Last orders

At last the weekend approaches and what better way to enjoy not being at work than partaking in a bit of classy, international cuisine?

Well we're going to see some friends tonight and we're having a Thai takeaway. Now there's actually a rather interesting fact here. The place where we'll be getting the food from is a fully-fledged Thai restaurant that used to be a really old pub. I think it's a bit of a weird transition - from aged spit 'n' sawdust public house to a modern, oriental dining palace.

I wonder if they've managed to retain that quintessentially British, oh so special aroma that's only found in the gents bogs?

That should blend in well with the Thai Green Curry.

Terrorism

"Sigh..."

Pigeonhole

Here's a new meaning for the word 'pigeonhole'. Yesterday, a pigeon smashed into a window where I work. Nothing special about that you may think but wait - the pigeon actually smashed the first pane of double-glazed glass with his head! The second pane managed to stop him dead. However, he pulled his head out through the hole in the first pane and managed to fly away. He must have been well-hard.

Admittedly, he was fantastically concussed but he survived the ordeal. And the best bit? There's now a hole in the glass which is exactly the same size as a pigeon's head! I think that's just brilliant. I'll get an actual photo as soon as I can.

Now that's what I call a pigeon-hole.

Speling And gramer

I have a pet hate that eclipses all of my other pet hates. Spelling and grammar. Now I don't want to sound like a miserable old sod or an extreme pedant, but the way some people write these days is abysmal.

If any of you reading this are offended by what I'm about to say then it probably means that you are guilty of butchering the English language and should be flogged to death. Or maybe just told off a bit.

Here are my top six gripes:

1. Alot / alot. There's no such bloody word! It's 'a lot' - two words.
2. Capital letters in Wrong places for no Reason. Aaaaarrrggghh!
3. Their and there. 'We went over there' / 'It was their idea' Two different meanings!
4. American spellings such as 'humor' and 'color'. We are not a US state. Yet.
5. Punctuation. For God's sake use some punctuation in your sentences especially if it's a really long sentence because if you don't it will make people die due to lack of oxygen in their lungs now that can't be a good thing can it
6. Grammar. It is mostly more essential if you are a writer of accurate sentences than if they are incomprehensible. Grammar are very important.

And remember, using a spell-checker does not mean A) the grammar is correct or B) you've actually used the correct word in the first place. OK? Right, I've got that all off my chest now. I feel alot calmer.

Nooooooooo!

Mama mia, it's murder!

I'd never done a murder mystery until last Friday and thought they always sounded a bit rubbish. Well how wrong I was. Oh yes. The whole idea was that we were in Little Italy, New York in 1995. Pepi Roni (Pepperoni, geddit?) had been killed and we were all gathered at the family restuarant to discover 'whodunnit'.

The thing is, you have to stay in character all the time. As you can see from the photo, I made an extremely convicing Italian gangster (Rocco Scarfazzi) along with my 'fiancee' - Tara Misu (genius, that one). The rest of the 'cast' were Mama Rosa, Angel, Marco Roni (they get worse) and the lone Frenchman - Bo Jolais (dear God).

The evening consisted of listening to a tape (it's a very old murder mystery game), reading your characters' speeches and acting your nuts off whilst attempting a convincing accent. The accents were, mostly, appalling. The most fantastically abysmal of these was delivered by my father-in-law who was playing Marco. His accent lurched from one bizarre vocal extreme to another as he butchered the Italian accent, then the New York accent and finally a mish-mash of Welsh and Pakistani. A triumph of enthusiasm over ability.

As it was an Italian theme, we had lasagne, Italian wine and Tiramisu. As the alcohol flowed, the accents became worse and the whole thing descended into a boozy chaos. Finally we discovered (after all accusing each other with varying levels of aggression) that Bo Jolais was the murderer. None of us actually guessed it was him as we'd been so overwhelmed with information, mis-information, wine, poor acting and gargantuan amounts of lasagne that our feeble brains were on the verge of a meltdown. Brilliant.

So, Bo 'dunnit' and we all had a cracking night. I looked the part with my suit, hat, fake cigar and obligatory violin case and loved every minute. In fact I never realised that cold-blooded murder could be such a laugh.

I guess you really are 'born and then you die'. Capiche?

Proud to be .. er .. British?

If you live in France, you're French. I've you live in Nigeria, you're Nigerian. If you live in Chile, you're Chilean. You get the idea. However, if you live in Britain, you're British but also English or Welsh or Scottish or (Northern) Irish. Hmmmm.

If you ask where I live, I can say England or the United Kingdom or Great Britain. Mind you, although these isles are often referred to as either the United Kingdom (UK) or Great Britain (GB), the official title is 'United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland'. Hope you're still with me. It's a country and a sovereign state . Marvelous.

So the 'UK' is a 'political union' made up of England, Wales, Scotland and Northern Ireland (but not the southern part - Eire). This means that I am both English and British. I think. My passport describes me as British even though my place of birth is listed as England. Wow, I seem to have dual nationality. Er .. possibly?

When I am asked my nationality, I say "British" but if I'm asked where I'm from, I say "England". I don't actually know what the difference is or, indeed, if there is a difference. What I do know is that I wish I could just give a simple bloody answer to a simple question.

Like "Do you like cress?"

Second class mobiles

I bought a new mobile phone on Saturday. A simple transaction I would have thought, especially as I knew which phone I wanted and as it was a 'pay as you go' phone, there wasn't even a lengthy contract to wade through.

However, I was surprised. If you're not buying a phone on contract, you're viewed by the big mobile phone companies as a second class punter. Here's why:

Carphone Warehouse- Once I'd said 'pay as you go' (PAYG) their interest in me evaporated. When I asked a sales assistant to assist me, he did so without speaking. Whilst I was examaining the phone he just stared at me. When I made a comment about the phone - he just stared at me. I thought he might have actually died.
I left the shop.
Company slogan "Get treated like a star at the Carphone Warehouse" Clearly not.

The Link- When I asked for a demonstration of the phone they said "we don't do demo's for PAYG phones". What?
I left the shop.
Company slogan "At the Link it's easy.." Unless you're PAYG.

Phones4U- When I pointed out that the phone I wanted, in their shop, was more expensive than in other shops, the sales assistant said "we don't price-match on PAYG phones" Je ne comprend.
I left the shop
Company slogan "Phones For You" But not YOU, dear PAYG punter.

I finally got my phone from my network's own shop. Orange were helpful, friendly and easy to chat to. They went through the new phone with me, switched all my contact and stuff on to my new phone and were just great. I didn't feel like a second class citizen. Other phone suppliers are available.

So why do some companies seem to value PAYG customers so little? Well the lack of a very healthy and contracted commitment would be the obvious reason. But there are millions of PAYG and to be honest, with service like I received on Saturday, I'm very glad that I don't have a contract with any of them.

Now I've got to go - my phone's ringing.

Replicating applications

Teeedious! I know application forms are important and a snapshot of someone's life and career, but boy are they an effort to wade through. I've been through ninety in the last two days and my brain feels like a pool of partially congealed gravy.

Please, don't get me wrong - I'm not saying anything about the people who are applying for the position we're advertising - it's just that wading through nearly a hundred forms of information is kind of brain-numbing, even for the most alert minded of people.

I need to just relax my brain ... by recalling the 'excitement' of seeing the Prime Minister yesterday. A few of us caught a glimpse of him as he swiftly made his way from the building he'd emerged from into his waiting Range Rover. True to form, I shouted "Alright Tone?" at him but, sadly, he must have not heard me properly because he disappeared into the car as fast as a rat out of an aquaduct.

I bet he's got an interesting CV though.

Rozzers and 'hot dogs'

Well, the place is crawling with police. We all had to provide I.D to get into work today. There are roadblocks, police dogs, rozzers with guns, satellite trucks and more. I can also tell you that the old P.M himself ('Tone' to his friends) has just arrived (10.55 am) for his speech at the building next door.

It's all dead exciting and still extremely warm although it's still the morning. I had to assist a rozzer with his dogs as they searched some of our vehicles. Good job I removed that cap gun from my shorts. More to follow...

Evenin' all.

It's 'Prime' time

Oooh! Excitement abounds. We have a top secret that's happening a tomorrow in the building next to where I work. We had the rozzers (police) round here yesterday, carrying out security checks and they informed us that a certain Tony Blair (oh yes - the British Prime Minister) was going to be speaking on Wednesday and thus the need for the security sweep.

How bloody exciting. However, as this is still a secret, I could be arrested, interrogated, strip-searched and sent to Guantanamo Bay. Crikey. Mind you, there are some factors in my favour. 1) Almost no-one reads my blog. 2)Those that do read it but don't know me, do not know where I work. 3)Those that do know me are (hopefully) unlikely to dob me in to MI5 or the local rozzers.

So, the Big Cheese is in town. I wonder if I'll be interviewed by somoeone off the telly, as a 'member of the public'? Maybe they'll want my opinion on the government's foreigh policy, the state of the NHS or the problems with the education reforms.

Or maybe they'll just want my balding slaphead to move as it's bothering the cameraman.

Heatwave!

Living in England we are used to crap weather. Summers are invariably disappointing and winters seem to go on for ever. We have to make the most of good weather. There's a TV advert on here at the momement which epitomises the 'British summer'. It portrays everyone in the country waiting for the sun to appear from behind a huge cloud which indicates that summer has begun. People rush outside, slap on suntan lotion in a mad frenzy and generally go bonkers in an attempt to grab some precious rays. Then, just minutes later, the sun disappears and summer is over.

This year is a bit different. Last week we had the hottest July day in Britain since records began. Wisley in Surrey reached 36.5C (97.7F) which beat the record for the month from 1911. But it's not just the record-breaking I'm talking about, but the length of time we've been having this weather.

Pretty much the whole of July has been hot and sunny. My forehead is in danger of looking like a piece of bacon and the cat is heading for an all over shave if things stay as they are. We've had gritters spreading crushed rock to stop roads melting, schools closing because of the heat and restrictions on water usage around the country.

Now many countries around the world deal with these sort things every day but this is the UK and we're just not used to it. In the Spring, the first time the sun pops out and the temperature is above freezing, young men begin zooming around in their crappy Ford Escort convertibles with the roof down. If the temperature becomes warm enough for just a light coat, the barbeques start to appear and people bravely stand in cold, damp back gardens and pretend it's summer (see a previous post on this). So it's not surprising we're all going bonkers about the official (so says the Met Office) heatwave and loving hearing that it's hotter hear than everywhere else on the entire planet. Almost.

Put another Tesco Value burger on the barbie! Vegetarian options available

Good things come to those who wait

We went for a little summer break to Devon last week and had a cracking time. The weather was just amazing and a great time was had by all. However, things nearly went awry and threatened to cast a shadow of woe over the holiday. Especially as food was involved.

We opted to go for a pub meal one evening and found a great pub which not only promised very large portions of cod, but also had a healthy filling of 'locals' and their dogs too. Marvellous. In fact, the place was heaving and when we ordered our four cod 'n' chips, we were told there'd be a 45 minute wait. Well we thought that would be fine - we were in no rush and we had some ale and wine to quaff while we waited.

An hour and a quarter later, I decided enough was enough. I spoke politely (of course) but a tad firmly to the waitress/barmaid/glass collector about the rather gargantuan delay in our food arrival. She was extremely shocked - which was good - and promised that the grub was on it's way.

Moments later, the manageress arrived, apologising profusely. We were very nice to her so she got us all free drinks. Then the monster cods arrived and we were happy. But then the guy who was running the 'Irish bingo' (don't ask) event in the main bar came over to our table. He apologised as well! And then he then gave us five tickets for the 'bingo'. Wonderful. Sadly we lost the bingo but the folks at the Old Barn Inn were just fabulous and proved that good things really do come to those who wait.

Except when waiting for a bus.

Hello sailor

Got to dash but I just wanted to say "hello" to all my chums who, on occasion, read YBATYD. It's nice to know it provides the odd moment of mirth for you and I'm glad you find my life so amusing. I merely jest.

Anyway, as I'm in a hurry, I just wanted to say a special "hello" to those of you who are sailing the seas and oceans of the world, in far-off exotic places and who want to know what's happening back in dear old Blighty (England/UK/Britain etc). And a final "hello" to any of you who are feeling a bit mizzog (miserable) for whatever reason. Just remember my mantra - You're born and then you die, so you might as well enjoy the bit in the middle. It's true you know.

What is a poop deck anyway?

Ooh, floaty light

Oh yes. I finally had my birthday balloon ride on Monday and it was wonderful. However, due to technical reasons, I can't give you an actual photo from the big event just yet so you'll have to make do with this one for now.

Anyway, what a fantastic time I had. This despite the fact that it was in the high 80's (even at 7pm) and that there was nil wind. A breeze of some description is kind of a pre-requisite of ballooning and so the the distinct lack of even the faintest breath of wind was a cause of mild concern.

Eventually, however, we got it up (pause for sniggers) and slowly began to see the green fields sinking below us as we started our flight. The very still air did provide the odd puff of air which ensured we didn't just go straight up, hang there for an hour and then come straight back down. We actually managed to travel about 5 miles over the baking Derbyshire countryside as the sun began to set. It was truly beautiful and extremely peaceful as my seven fellow passengers and pilot entered a quiet reverie for much of the hour-long flight.

The only thing that shattered the peace was the bloody propane burners that kept us aloft. The noise was pretty loud, but the heat was the real culprit. For those of you that know me, the top of my head has a small clearing on it which means that it is rather good at feeling the heat. Well when you have four bloody great flames roaring inches from your balding pate you tend to notice it. Coupled with the fact that even at 6000 feet (1,828m) up it was still 86 degrees, my bonce felt like a par-boiled potato at times.

Despite the slight head-heating issue, the whole experience was just amazing. The landing was superb - two small bumps and we were sitting pretty in a large field filled with thistles and cowpats. Perfect. The post-flight champers wasn't bad either, especially as it got everyone a bit jolly for the hilarious return journey to the launch site in the back of a steamy Land Rover.

Same time next week then...

Dry clean dream?

Human nature is great. And it always surprises me how strange people can be whilst at the same time being very nice. If still a bit odd. Case in point - the other day I took my suit to the local dry cleaners (I promise, this really happened). It's an independent business and has just had a bit of a refurb.

Despite the refurb, the place still managed to exude an air of 1970's bed & breakfast mixed with 21st century technology. The place was empty but I found a small note Sellotaped to the counter which read 'Please ring the bell for atension' (yep, that's how it was spelt) next to which was a small hand bell which I was required to ring to alert the member of staff. I duly rang my bell ...

The 'mature'lady who appeared began talking to me as though I'd known her for thirty years. She prattled cheerfully on, telling me that her daughter worked there sometimes and that Asda's new dry cleaning service was £2.50 more for a suit than it was here. She managed to write most of my dry cleaning chit out (including dating it as September) before advsing me that they had just had a brand new dry cleaning machine installed. I politely expressed great interest in this news, which was a mistake. "Come and have a look" she said excitedly as she ushered me into the back of the building.

"Bit bigger than your usual washing machine isn't it me duck" she proudly announced before directing round the rear of the machine to see all it's pipes, valves and electrics. "German" she said as if the word 'German' explained it all. "Twenty five thousand quid that cost and it's the only one in England" she continued with pride. "Very good" I muttered before managing to creep back to the front of the shop where she finally gave me my receipt. "I hope I haven't bored you" she said. "Not at all" I lied as I began to retreat to the safety of the street outside. "I only work Thursday's!" she shouted after me. I smiled weakly and made good my escape.

I shall pick my suit up on Monday. Just in case.

Bus stops and blisters

I went out with some pals from work last night for several beers. When I left at about 10.45pm, I'd missed my bus (yes just like the one in the blurry photo). I tried to get another one (it stops sort of near my house) but my ticket wasn't valid for their company. Then I found my next bus was going to be another hour so I decided to walk towards home to kill time. Smart move. Unfortunately, my super-trendy summer footwear is not designed for long, hot walks and as a result, after walking almost two miles, I had 5 blisters developing on my feet. They were spectacularly painful and had me staggering along like a grandad with piles and rickets - at the same time.

Finally the bus appeared out of the darkness (well, the sky was dark even if the brightly lit city streets were not) and carried me the remaining 4 miles home. This 20 minute journey gave my blisters time to develop nicely so that by the time I got off the bus I was partially crippled and unable to do little more than shuffle for a few agonising seconds before stopping to recover and prepare myself for the next few tortuous steps. I finally got home a little after 1am. What a cracking evening then.

Er, no.

Scissors

I can't find any damn scissors anywhere. Apart from at home bit that's irrelevent because I'm at work. I'm getting extremely annoyed because I'm certain all the scissors in our office have been purloined. How the hell am I supposed to trim bits of facial hair without any bloody scissors?

These are unacceptable working conditions.

I draw, you draw, he Drew

OK, so here's a blatant plug for a chum of mine. I've cleverly hidden his name in the title of this posting. The intellectuals amongst you will have spotted that it's the word with the capital letter at the start of it. Well done.

Drew is an up and coming photographer. That doesn't mean he puts ads in the local paper which promise 'glamour modelling in the comfort of my garage studio'. Oh no. This chap has started doing some proper professional work and even has a wedding or two in the pipeline. That's photographing the weddings - he's not about to become a bigamist. Mind you, it would make for some cracking pictures.

Anyway, as he's a decent fella (with a classy surname to boot), I thought I'd give him a mention and direct you to his site. Just click the title of this posting or see the link on the right. Obviously he will be inundated with visitors being directed from You're Born and Then You Die as I have literally several hits a day.

The power of the Tinterweb eh?

Le Rutting Stag

I don't believe I'm the only person who noticed that Zinedine Zidane's already infamous headbutt on Italy's Marco Materazzi in Sunday's World Cup final, was not entirely dissimilar to the way an agressive stag behaves during the rutting season.

True, Materazzi's 'stag' didn't exactly enter into the 'rut' but Zidane's superb full-body charge was magnificent. Had he been in the rolling woodlands east of Berlin, rather than at it's football stadium, Zidane could well have held claim to the title King of the Stags.

Alas for Mr Zidane, his rather base actions were witnessed by about 9.7 trillion people. I quite expected him to say that he's slipped on some raisins or that he was trying to cure Mr Materazzi's windy-pops. So far though, the proud Frenchie has kept his lips tightly sealed but the word is that the Italian chap said something nasty to Mr Z.

Whatever was said, it was it prompted a display of world class rutting the like of which we've not seen since David Attenborough's marvellous wildlife programme 'The Rutting Stags of The Alpine Slopes'. Mind you, it's a good job Zidane didn't actually have antlers, otherwise he's have shoved Materazzi's nipples into his shoulder blades. Sacre bleu.

Oh yeah, Italy won the match by the way.

Podcast baby!

Oh yeah. My horrendously intermittent podcast is back - well for July anyway and you can hear it now. The slight downside is that it's really just a ten minute advert for the You're Born and Then You Die blog - which you're already reading.

Never mind eh? Just subscribe using the little Subscribe in iTunes button on the right of this page and you're sorted. If you don't have iTunes (you're a simpleton) you can catch all the shows at Podcast.net. Just click on the title of this posting.

Enjoy the podcast and just wait until the next one which will be even better. Mainly because it won't just be me reading out some posts from this blog!

You lucky people.

Some things I forgot to mention

Blimey. Sometimes I'm such a numpty. A blog is supposed to be a regular update of ones life and the events therein. Now, those of you who've trawled through my various ramblings since last December, will be aware that I often go for weeks on end without submitting a post. Now although I have been a little more regular (not in the toilet department) recently, I've still omitted a couple of things from my posts. So here's a summary of them now:

1. My wife got a brilliant promotion at her work. I'm extremely proud of her and reckon she's just great.
2. England got knocked out of the World Cup by Portugal. I shall say no more for fear of legal action due to slander and/or defamatory remarks I may make.
3. Our cat slaughtered three birds in two days, leaving our back garden looking like the aftermath of a professional pillow fight. It was feathery hell.
4. It's been very hot in England for the last few weeks. I have even got used to the sensation of rivulets of sweat trickling into every crevice of my interestingly-shaped body. Picture that if you will.
5. Some of my chums have stopped emailing me. This could be because I've stopped emailing them. It's OK though. We'll just resume communication at some point in the future and there'll be no hard feelings whatsoever(unlike girls who get all upset and feel betrayed when this sort of thing happens). Chaps just carry on where they left off. It's a bloke thing.

That's the update then. Hope you found it as thrilling as I did. Mind you, I think I could do with posting items with a bit more edge to them. Perhaps a tad controversial or even bigoted? Hmmmm. I might just try it on my next one. Something dangerous, daring and socially unacceptable.

Like wearing a thong back to front.

Profeshinul Drinker

There's a bloke I work with who's a professional drinker. Now you've probably just conjured up an image of a haggard, leather-faced, bleary-eyed old alky. But you'd be sorely mistaken. The really amusing thing is (and he won't mind me saying this) is that he actually only looks about 15. I kid you not.

To prove the point about his youthful looks, he was recently on jury service. During a break in proceedings, he popped into to town to buy some food. As he was exiting a shop he was approached by a police officer who asked him why he wasn't in school. He replied, stating that the reason he was not in school was because he was twenty six years old.

So, back to his professional drinking. Although he has a home and a wife, he also has a second home. The pub. But he doesn't just have a drink or two in there, oh no. He pretty much stays as long as he wants and he has even slept over when the thought of a long and arduous ten-minute taxi ride home was too much. Better still, he sometimes serves in there as well. I remember him serving me several times one evening and then resuming his drinking once he'd poured my pint. Brilliant!

Now don't get me wrong. He's no alky. Well only as much as you or me ... maybe a teeny bit more but the thing is, he does it all with such laid-back style. You have to admire him. And the best bit? Yes, he has a bar tab. I've never in all my life managed to get a tab (you know, an account) at a pub. For that alone, he gets a gold medal for professional drinking.

Cheers to that.

Mac is back in town

Oh happy days. My Mac is back! It's all fixed and running like a dream. The manky PC has been chucked back up into the loft where it shall stay for ever and ever. Ha ha ha!

The thing is, now I have my iMac back home I've got tons of catching up to do - photos to upload and mess around with, movies to work on, emails to read, calenders to update, podcasts to listen to and, and what else?

Oh yeah. Bleedin' blogs to write too.

Long fuse

Someone really, really angered me yesterday. I'm still extremely annoyed even today and can feel my wrath rising as I write. This is very unusual for me. True, I do develop mild road rage (call it road irritation) when I'm driving, but otherwise it takes a lot to rile me. I am blessed with a very long fuse.

However, yesterday just blew me away. I shall spare you the details but I will say that the person concerned was completely unreasonable and staggeringly rude. Now I didn't react to the situation. I remained calm and professional but was boiling like a kettle on a volcano underneath. Now I mention my lack of reaction, because although I have the longest fuse on the planet, when it goes, it goes.

When I was about six one of my classmates at school began trying to bully me one day. I was an extremely placid little chap but that day, my young fuse burnt right out. I smashed the child's head, several times, onto the sharp edge of a sturdy wooden bench. If I remember, the lad ended up with a couple of stitches on his scalp.

I've never so much as prodded another living being in anger, for the past 34 years. I came very close yesterday though. Now I'm nearly back to my usual relaxed (and wonderful) self and my fuse is still intact.

Until next time ....

Wimbledon - a British wasteland

Wimbledon started today. The last Brit to win the men's singles at Wimbledon was a very nice gent called Fred Perry. That was in 1936. The ladies have fared a tad better with big-haired Virginia Wade lifting the trophy in 1977.

Since then however, the Brits have had more success at the luge than we have had in tennis. However, most years some poor bugger (John Lloyd, Annabel Croft, Tim Henman etc)is shoved into the limelight and for that year, becomes the 'chosen one', otherwise known as the Great British Hope. Of course, the poor bugger in question is doomed to failure amidst a hugely disproportionate amount of media and public fervour.

Thus the cycle of Wimbledon fervour and failure continues. This year's poor bugger is Andy Murray. The flag-waving hasn't kicked in yet but when it does, this clearly talented Scot will be crushed by the pressure and claustrophobic expectancy of the fans and the Press.

Oh for the days of Willie Renshaw. He was Britain's most successful tennis champ ever. He won 12 Wimbledon championships between 1880 and 1889. No media hassle or screaming hysteria from the fans for Willie. No paparazzi intrusion, candid holiday photos appearing in Heat magazine or sordid sex claims in the Sunday papers for Mr Renshaw. Oh no. In fact, no-one even seems to have noticed him at all. Perhaps the old-fashioned way is the best way after all.

Better get Andy Murray a flat cap and a packet of fags.

Freezers and football

As it's Sunday, it's been decided that we'll defrost the freezer. Obviously. So the freezer's sitting in the garden, in the sun - melting. Well, the freezer itself isn't melting, rather the layer upon layer of permafrost that have been building inside the bloody thing since the last ice age are melting. Slowly.

It was so frozen in there that the temperature contol dial wouldn't move. And as the ice began to melt I discovered the tusk of a mammoth, which was a surprise as I don't even remember buying a hairy elephant.

You may deduce from this rambling and rather poor post that I'm just filling time. You're correct in your assumption. Alright, I confess - it's 'cos of the football again. Sorry. I know. It's just that England are playing Ecuador later on in their first knock-out game of the World Cup and my mind is a bit pre-occupied at the moment. We have to win. Simple as that really.

However, after the game I shall re-focus and bring you some exciting updates on my life. Oooh I can hear the excitement already as you prepare for another installment of amazing facts, astonishing experiences and ubelieveable, action-packed stories.

Best plug the freezer back in.

iHospital

Oh woe and damnation. My iMac is poorly and I've had to take it to the hospital. It's actually a little problem I've been waiting for as it's a known issue with my model. So that's OK.

But hold on a second. Much as I'm a fair and objective bloke, what makes this whole thing really grim is that whilst my iMac is away at the iHospital, I've had to dig out my aged PC. Honestly it's a behemoth of a thing and even though it's only been one day, I'm finding it all a very 'grey' experience. I use a PC at work but have to admit that I always look forward to getting home and using my Mac.

So I have, potentially, two weeks on this bleedin' lump of a machine. No iTunes, photos, movie-making and just plain fun are to be had. Yes, I know I'm being a infantile saddo and worse things do happen at sea but it's how I feel, so there.

Now I know why Bill Gates is leaving Microsoft.

Behavioural modelling and footie

I went to a seminar yesterday. I bloody hate seminars. OK, perhaps 'hate' is a bit strong. Let's just say I find them rather contrived, worthy, dull and self-important. However, the one yesterday was not too bad at all. I shall not though, dear reader, bore you into a liquified mass of blood and bone by re-living the whole seminar with you.

What I will say is that I am now an expert on 'behavioural modelling'. Which is nice. It's one of those typical trendy phrases that accompanies a typical trendy new training methodology or management style. However behavioural modelling is, despite it's intellectual-sounding name, nothing more than persistent nagging. Now those people who spout this stuff tell you it's all to do with human characteristics, psychology and neural pathways. Neural pathways? As far as I'm concerned it's just going on and on at people to do what you want, until they can't be arsed to resist.

And here's my case in point. I went to the seminar with a colleague. She's Scottish. And (obviously) a woman. These two factors combined work very strongly against her ever wanting to watch a footie match. Let alone an England footie match. She really dislikes footie and especially England-playing-in-the-World-Cup footie.

Now as soon as the seminar ended, the England match was due to start. How was I going to convince my colleague to watch an England footie match? I had a cunning plan which I had been putting into action for a number of days. I'd been nagging her about how fab footie was. What a great atmosphere you get when you watch a big match in a crowd. How much fun it is to enjoy a few beers whilst watching the match and revelling in all the friendly banter between your fellow drinkers. I re-iterated these 'positives' over and over, in little snippets for nearly a week. And the result? She watched the entire match, drinking beer in a packed Irish pub. She even cheered and screamed when England scored their two goals. Oh yes.

Behavioural modelling? Cobblers was it. It was persistent nagging that changed her mind and I'm sure her neural pathways didn't even notice.

I feel a seminar coming on.

Spread the word

I'm a very typical human being in many ways. One of these ways is a trait which I really shouldn't be too proud of. Namely - ego. I don't have a gargantuan ego but I do love to think of the decent folk of this fair planet actually reading the utter tripe I write on this here blog.

So, for the three or maybe two of you who, by accident or as a punishment, actually have read any of my posts, I would love you to let your friends (including those who are currently in prison), family and trusted work colleagues know about 'You're born and then you die'. Now if I do actually get some more visitors and contributors (thanks to those who've sent comments), I promise to post more regularly. I'll even try and make some of them mildly amusing.

Subject to availability. Your statutory rights are not affected.

Up, up and away!

In just over a month I shall be embarking on my first ever hot air balloon flight. I'm so excited at the prospect of floating silently above the beautiful Peak District on a warm July evening. It promises to be a spectacular and memorable experience.

The only problem is that I am having trouble deciding which moments of this momentous journey should be captured on video and which on a stills camera. To be honest I'm going to look like a complete saddo/tourist as I struggle to contol my equipment (oo-err) in the tight confines of a wicker basket, packed in like sardines with a dozen or so wind-powered thrill-seekers.

Oh well. It's a minor thing and as long as we at least a) take off and b) land, I shall be a happy man. Mind you, I'll be even happier if I manage to emulate my dad's 60th birthday balloon flight. As they landed in a ploughed field, the basket tipped over and my dad landed on a 'large-chested' lady. A soft landing after all, as he recalls.

Fingers crossed then.

World Cup conundrum

So, as you know, I didn't deliver a single post in the last month. And now I'm in the situation where I could write a post three times a day. Why? The World Cup is on and there's going to be so much happening and I'm so excited and, and, and .....

Whoa. Easy tiger. Do you really want to readabout the World Cup on here when it's wall to wall coverage everywhere else (unless your country failed to qualify) and you can't get away from it all? Well, I've decided not to cover the footie, unless England do anything spectacular and amazing, like win a match.

So enjoy my predominantly non-football blog and my continuing witty observations on life. Unfortunately I can't think of anything at all at the moment apart from the fact that it's been sweltering here in England for the last week and I'm loving it.
You can't beat being able to wander around your house and garden in your pants.

Unless you're one of the neighbours.

Naughty blogger

Oh I don't believe it. A bleedin' month and not a single post. Trust me, I have slapped my wrist until it's red raw. So much to tell you and yet such a feeble effort on my part. I shall resume forthwith (that means very soon) with my usual rapier wit and cutting sarcasm.

Forgive me.

Rozzers

Twenty years! Twenty bleedin' years without so much as sniff of trouble with the Rozzers. And then - 2 speeding tickets on the same day. On the same stretch of road. By the same Rozzers. I can speak no more, (for legal reasons) other than to say that I'm totally and utterly gutted.

Bring back Dixon of Dock Green.

The Simpsons - I changed my mind

I used to hate The Simpsons. I don't really know why but I did. All my friends were perplexed at this as they felt my sense of humour would tie in perfectly with that of the Springfield Satirists.

However, I detested the show; found it unfunny and overrated. Then I began watching it. Not out of choice, but duty. My wife loved (and still does) the show and so I would insist to her that I actually quite liked it and encouraged her to watch it whenever she wanted. This is known as 'above and beyond the call of duty'. I watched show after show. Each time hating the characters and the weird storylines more and more.

Then, one day I laughed at something Homer said. From that point I began to look forward to seeing the fat, balding, mid-life-crisis-ridden, white, middle class bloke ... hold on. I was looking at myself! I realised that Homer was my spiritual twin, my Obi Wan Kenobi, my towering lighthouse, illuminating my passage through a dark, wild and storm-tossed sea. Joy unlimited. Homer was and is the key to why I now love the Simpsons and all it stands for.

So I proved to myself that you can change your mind and your opinions about anything if you just give it a chance. Anything at all.

Apart from beetroot. And Pontius Pilate.

We got relgated

We did. We got relegated.

Help us Obi Wan.

Rollercoaster 2

For those of you who felt misled by the title of my last posting - here is a photo that is actually related to the subject matter. However, I must say that posting titles are not always supposed to be literal so please be aware of this in future.

Never work with children or animals.

Happy 400th birthday

Oops! I missed the 400th birthday of the union jack last week. You'll notice that 'union jack' is written in lower case. This is because the BBC says that's how it should be written and who am I to argue with the Beeb? Now the history of this flag is long and intricate with a myriad of theories about how it originated, where it can be flown and even what it should be called. The flag was the result of the union of the English and Scottish monarchies in 1603, under James I (as he was in England) or James VI (as he was in Scotland). Are you bored yet? I am.

So let's just leave it there shall we?

Footie woe

Woe is me. Woe is being a Birmingham City fan. Alas, this posting is not a happy one. For those of you who either dislike football or support another club, then this will merely be an opportunity for you to laugh, mock and vilify me. So why am I mooching around with a face like the proverbial 'slapped-arse'? Well, my beloved Birmingham (the Blues) are facing the very raw and real prospect of relegation from the Premier League. This would, of course be the worst thing that could happen in the world. Ever.

My wife shows due reverence when the subject is mentioned. However, as she doesn't actually feel the pain and suffering that I'm currently experiencing, she makes comments such as "Never mind" and "I'm sure they'll get promoted next year". Does she not realize? This is relegation we're talking about! If we go down a division we'll be playing teams like Hull City, Plymouth Argyle and very possibly - Southend United. This is a cataclysmic disaster. A monumental, global calamity. The end of civilization and the human existence as we know it!

Might as well have a beer then.

British BBQ's

Well I've just got back from my brother-in-law's birthday BBQ. It's nearly mid-April remember. Unfortunately, it's nearly mid-April in England. Thus, it poured with rain. It sleeted. It snowed for a few minutes too. The highest temperature during the day was 7 degrees C (44 degrees farenheit). We had to erect a tarpaulin to keep the BBQ dry and we had to eat indoors due the bitterly cold wind and driving rain. Being from England, we're used to the British weather. However, being from England, we also tried manfully to tough it out but the starters (tortillas and dips) were becoming waterlogged so we had to take cover inside. However, the BBQ triumphed underneath the plastic sheet and the booze helped our spirits even more. And so the Great British BBQ lived to fight another day.

Our baps got wet though...

UK English v US English

Yes - another post were I am musing about something completely random but nontheless, interesting. Will I think so anyway. OK, today's subject is about the different words for a particular meaning or object depending to where you live - America or Blighty. There are loads, so please feel free to email me any others. Here's some for starters:

UK US
Pavement Sidewalk
Fortnight Two weeks
Bum bag Fanny pack
Holiday Vacation
Mobile phone Cell phone
Motorway Freeway
Telly TV
Tramp Bum

Birmingham is great

I lived in Birmingham for a few years and I fell in love with the place. Birmingham is also fondly known as 'Brum' and the people who live there are called 'Brummies'. It also helps that I'm a Birmingham City (football)fan - 'The Blues', although at the moment they are doing quite badly in the Premiership, so we won't talk about that right now.

Birmingham is the second largest city in England and is located in the Midlands, which occupies the central area of the country. The people there are just great and display a truly wonderful ability to be quite self-deprecating. This is a quality I really admire and their humour is extremely witty and often sarcastic, but tinged with a sort of warmth and beguiling charm. This appealing nature of Brummies is one of the main reasons for my affection for the city and the people who live there. By the way, this isn't a history of Birmingham, or a celebration of Brummie humour and demeanour. It's just that I've had 2 litres of strong cider and I'm all over the place. I shall say 'goodnight' and just mention that today's photo is of Selfridges in Birmingham. It's very posh.

Rather like myself ...

Spring has sprung

Well at bleedin' last! The temperature outside the house is now approaching the temperature inside the house. Although temperatures, like stocks & shares, can go up as well as down. And so with the joy of spring comes the associated misery of DIY and gardening.

Just when you think you can begin to enjoy the great outdoors, you realise that there a number of jobs to be done. Jobs that you happily put off in the winter due to the cold. Unfortunately for me these include painting walls in the house, painting skirting boards in the house, painting the garage, re-doing the putty around the garage window, re-painting the sofits around the house and of course - lots of gardening. Also this year, I must add to the list of gardening tasks - the removal of a half-dead tree. Obviously I'll have to get a tree surgeon in, but this will be both costly and messy. God damn it!I was hoping for BBQ's, sunbathing and a relaxing glass of Bonneau du Martray 2002 Corton Charlemagne Grand Cru (or Tennants Extra)...

Roll on the winter.

Cats are odd

Enough said.

The Scottish Pause

I have a work colleague who is Scottish. She is a very intelligent woman who can not only quote, but dissect and analyize just about any literary work ever written. She has the vocabulary of a poet laureate and the historical knowledge of the Professor of History at Oxford University.

However, she also has an amazing ability to, how shall I put it? Drift. I shall explain. If I ask her a question, such as "Are you going to the meeting this afternoon"? She will not respond immediately. Oh lordy no. The question has obviously permeated her cerebal cortex but then a kind of self-induced trance seems to take effect. I have honestly sat for 30 seconds or more, waiting for a reply. Often I give up waiting and repeat the question. This invariably elicits a sort of awakening accompanied by a small spasm and then a "oh, sorry" and she's back in the room.

Is it a Scottish thing I wonder? Probably.

Lighthouses and randomness

I don't think I'll ever discover how my mind works. Example - I was just sitting here at work having my lunch 'al-desko' and suddenly had the urge to find out about lighthouses. I've since learnt, in the last 1 minute, that Cornwall has 10 lighthouses, the Association of Lighthouse Keepers has a quarterly journal called 'The Lamp' and the Tasman Island Lighthouse (in Tasmania) is 100 years old on 2nd April 2006. Now, fascinating as this info may be, I can't help but wonder why in God's name my mind makes such random decisions.

I am a very spur-of-the-moment sort of person and often make decisions which I instantly regret. Like the time I put both my feet on the handlebars of my bike when I was 11. Or the time I accepted a summer job at a watercress processing factory. However, these sort of decisions are fairly common for many people. The lighthouse thing is rather different.

I am convinced that my sub-conscious mind actually wears the trousers in the 'conscious / sub-conscious' relationship that exists inside my cranium. The result is that I think or say things that often take me completely by surprise. This would explain why when I say something funny, I actually laugh at it as much as everyone else in the room.

On reflection, perhaps I'm just mad.

My parent's fabulous phrases

My mum and dad invented some rather excellent words and phrases which were oft used in our household. Here they are:

Buppy - Bread and butter (Mum)
Smiddock - A small amount of food - usually cheese (Dad)
Kapercals - Testicles. Pronounced cap-urr-culls (Dad)
Boosies - Bosoms (Mum)
Supplementary - An additional (large) alcoholic drink (Dad)
Tootie-down - The act of a lady squatting down for an outdoor wee (Mum)
Trouser-cough - A fart (Dad)
Cushion-creeper - A fart surreptitiously relased on a soft sofa (Dad)

Genius

Differences between men and women. No.2

Bosoms.

Usually.

Feeling Forty?

Well, I'm now officially 40. Now what's that saying? "Life begins at 40"? Right, so I take it that means your life is supposed to take on a whole new, vibrant and 'go-for-it' approach. The worries and constraints of your life so far are cast aside in a frenzy of new beginnings and spirutal enlightenment.

I bought some new pants from Tesco.

So I might be missing something here, but why 40? Surely the time to take on the world is either when you're young enough to have no responsibilities and boundless energy, or old enough to have enough time and money to do what the hell you want. At 40 you're right in the middle of it all. Maybe I'm wrong...

... I should have just thrown caution to the wind and bought a thong instead.

Differences between men and women. No.1

A very dear mate of mine and I have not communicated in any way at all for about 2 months. No visits, emails, phone calls, texts or letters. Nothing. Yesterday I got a one line email from him. I responded with a lengthy (2 paragraphs) email. He responded with an even lengthier (3 paragraphs) email. No problem. We just picked up where we left off 2 months ago.

Men can do that.

If my wife's best friend failed to contact her for 2 months, that would be it. End of friendship. At the very least, it would be a very damaged relationship. There would be hurt, anger and mistrust. The friendship may continue but it would be forever changed and tarnished.

Men can't be bothered with all that emotion and recrimination. Maybe we are simpler folk or maybe we are just too trusting in each other's reasons for the lack of contact. Whatever the myriad of possible reasons are that men react so differently to this type of situation, men just can't be arsed with it all. They simply resume their friendship where they left off. Like taking your finger off the pause button.

Men can do that.

Oh happy, happy, joy joy

Marvellous. In my last post, depression was my friend due to the incredibly miserable weather. Well, the sun is shining in England and life is good. Agreed, it's still freezing cold, windy and dark by 5pm. However, the sun has been beaming down on my balding head and endorphines have been coursing through my brain like HP sauce through a sieve. As a result I am one happy bunny. Also, my big birthday is only a week away and despite it being a 'big' one, I'm still as excited as a small child at the prospects of presents and beer. Yes, even as a child I would enjoy a pint or two of fine, room-temperature ale. Roll on the big day.

All this excitement has been caused by nothing more than the sun. Isn't that brilliant? Only one thing could upset me now - not getting any comments in response to my posts. Well, would you believe it? I have! I'm so chuffed. And what's even better - my valued respondent had actually been listening to my podcast. So thank you so much for your very positive feedback. It's really very much appreciated. One downside - the next podcast will be a few weeks as my free podcast software has 'expired' so I need to actually pay for some new software. But I'm going to re-mortgage the cat and perhaps sell all my clothes in order to pay for it.

Don't despair, I'm not going anywhere.

Miserable, miserable weather

Oh it's so depressing. Day after day of freezing temperatures and dark grey skies. English winters are not an a fun experience. Certainly, there are places in the world that are colder or have more snow but few places are so interminably dreary. I'm feeling even worse as I write this because it's cold and grey outside .... again.

You get to a point (usually end of January/start of February) when you find yourself looking for any glimmer of hope, any sign at all that Spring may be on it's way. Things like shoots pushing their way up through the soil, buds appearing on trees or young male drivers with the roof down on their 1989 Ford Escort convertible.

Well I suppose something will have to change soon and I hope it does. I've tried standing under the ceiling light in the bedroom to try and trick my brain into releasing endorphines. These little beauties make you feel all happy and are triggered by sunlight shining on your head. I've even got a clearing in my hair which allows light to penetrate my scalp more quickly but alas, a 60 watt light bulb obviously doen't have the same power as the sun. The sun is apparently equal to 600 watts per square metre. I don't think my brain has any chance of becoming happy soon.

Roll on the summer.