a dark cupboard on a rarely used shelf I think I would have at least a cursory glance at the 'best before...' bit on the packet. But that's just me.

The good news is that she ate the Doritos three hours ago and she's still alive which is, of course, great. However, if she awakes in the night, gasping for air, clutching her stomach and asking for a priest, I may have re-write this last bit.

And maybe instead of 'best before...' a label saying 'worst after ...' would be a bit more effective.

Out of iTune?

Now I'm about as big an Apple fan as you can get. Sad, but so very true. I have an iMac, various iPod's including an iPod touch; an Apple TV an iPad and an un-nerving appreciation of black, turtle-neck sweaters. I love all that Apple is - how the products function, how the applications interact, how it all works so beautifully in the way I want and even the gorgeous, eye-wateringly beautiful designs.

However, I downloaded iTunes 10 the other day.

I was staggered. I've never seen anything from Apple that is so utterly devoid of beauty and sex appeal. This is aside from the many aspects of iTunes 10's functionality which seem to have been removed. It's grey (or gray if you insist). Very grey. Very, very grey. In fact, it is greyer than an elephant lying in concrete. All the buttons are grey. The lists are grey. All the headings and titles are grey. When you click on anything - it stays grey.

It's grey.

It is devoid of any colour. And I hate it. But it's OK because many, many other people hate it too. Now I'm all for sleek, modern design. Apple's renowned for its minimalistic, artistry when it comes to the creation of their products and applications. But this, this is like a pencil drawing. It has about as much visual appeal as Celine Dion, naked, astride a Velociraptor ... in gravy. Wait - that has too much colour in it.

Suffice to say - using iTunes 10 is a depressing, joy-sapping experience. A bit like biting your own toenails after running a marathon. So why have Apple done this to us? What are they trying to prove? Should I stand accused of 'monochromophobia'? Well if I am, then I plead guilty as charged.

I hate it. So there you have it - in black and white. Not grey.

Aaargh I'm dying. Right, I'm fine now.

OK, so the title's a bit long but it's also pretty descriptive. The World Cup is on as I write and it's been a pretty successful tournament in South Africa. Unless you're an England fan, Asamoah Gyan - the Ghanian striker who missed a penalty with the last kick of the game which ultimately meant his team went out of the competition, or Frank Lampard, whose goal was disallowed despite being around twelve years over the line. However, one thing has driven me mental with anger. Cheating.

Now we all know that football players are prone to exaggerated reactions to fouls and firm tackles but this World Cup has seen things reach a whole new level. Not content with merely diving, when an opponent brushes an ankle or makes the lightest contact with an arm, the players are now performing acrobatic leaps, total body collapses and more rolls than a Greggs bakers' in an effort to win a free kick or get an opponent sent off.

However, a new and impressive feigning technique has emerged which prompted a friend of mine to utter the following: "There should be three cards in football - a yellow card, a red card and an Equity card". For those of you who are not from these fair isles of Britain - 'Equity' is the actors union. And he's right about the acting. The new trend is, regardless of where another player makes contact with you, to collapse to the ground clutching your face and writhing in agony. It's really quite astonishing. Astonishing because the players are so dense that they don't seem to realise that their every movement is captured in super slow-motion, high-definition (unless you subscribe to ITV HD) and also astonishing because FIFA and the officials seem happy to let them get away with it.

I've watched numerous games over the past few weeks where players have given the impression that they have just been shot in the face with an elephant gun from a distance of 4 centimetres, only for the replay to show that they were tapped on the arse by a wayward boot from an ungainly defender. And they really go for it too. I have to say that the Italians, Brazilians and the French seem to be the greatest exponents of this dubious new fad.

Personally, I think that if a referee witnesses a blatant example of 'face clutching' then he should be allowed to smack the offender in the jaw with a claw hammer. And then give him a yellow card for time-wasting whilst he has emergency, reconstructive surgery on the sidelines. And then kill him anyway. Possibly.

If it continues for much longer I may be forced to watch pro-celebrity knitting instead.

Name that car

I just bought a new car. Well I say new, I've never actually bought a brand new one because I've never had enough money floating around in my bank account to do so. When I say 'new' I mean 'new to me'. It's actually three years old, but at least it's a lot newer than my previous, valiant car - Keith.

Aaah, I see some of you flinched at that bit.

People who give car names are, to put it politely 'sad', 'stupid' and 'annoying'. So, yes, I'm one of those people. The new car is called Terry by the way. My boss at work gets really bent out of shape when she hears me discussing the vehicular attributes of Keith and Terry. She really, really hates it and has a rather strong dislike of people who do such things. So this begs the question "why do it"?

Hmmm. Well, personally I just like to give a bit if character to something I spend a great deal of time with. Like a wife or girlfriend. Oh - a bit more flinching there. But think about it. Think of all the long journeys, exciting adventures, sad, dreary road trips, naughty fun, escapes from near-death and sharing of all the seasons, weather and life-changing moments that you experience whilst in your car.

It's hard not to associate some of the most profound moments in your life with your trusty metal steed. I've laughed, cried, shouted, whimpered, sung, screamed, snored, chatted, argued, kissed, hugged, sworn (rather a lot) and daydreamed in Keith. Why on Earth would I not feel an affinity with him. Yes 'him'. My mate. My soulmate. My caring, sharing automobile. Yes I give my cars names. Because they give me so much more in return.

Now where are my car keys....

Sign of the times

The photo says it all. And I love it. Hat sellers outside Trent Bridge cricket ground have a readymade market of stupid hat buyers passing their stalls. However, with grammar and prices (4.99 pence!) so badly misjudged, you have to wonder what sort of simpleton they're targetting.

I bought one.

Too busy?

I'm actually too busy to write a post. Apart from this one which is explaining why I'm too busy to write a post, even though I'm writing one. Er. This is confusing. Anyway, I am indeed busier than Mr Busy McBusy from Busytown in Busyshire. I'm recording podcasts, making video's (nothing shady, honest Guv) and have lots of hectic things going on. So, why post about this dear, loyal readers?

Guilt.

Yep. I've been perusing my old postings, right back to my first ever one on New Year's eve 2005 and I realised how inconsistent I've been. Part of the problem seems to be that I am writing quite a lot of stuff for my Twitter and Facebook chums. The thing is though, social network and micro-blogging sites just don't allow one to fully express themselves. As you know if you're a regular reader of YBATYD or, indeed, a newcomer, you'll see that my musings always require far more space than is acceptable or even allowed on Facebook, Twitter etc. And anyway, a blog should be a fuller, more rounded experience for it's readers. Hmmm. I seem to have solved my own problem. A blog is not the same as any other medium and so deserves its own style and freedom of expression. Phew.

Crikey. This is a bit of a serious posting. That's not like me at all. Maybe I should lighten the mood. Er ... Oh yes, this is amusing. A colleague of mine told me today that when she was at school there was a craze going round whereby the girls would cake lipstick on and then plant a big kiss on the mirror in the girl's loo. God knows why but hey, who needs a reason for a craze?

Anyway, the Head Teacher was a tad miffed at this and made numerous attepmts to get them to stop. Finally, she gathered a bunch of the naughty gals in the lav, along with one of the school cleaners. The teacher addressed the throng by asking the cleaner to show the girls exactly how much work went into cleaning the lipstick off the mirror. The cleaner picked up a rancid, grey dishcloth, dunked it in the toilet and used it to wipe the lippy off. The girls never 'kissed' the mirror again.

Hooray. Normal service has been resumed.

A slice of bad luck

Picture the scene: you're enjoying a bit of James Bond on DVD (Casino Royale no less), with your best friend. You've enjoyed a fab, gut-busting meal and the world is a happy place. Then you decide to make it just that little bit more perfect. Melons. Yes, you suddenly remember that you have a ripe one, nestling in the fridge between the Onken yoghurt and the 2 litre bottle of Strongbow. I'm a classy geezer you know.

So, without a moment's thought, the DVD was paused (no, not the bit many of my female colleagues get all excited about - Daniel Craig emerging from the sea in his pants) and I leapt over the sofa, did a forward roll into the kitchen and threw open the fridge door with gay abandon. Er...

Seconds later, the juicy melon was at my mercy, held down upon the chopping board by my manly hand. I whipped out my knife and got to work. Slice after dripping slice of sweet melon fell away as I powered through the powerless fruit. The it happened.

I think I may have said something along the lines of "OH F*CK!". This was because, in my haste, I had almost sliced the end of my thumb off. That knife was terrifically sharp and I had sliced two-thirds of the way through the tip of my innocent finger. The second I felt the blade slicing through one of my favourite digits, I knew I was in trouble. Bravely, I called out to me lovely friend that I was in a fair bit of pain, before almost fainting. Well, when I say fainting I mean that my natural defence system kicked in and decided that the best way to help me would be to make me sweat profusely, develop tunnel vision, tinnitus and a desire to rest my head on the cold floor. I obliged.

After several agonising minutes and a fair amount of horror-film-style blood splattering (the bottle opener and salad bowl took the brunt of it), my friend had stemmed the flow and helped me administer a rather nifty looking bandage. I knew my First Aid training would come in handy one day. Finally, we cleared up the red mess, tidied up the blood-soaked pieces of kitchen roll and headed back to the telly to resume our film. Then I remembered the melon.

Look, you have to get your priorities right. I may have nearly lopped the end off my thumb, experienced exquisite pain and bled like a halal pig, but food is food. Just because you've suffered a major, life-threatening trauma (am I exaggerating a tad?), it shouldn't mean you have to neglect your tum. So I zipped back into the kitchen, grabbed the plate of succulent (and blood-free) slices and returned to Jimmy B and his trunks. Life was once again, good.

But now I have a phobia of melons. The fruit that is.

Tiny car

Capers and such like

Do you ever wish you liked a food, but didn't? But wish you did? Even though you didn't? No? Well I do. There are at least three foods that I didn't like but made myself like them because, well, they just looked so much fun to eat.

The first one is .... celery. Yes I know. People think it's dull and that it takes more calories to eat it than it actually contains. Aside from all that though the reason I yearned for celery so much was that it just looked so crunchy, easy to use and brilliant for scooping up yummy stuff like houmous, peanut butter and salsa dip. When I first tried it, naked ... er, the celery was naked, not me. Or was I? Anyway, the celery was 'au natrel' and I thought it tasted like crunchy water. But I was determined to be a 'crunchy dunker' and I persevered with the little green stalk until I finally came to love it's fresh, bland taste. I always remember one summer's day, when I was but a child, my dad sitting in the garden, his belly button full of salt and him dunking his celery in it... Aaah memories.

My second hated food was .... olives. When I first tried an olive, the taste made my mouth feel violated. I thought they were disgusting. But olives just seemed to be the darling of the social event. They were, and still are, bloody everywhere - parties, restaurants, pubs and clubs. And they're just so, well, handy. Easy to nibble on their own or with a plate of exciting goodies. I needed to get to like olives. So I re-visited them and discovered that black olives tasted rather like metallic courgettes diced with a little bit of cat vomit but if I had them with something else they were bearable. Admittedly, I had to eat them with things that helped disguise the flavour slightly. Cheesey Doritos worked quite well, but eventually I had to 'go it alone' with an unaccompanied black olive. I liked it. The next step was to tackle the gag-inducing green efforts. Surprise surprise. My black olive training had taught my taste buds to actually enjoy the weird flavour imparted by olives. I loved the little green buggers. Then I discovered stuffed olives: pimento (what the hell IS pimento?), almonds, anchovies, sun-dried tomatoes and more. Nowdays, there is always a jar of fat, stuffed olives lurking in my cupboard.

My final challenge was .... beetroot. I blame my schooldays for my acquired abhorrence of this stupid-coloured vegetable. They used to put beetroot in loads of meals and as the meals themselves were generally unfit for human consumption, the lowly 'beet' quickly became associated with all that was vile, inedible and an insult to all things cullinary. Plus, I thought that beetroot was just showing off, by bleaching it's sodding purple-ness onto every other foodstuff on my plate. There's no need for that is there? Then, one day, about 25 years after my last beetroot-infected school dinner, I was treated to a delicious meal which was essentially a fresh tuna salad (I'm dangerously obsessed with tuna by the way) that also contained, dear God - beetroot. Unfortunately, I wasn't in a position to grab a fork and flick the offending bits into the nearerst bin/flower pot/pram and so I had to actually eat the stuff. It was delicious. It was amazing. It was beautiful. It was angelic. It was ... purple heaven. All these years, I'd shied away from, despised, loathed and reviled beetroot. And there, in one glorious moment, I discovered that it was, in fact,delicious. And did you know that if you eat enough of it, it can even make you wee go pink, which is always a hit at parties. Bonus.

And so, my life, like my tum, is now fuller because I made myself like three foods which I had just naturally avoided or disliked. I can't imagine not enjoying them again and know that I will always be happier for including them in my diet.

Capers however are rank. They taste like soil, laced with battery acid and covered in algae. They actually make me want to be sick. So why then, did I buy a jar, specifically to include in a tomato salsa recipe, as part of a meal from a Jamie Oliver cookbook? Because the recipe said so. I had faith in Jamie 'Olive-Oil". I truly believed that, despite including the single most revolting food item know to humanity, the recipe would just work. I really believed the flavours of all the ingredients would work in perfect harmony and produce a salsa of such joy, taste and sensation, I would actually need to spend some time alone for a while. I was wrong. It tasted of soil, laced with battery acid and covered in algae, but with the addition of garlic and onion. I felt my intestines trying to force their way up my oesophagus in a bid for freedom. The evil, hateful, murderous capers had invaded and pillaged all the lovely flavours from my salsa and killed them in cold blood. Well, a tomato-based juice actually, but you get my point. So, I tried. I really tried to like capers. But no. Capers are horrid. Truly awful. Utterly repellant. They are wrong!

But the jar's still in my fridge and I'm afraid. Very afraid.

Apprentice joy

I watch The Apprentice on the telly. For those of you who don't know, or are lucky enough to live another country, it's a sort of reality TV show where 'contestants' are chasing a dream job with a major international company. They spend what feels like 244 weeks being 'interviewed' by way of a myriad number of tasks and challenges, all designed to test their business acumen, leadership qualities and decision-making skills.

Unfortunately, most of them are tossers.

OK, that's a little harsh, but I wanted to raise a laugh early on. None of them are tossers. Well some of them are. Actually most of them have an 'air of the tosser' about them to be honest. We're on about the fifth series now and I'm constantly amazed at the staggering levels of ineptitude, arrogance and well, tosser-ness which they manage to display. There have been some monumental examples of stupidity. One that springs to mind was from an earlier series:

"I'm outstanding in everything I've done," lawyer/artist/tosser (allegedly) Nicholas de Lacy-Brown assured us in the opening episode. However, Nick's wide and varied life experiences clearly didn't include selling lobsters - a grave omission that saw him offloading £20 crustacea for the cut-down price of a fiver in London's Chapel Market. He totally cocked up on his maths and flogged all this top-notch aquatic grub for practically nowt. And this was a man/tosser who was earning shed loads of cash in his chosen profession. How the hell do these people do it? Let's not forget that these people must have got their amazing jobs by either luck, nepotism or by shagging the boss.

I'm sure you all have your favourite examples of unbelievable idiocy from the show, but surely who could forget, as part of the Marrakech task when the two teams had to find items in the city's huge souk? A kosher chicken was on the list. Michael, who called himself a "good Jewish boy" on his CV, didn't know what kosher meant and bought it from a halal butcher before getting the Muslim chap to pray over it, thinking that would be enough. I'm sorry but the word 'tosser' leaps from my fingers and onto this blog once again. You have to laugh though don't you? And so from this plethora of simpletons, Sir Alan (Brillo-head) Sugar must pick a winner to become a part of his uber-empire. Well, Sir Alan, when it comes to choosing a brilliant new apprentice, I have to say:

"You're fired".

Spend & save

Well happy new year and all that jazz. However, the question is, exactly how happy a new year is it? With a world economic recession circling us like vultures over a dead water buffalo, what does 2009 hold for mere mortals like you and me?

Well it depends on how you look at severe financial trauma. Me? Well, I look at my spending and cut back where I can but not to the point where I'm eating soil and making my own pants from leaves. I still treat myself to things. Like margarine and tiny oil paintings. However, some people view things like closing down sales as a retail bonanza, not to be missed at any cost, regardless of the financial situaion.

Certain people manage to convince themselves that by spending money, they are actually saving money. I knew this female, lady-woman who told me she'd saved £3 on a toilet roll multipack, so she bought a £50 coat to celebrate. Is it me or is that mental? So with all these stores like Woolies, Zavvi, MFI and The Pier disappearing from UK high streets, it's like a Pandora's box for many folks. They're like shopping-zombies, lurching trance-like through the doors of the latest collapsing retail giant. And once inside, that bonkers 'spend & save' logic takes over their enfeebled minds and they start shelling out wads of cash to buy things they don't need and can't afford. But it's such a 'brilliant price', they just can't pass up the opportunity. What wisdom.

Then, 5 months later when they've defaulted on their eleven credit & store cards, Mr Bailiff turns up on the doorstep and removes all the lovely stuff purchased in that whirl of discount-infused excitement. And the result? Cheap, nearly-new goods on sale at a reposession auction near you!

Winner.

Slooowly coming back

Well, maybe I'm finally ready to start with my eccentric musings again after a long old break. Did you miss me dear reader(s)? Well, I moved house just before Xmas and of course, being a man-bloke, my priorities were clear: LCD telly, Internet, food, beer ... then everything else.

So, all the other stuff got sorted nicely. Then came the internet. Now my need for the internet is similar to most people's need for oxygen, Kerry Katona's need for Iceland ads or George Bush's need for an 'I used to be the president' bumper sticker. So imagine my joy when my 'super-fast broadband' kit arrived from BT. Where I lived previously, I'd enjoyed mega-fast 10mb speed with Virgin via a nice little cable buried beneath the pansies in the garden. Now I wasn't expecting anything as speedy as that, using ye olde copper phone lines. However, I was expecting, er, a connection.

I set up the whole thing and fired up my browser (Firefox in case you care) and waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. And waited.

The page loaded!

Then the internet died.

I re-installed everything, re-set the wireless modem and tried again.

It couldn't find the network I'd just created. Bugger.

I re-installed everything, re-set the wireless modem and tried again. Again.

It didn't like the password I entered. This is the password it gave me to enter. The one in writing on a card that told me to use the password when prompted. No luck.

Then one day I struck lucky and the whole setup sort of shuffled, like an ancient Tibetan monk climbing a hill, to some sort of working state. I decided to run an online speed test to see how fast my broadband really was. Now this may be rather boring and tedious dear reader, but the following bit is actually quite impressive reading.

When I had my Virgin broadband, my average Internet speed was 9.8mb. That's 9,800kb (or kilobits) line speed. When I tested my BT broadband I got .................. 9kb. Yes, that's 9. To put that in some persepective, the age-old ;dial-up' way of connecting to the Internet, that no sane human uses anymore, had a line speed of 56kb. My 'broadband' was over 5 times slower than dial-up. I cried tears of techno-woe.

Over several days, I did many things including connecting the modem directly to my Mac with an (if you care ... ethernet) cable. That is, the modem was connected - by a wire, physically - to my computer. Couldn't see it. What? That's like punching someone in the face and them not being aware of the massive physical impact you've just made on their cranium. I was a little hacked off by now as you can possibly sense.

So I rang the little man at BT - in Lahore, which it appears, is my local point of contact for the East Midlands of England. Anyway, he was a marvel and despite my deeply non-festive mumblings about 'narrowband' and 'worse than dial-up' he did me proud and sorted the problem. It was all to do with the 'channel' on which my modem was set or something. Anyway, the result is that I now average 3mb-4.5mb line speed which is wholly marvellous and sufficient for my needs. So I'm a happy, web-connected bunny at last.

And I can receive all that lovely spam again too....

Maybe. Just maybe...

Never say never is what I say. So hold on to your bits and pieces.....

Closed

This blog has now ended. I hope you enjoyed reading it and thank you to everyone who contributed. Thanks again.

Can you spare any change guv?

Now don't get me wrong. The current situation in Zimbabwe is atrocious for the people who live there. I'm not going to get political - that's just not what YBATYD is about, so don't worry. I just want you all to know that this post is about a situation and not about people. Right? Good.

The situation in Zimbabwe at the moment is brilliant. Why so? Because they have the most unbelievable inflation in the history of ever, coupled with a simply bonkers approach to dealing with it all - print more money. And not just print more money, but keep re-launching the currency and issuing notes in quite staggering denominations.

OK - time for some numerical fun.

Today, the rate of inflation in the UK stands at 3.3%. In Zimbabwe it is slightly higher at almost 10,500,000%. Yes that's ten and a half million percent. Crackin'.

Today the official exchange rate for the Zimbabwe Dollar against the British Pound is fairly impressive. If you exchange one, solitary Pound for your Zimbabwean Dollar you will get Z$21,450,168. Not bad at all. Oh and if you do the currency exchange the other way you find that Z$1.00 is equal to one-five millionth of a penny. "Can you spare any change guv?".

So, let's look at a real-life situation shall we? This is fun.

Imagine I want to buy A Rampant Rabbit Wave vibrator from Ann Summers in Harare. The UK price for this, er, internal massager is £49. Now let's all whip out our Casio calculators and just see how much that would cost in Zimbabwe. And the answer is:
Z$1,051,058,232. Yes that's over a billion Zimbabwean dollars! Mind you, the Rampant Rabbit Wave does give you "3 levels of ripple intensity and 3 speed buzzy ears". I'd say that's a bargain.

OK. Here are a few more incredible facts about the currency situation:

In February 2007, the central bank of Zimbabwe declared inflation "illegal". Genius.
They do have coins but due to their minuscule value, they only function as gambling tokens in Zimbabwean casinos. Handy.
To help people avoid carrying wheelbarrow loads of cash around, the bank have cleverly now issued mega-banknotes. The highest value one is for Z$50 billion. Simple solution.
And finally - the government are spending £382,000 a week to buy in printed notes with a value of Z$170 trillion.

And we think we have a credit crunch .....

Wii-ow!

I own a Wii. Now as a Wii owner, I have come to excpect a plethora, nay a myriad of injuries to be caused by excessive physical exertions. Due to the nature of the Wii, one is required to thrash around like a psychopath on crack, in order to reach the next level of Guitar Hero 3, or the Wii Sports boxing. There are a ton of videos of people on YouTube, causing themselves harm due to over zealous attempts to conquer the beast from Nintendo.

My niece even told me about a friend of hers who played one game solidly for a week, whilst on holiday, and ended up with RSI (Repetitive Strain Injury) from her efforts. She was 20.

So, I wasn't surprised when I began to feel various aches and pains following a frenzied session of Wii Sports Boxing and Tennis. I have to admit that the day after this Wii-binge, I actually thought I had appendicitis. That was until a very sweet friend of mine pointed out that my appendicitis was located on the wrong side of my body.'Nuff said.

So, I began to learn about the types of aches and strains I might expect whilst playing on the console. Funnily enough, my Xbox 360 caused me no problems whatsoever. This is probably due to the fact that the only movement required to play on the Xbox is that provided by my ten digits. And even then, it's not exactly strenuous. Also, I can play whilst lying, like a beached whale, on the sofa. Physical exertion and the Xbox 360 are not natural bedfellows.

So, back to the Wii. As I said, I felt I had learnt all the physical dangers of the little console. Howevr, it appears I was slightly wrong in this assumption.

One evening whilst playing Wii Sports Baseball, I was becoming more and more frustrated at not being able to hit a home run. Now with this game, you hold the controller as if it were a real baseball bat and swing it, with gusto, to 'hit' the ball. I was trying harder and harder to achieve a good 'hit' with the result that my right leg was sort of following through, with the momentum of each thrashing strike at the virtual baseball.

I was unaware that each time I lashed out with my controller, I was edging closer and closer towards the telly .... and the heavy, wooden unit on which it stood. Eventually, I took an almighy swing at the baseball and followed through with a massively powerful follow-through kick with my sock-clad foot. It struck the wooden unit with an impressive force. I believe I was heard to scream "F*cking f*ck!!!" before collapsing to the floor in quite exquisite agony.

I feared I may actually have fractured three of my toes. A bag of frozen chips was swiftly placed upon my battered tootsies and after a few minutes the pain began to subside. A quick check of my toes proved that they were still fully intact and so, bravely, I continued the game - complete with the bag of frozen chips sitting on my battered foot.

Two weeks later and the toes are still a little tender, but otherwise OK. So the lesson here is quite clear: don't act like a complete tit when playing on a Wii

And wear some shoes.

New postings

Coming soon. I promise! oooh, I've been a very naughty boy.

Forgiveness welcomed.

Sunburn

My head hurts. And it's all my fault. When the sun comes out in England everyone goes bonkers-mental. The lids come off the convertibles, the shirts come off the fellas and the legs come out from the girls. Yes, as soon as there's the slightest hint of summer, or even a half decent spring day, we all behave like simpletons.

This is extremely uncool - they don't behave like this in Holland or Yemen or Turkmenistan. No, it's only here in good old Blighty that we treat a bit of sun as something akin to the second coming. We flock to the nearest park, beach, garden or section of un-urinated-upon city centre bench, remove as many items of clothing as is legal and attempt to turn our fetid, clammy, winter skin into a gorgeous, Amazonian bronzed body. In about 4 hours.

The result of this clearly stupid activity is of course - sunburn. Yet millions of us do it every year despite all the warnings and advice to stay out of the sun, cover up and live in a cupboard. At least some of us make a token gesture by slapping some suntan lotion on but even then we are crap. How often have you tried to apply suncream to your own back? You sort of contort you arms behind you whilst flailing around with your lotion-smeared fingers, desperately trying to make contact with that super-elusive area between your shoulder blades. Realising this is impossible and likely to dislocate one or both of your upper limbs, you concede defeat, leaving your back to redden, become crispy and cause your hours of relentless agony.

And that is the essence of sunbathing in Britain. It's like fast food tanning. We want to be brown and we want it now! And I too am one of those simpletons who despite some token lotion-applying, still secretly reckon that a tan comes much more quickly without it. I don't think I'll ever learn but I wish I had because my forehead is h-o-t .

If only I had hair.

Happy St Georges Day

Yay!

A SHAG do

Now don't go assuming the worst straight away. Honestly. The minds of some people. The word 'SHAG', as you'll see is in capitals. Had I written 'shag' I would have been posting about carpets. Or tobacco. In this instance I'm talking about love, marriage and a good night out.

Weddings are a curious mix of tradition and the new. There are traditions such as having a best man, the bride wearing a garter and speeches made after the wedding breakfast. However, these days people want to add a personal, non-traditional twist to proceedings. Things like getting married at a football ground (oh dear) or whilst sky-diving, the bride making a speech or the adult bridesmaids actually not trying to cop off with the best man. We have civil partnerships now too which allow same-sex couples to be wed.

So in this brave new world of weddings, it's only to be expected that more and more people are looking at their stag and hen nights with an eye for change. I've been on a number of stag nights and even one hen night. I really have. I was an honorary girl for the evening and I can tell you, it was scary. But I digress. There's is a distinct difference between a stag night and a hen night. Here are the key elements of both:

Hen night
> Lots of booze - starting early on in a bedroom as they all get ready
> Silly costumes/items such as 'L' plates, angel wings and penis headbands
> A stripper is usually involved and met with hysterical laughter, screams and prodding
> Pissed-dancing in a club and general falling over
> Back home, holding shoes in hand and collapse into big duvet, still giggling

Stag night
> Lots of booze
> More booze and watching footie on plasma telly in pub
> More booze, more pubs and leering at girls
> Drunken dancing, trying to impress girls and more booze
> A stripper who causes much bravado at first and then sudden shyness and fear of a naked woman, holding a whip and a can of spray cream
> More boozing and a bit of fighting
> Stripping, shaving and tying the groom to a lampost/street sign/train
> Back home, vomit and collapse onto said vomit. Sleep on floor.

As you'll see - the hen night is fun whilst the stag night is full of unpleasantness and fear for the poor sod / groom-to-be. Actually, to call it a 'stag' night is quite appropriate because often, the bloke concerned ends up wide-eyed with fear, much like a hunted stag. This is usually just before he has all his body hair shaved off, his testicles daubed with luminous paint/chilli sauce/cresote and he's is tied to an item if street furniture beside a major road intersection. Naked.

So to avoid this sort of testosterone-fuelled misery, a people are now combing the stag and hen parties into one - the 'shag' do. This has the obvious benefit of not becoming a booze-fuelled riot of groom-baiting but also, it means that everyone can meet everyone else. I always think it's a shame when you go to most weddings and you only know half the people there, because of the stag and hen separation thing.

This particular event was really great fun and we all had such a wonderful time. There was no ball-painting, no vomiting, fighting or lewd sexual conduct. And the blokes behaved themselves too. So it's a big thumbs up for the 'shag' party - the perfect mix of ladies and fella's having a laugh, being stupid, dancing badly and get delightfully hammered.

Perfect rehearsal for the wedding day.

Hairy business

I had my first haircut in four years today. Yes, really - four years. Now obviously it has actually been cut in all that time - just not by a professional. I did it myself. Oh and this is NOT a picture of me. Dear God - give me some credit.

Not only did I do it myself, I did it with real style. I utilised a pair of kitchen scissors for my cutting implements and the metallic lid of the flip-top kitchen bin as my mirror. Mind you, I often managed a quick trim without the aid of the bin-mirror by simply finding a clump of hair that felt longer than the rest and just sort of lopping it off.

I'm actually chuckling as I write this because I have amusing hair (where it exists) anyway and my long-term mutilation of my locks just added to the overall hilarity of my hair 'style' - often compared to a mad farmer or an Open University TV presenter from 1974.

Now though, I cut a dashing figure and even my slaphead has taken on an air of quiet confidence despite my less than hirsute bonce. It's been a long and sometimes rocky four years of self-coiffeuring but I finally realised that my 'special' hairstyle was doing me no favours, especially as I'm so naturally good-looking ... at night, in the shadows, from 1000 paces and facing the wall. So, my DIY barbering days are over and the bin lid is just a bin lid again.

I might try home dentistry instead though.

Crocoduck

This amazing photo was taken in Takadapis in Eastern Venezuela just a few days ago. It is an incredible genetic mutation of a crocodile and a duck. The astonishing creature was discovered near a nature reserve by a 12 year old boy who was walking his dog. The boy found the creature waddling along a small path with a dead fish in it's huge jaws.

Scientists are baffled by the 'Crocoduck' as it seems quite healthy and has clearly been able to exist in the wild since birth, which is assumed to have been about 8 months ago. Director of zoology at the Caracas Natural History Museum, Hugo Chávez has examined the animal and believes if to be completely unique. Mr Chávez said .......

Oh forget it. This is the sort of cobblers the tabloid press try to pass off as a real story, every bloody April 1st. I really wish they'd cut it out otherwise the simpletons who actually believe this sort of tripe will just keep buying their newspapers which in turn just makes these gutter press papers even more money and .... oh. I see.

April Fool!

Nail or no nail?

I've had my car for nearly six and a half years of it's seven-year life. And now I'm at that crucial stage in a motor's life when things start to go wrong. Big things. And all at the same time.

In truth, nothing major has gone wrong yet and since I've had the car it's been fantastic in the reliability, bits-not-falling-off department. However, the old girl has recently been giving me a few clues that indicate that some serious failures are not too far off. For example, when turning my steering wheel full lock to the right, I get a sort of metallic grumbling sound. Sometimes when I put my heater blower on, one of my speakers makes a fizzing sounds. The same speaker fizzes on occasion when the heated rear window is activated. Also, the number of creaks and squeaks seems to increase on a daily basis. My car appears to have developed arthritis along with irritable bowel syndrome, rickets, scurvy and manky hip. Oh and my gear linkage needs replacing soon or else I won't be able to change gear from 1st to 2nd. Or 2nd to 3rd. Or 3rd to 2nd. Or 2nd to 1st.

So I'm now in that quandary of quandaries. Do I spend some fairly serious cash on getting my car back to full health or spend some very serious cash (which I don't have - "oh hello Mr Car Finance") and buy a new(er) one? Hmmmm. Or should I just set fire to it and push it over a cliff into the sea?

Answers on a postcard.

What the ... ?

Oh the joys of political correctness. I got sent a nursery toys magazine at work the other day. God knows why as I definitely do not work in a nursery. Anyway, I perused the mag before lobbing it in the bin ... I mean, recycling it.

On page 47 I found the item pictured above. It's a joy to behold but works even better with the description, which I've kindly included below:

SYNAGOGUE PLAYHOUSE £17.06 (+VAT)
Age Range: 3+
Delightful 3-dimensional soft-play house which allows children to explore Jewish culture and the beliefs of others. The front wall folds down to reveal many of the features and symbols found in a synagogue, including: a menorah; ner tamid (everlasting light); a bimah and ark; a Sefer Torah and the Ten Commandments; and three people characters. Size: 26 (width) x 21 (height) x 14cm(depth) (approx)

It's just so fercockt

Stag don't

There are certain rules which apply to Stag do's.
1. Get drunk
2. Get a stripper
3. Get the groom tied to a lampost
4. Get a curry
5. Get home alive

I went to a Stag do the other week. We ticked off rules 1, 4 and 5. Sadly, the nearest thing to a stripper was when one of the party allowed his arse crevice to become visible when he bent down to pick up his fag. The lampost thing was a non-starter due to a lack of rope/gaffer tape/cable-ties/Rapunzel's hair.

However, we triumphed on the curry front. Until we began singing. We had been drinking for around nine hours and thus, after a fine meal, we decided to impress the other diners with our dulcet tones.

This video clearly demonstrates are 'barbers shop quartet' style of singing. You'll obviously recognise it as an acapella version of Eminem's moving ballad 'Stan'.

Hankies at the ready.

First aid - last resort?

Oh I am proud of myself. The other day I re-qualified as a first-aider. It's surprising how dangerous a little knowledge can be. The re-qualification course is only two days long which is half the time of the original course, three years ago. Despite this, I had emerged with a renewed vigour and confidence in my ability to revive the dead, heal the bleeding and turn water into wine.

The course was so positive and supportive that I was, seriously, feeling able to deal with a person who is unconscious and has stopped breathing ... as long as they have no arms or legs or abdomen.

You see, in every first aid training class in the world, all of the practising you do for CPR (cardio pulmonary resuscitation) is carried out with a life-size but limbless dummy who, for some reason, is know as Annie. Believe me, she's no looker. However, she obediently has her chest pumped and gob blown into on a regular basis so that people like me can hone our life-saving skills. However, you sort of get used to the fact that there are no arms or legs to get in the way as you struggle to revive this inanimate mannequin. This makes the whole process much simpler than if she were fully limbed-up and this gets you used to working with an armless, legless victim.

Now that's the problem. If I'm ever faced with a real person who's heart has stopped, I'm going to find myself having to carry out CPR. How the hell am I going to cope with the stress of trying to restart some poor sod's heart whilst trying to deal with all these body parts that simply weren't there when I was training?

Furthermore, when you do CPR your have put your hands "between the boobs" as our trainer said. This is where you have to start doing the chest compressions. Between the boobs. What if it's a woman who's collapsed and you thought she had stopped breathing but had, in fact, merely fainted. So there you are, kneeling on her arms, kicking her legs and scrabbling all over her boob-area in an attempt to find the 'right spot', when suddenly she comes round to find herself being groped and assaulted by a complete stranger.

So, after some reflection, I've decided that if such a situation does arise, I shall adopt the accepted approach. The course of action favoured by the great British public. I'll ignore it.

Unless she's just a torso called Annie.