Moff

Sorry for the slightly wayward nature of this post- there has been little time to write of late, but I felt like I should document the fact that I'm off for 2 months doing some work, sorry 'work' and having a holiday.

So after months of planning the Wednesday of the Brazil trip has very nearly arrived. Its been a hectic few weeks since JD did the deed on the sofa cushion, time which has seen me grow further apart from my housemates, and from which I am looking forward to the coming break. There have actually been a lot of interesting female interactions of late;

I had my first ex contact me through Facebook, and declare that we are 'friends', which is a bit rich seeing how we've had no contact for 6 years, and, had no more contact for about 2 weeks since we reestablished this 'friendship'.

A student in my office today seemed unnervingly attractive for a few minutes while we discussed her project, and the moment did its best not to pass.

Ive been having getting (and sending) a lot of texts and emails from my recently single friend, LEA, and have twice (though that's not including now, so three times really) considered what might have happened if my next trip was back to the homeland rather than to Manaus.

I have been finding my housemate, L-upstairs increasingly distant, annoying, and unjustifiably sexy in equal measure.

Nearly nine weeks away will hopefully be a multipurpose fire extinguisher for those flames, or at least stop them burning my mind while I'm away. The trip is 6 weeks in Brazil with work and then 3 weeks in Sumatra with my friend Barbie on holiday. I have left 5 hours between my return flight from Brazil gets in and my flight to Indonesia leaves.

That's plenty of time, right?

I hope so.

Ive been making a pile of stuff in my room to pack, and its quickly becoming a mountain with all the additional lab equipment I need to take. Things like 120 syringes in my bag might make a customs visit slightly interesting. That said, and already accepting a few more hassles and last minute problems tomorrow, there is going to be a point very soon when we board a boat to go on a research trip up the Amazon. I'm immensely looking forward to seeing the river and its wildlife up close. This is the type of trip that I got into science for, the type of trip that I dreamt of making as I watched fish swimming in the river Frome as a kid. There seems little doubt that it will be truly awesome- and that's before Ive even got on the plane to Sumatra. I just hope there's a pub in Manaus that will be showing England win the Rugby world cup on Saturday.

Until next time.

Oh no you didn't...

Ive never met a normal cat, but nevertheless I feel obliged to start this post with the information that JD is a strange cat. For a few weeks after he arrived he didn't even emerge from Catwoman's room when anyone was in the lounge. He was so scared by a sneeze, or a reach forward to pick up your drink, or a laugh, that I was amazed that he hadn't died of some stress related meltdown. Once I set the smoke alarm off twice in one night and he avoided me for a week.

Then he began to accept us. He'd allow me to stroke his back, play fetch with his little cotton ball, and eventually he'd come out looking for attention from me. This was more like the behaviour I was expecting. Cats are fine to have around the house, but I don't like their attitude at all. They're like 'oh give me a stroke, give me some food, give me a stroke' and then they fuck off and have a sleep. The girls go, 'oh isn't he so cute (when he buggers off after you've been serving him on hand and foot for an hour) and I'm like 'he's such a freeloader'- he never gives anything back apart from the occasional unprovoked scratch.

This morning I was heading downstairs for brekkie and I passed Doug who was on his way back up- carrying his breakfast with him.

'Oh have you seen the little present JD has left us in the lounge?'

'No, what....(mind ticks over- I know what a present is)...no he hasn't!'

'Yeah right on the sofa cushion'

Doug had been eating breakfast, wondering what the smell was for 10 minutes before realising the irregular brown pile of stuff on the cushion over from him was a cat log of epic proportions. JD really had dropped the kids off, released a trilogy, laid a brick etc etc. It was a jaguar sized log, not really anywhere near the small house cat size it should have been. No longer scared of his own tail, the meek cat had turned into the sort of monster who can shit on your sofa and then come out with a 'give me a stroke will ya' meow.

I stood their looking for a while, laughing a bit, marvelling a the size, saying stuff like 'JD what have you done?!' when I began wondering why Doug (and presumably everyone before him) had left it there on the sofa in all its glory. Surely it remaining in the house was not a good way of getting the smell to clear? They really are muppets. I carefully picked up the cusion and got it outside. I tipped/poured most of the solid/semi-solid into the bin, unzipped the cushion cover and removed the inner. It was bright white on the outside but had a circular core of bright yellow, which went all the way through. It looked a bit like a giant sweet, but smelt like the death of a relative. I wasnt sure what the next step was in cat shit decontamiation (I dont really want to put anything with shit on in the washing machine, do I? so I left the evidence to dry outside.

It was quite funny as far as cat shit in the lounge can be, but Im remaining firm on my stance that cats are not a good pet.

Too Smart to climb Everest Buddy

I don't think Id ever climb Everest. At present I'm not rich enough, or have the necessary experience, but if, say, I won the lottery on Sat (I might have you know, Ive not checked yet) and had the time and money to spare, I still don't think Id risk it. The difference between a good sea level physical challenge and high altitude mountaineering is that you cant prepare for how your body will respond to the extreme altitude. You can train all you want, get to the fittest you've ever been, then train for another 5 years and feel superhuman. It wont matter a jot. Sure, your fitness might help you on the lower slopes, and it will certainly help you recover and make the climbing days easier, but in terms of altitude related sickness it wont help you in the slightest. The two main altitude sickness killers- HACE and HAPE (build up of fluid in the brain and lungs) are thought to be genetically based and currently impossible to test for or predict. Low oxygen in the air makes you breath faster, your vascular system swells and speeds up to get more oxygen round your body, this can lead to a leakage of fluid and very quickly to death. Survival isn't anything to do with your training and preparation, your fitness, age, or anything else, its about your genes, and what methods of dealing with low oxygen your body has hard wired into it.













The reason im sharing this is because I watched the BBC Horizon programme last night called 'Doctors in the Death Zone' where a group of doctors climbed up Everest and conducted experiments on the slopes into the body's response to a lack of oxygen. They took an exercise bike to camp 4 at 7950 m which was an incredible sight- I just wish they had shown it strapped to one of the Sherpas back. They recorded the lowest ever blood oxygen content in a human that was still alive when they took an arterial sample from one of the team at 400m from the summit. It suffered, like most Horizons, from an over the top narration which tried to add more drama and suspense than was necessary, but it was still an amazing piece of work. The photography alone was fantastic. The small screen of YouTube doesn't really do it justice, but the footage of the team reaching the summit was absolutely breathtaking and gave an amazing insight into the challenges facing the climbers. TV like this is brilliant. Look out for it.

Discus

When I say to people that i study discus they give a strange look and wonder what Im talking about. I hope a few have had the thought that i study maximising the distance that discus are thrown by the British Olympic team- perhaps looking into discus aerodynamics or density or structure. I even tell some that I study discus reproductive biology. I really hope some of these people have had the doubt, if even for a moment, that the discus thrown by the British Olympic team might actually living things, things which are in need of breeding programme in order to get the best quality traits enhanced for the competition discus.

The truth is I am studying discus fish. When i tell people this they seem glad that the awkard moment when they didnt know what i was talking about has passed, and are so relieved that they dont actually give discus fish much thought.

It was a sad day last week when we had the fist death in the discus camp, and 'male #3', or 'ill-boy' as he was getting called increasingly frequently went off to the big chest freezer in the sky(lab).

A moments silence.

Jabba in the hut

Ive got rabies.

Ive had it for 25 minutes. My arm aches, but I've not got the rage.

I went to see a nurse and she injected me with the virus. Its only a weakened form of course, so my body's immune system is gunna kick its ass out of town. If my immunization is the Rugby World Cup, then the rabies is Portugal and my immune system is New Zealand.













There is going to be a rout. Ive got to get two more hits of course, two more games in which I should become accustomed to the Portuguese play. They might get a few points on the board. My body will remember these games and face up to any conceded points. I will prepare methods to combat them if we ever play again in the future. That way, if while in the Amazon I get up for a leak in the middle of the night and get bitten by a rabid vampire bat,














my body will immediately recognise the Portuguese attack and call up the immune-players that are best suited to suppressing its well drilled, expansive backs play. The saved time in defence-selection should give me the chance to get to the local medical hut and get a booster. The extra momentum gained by bringing on this boosted up front row in a delicately balanced game should be enough to tip the result in my favour. The game will be hard fought. The cup will be life.

The Wrasse that time is going to forget

Ive been in the water for an hour now and the cold is starting to take hold of my movements. My attempts to get the giant ragworm down next to the wreck are becoming more desperate and I curse the small weight on the line for not resisting the pull of the current. I notice a dark shape emerge from the wreck, but its difficult to see with the thousands of plankton blocking my view. A wave washes over my snorkel but i hold my breath as I'm sure the shape must be getting close to the ragworm and I don't want to have to look away...

Ive been doing quite a bit of snorkeling over the summer and starting to really take an interest in the sea life. A friend at work is doing a practical class this year that involves looking at the morphological adaptations of different marine fish skulls. To do this he needs a selection of fish with different feeding habits that he can dissolve the flesh away from in a Quint from Jaws type vat of acid leaving a clean skull.

Big J and I have seen a lot of humongous wrasse while snorkeling, and in a moment of Einstein like foresight I thought that it might be possible to catch them using hand line while in the water. This intuitively seemed like it might be an idea that would prove to be very difficult in practice, so i did a bit of investigation. Googleing "fishing while (snorkeling OR swimming)" gave one or two returns that referred to people having done it, so I felt like it was worth a go.

We went yesterday to Thurlestone, on a low tide, and managed to find the wreck of "The Louis Sheid" in 5 to 10 metres of water.

... Suddenly the shape darts away from the wreck, and i cant quite believe my luck as the line pulls tight and the fish is hooked. The prehistoric looking ragworm was too good an opportunity for Mr Dark Shape to pass by. I wind the line back in, amazed at how the fish's dull pulling of the spool is telling my hand a completely different story to the theatrics and dramatic lunges that my eyes see are going on under the water. The dark shape makes a brave fight of it, and is clearly not happy with the way his day is panning out, or, perhaps more seriously in the longer term of things, his skulls newly acquired destiny.

Back at the car and Mr Ballan Wrasse seems a lot smaller than he did in the sea, maybe 1 and a quarter pounds, but I'm still thrilled at the success of the first fishing-while-snorkeling trip and start thinking of the possibility of tying some mackerel feathers to my fins and going for a swim.

I get home late, put on the TV and am delighted to see its the fantastic 'Tribe' with Bruce Parry. The very next scene is a group of remote Pacific islanders doing some fishing while snorkeling for themselves and cant quite believe the coincidence.

Peaks at the end with the jumping tiger

Sometimes I find it difficult to keep the blog up to date. I enjoy writing a post about a specific thing that has happened, but it often takes a lot of time to get my spelling mistakes just right. If I have a busy week at work (yes they're slowly starting to appear) or have to do jury service (one was guilty, one got off, I said they were both guilty but the judge accepted the 10-2 majority) I can suddenly find myself with three or four out of date post ideas but with nothing concrete to publish.

In a whistle stop tour of the last few weeks:

I have been training my ass off for the Bristol Half Marathon which is on Sunday. I achieved my lifetime aim of a sub-1 hour 30 mins two years ago, so this year my motivation is to beat the athletics legend Steve Cram, who is running as a race profile raiser. He has been out in Osaka covering the world championships for the past few weeks for the BBC, so hopefully he hasn't had time to train and wont be at his usual 1.26-8 standard. The world championships themselves were fantastic. I found myself glued to the TV for hours at a time- much like when i recently watched season 1 of Heroes. I occasionally found myself with tears in my eyes as athletes ran themselves into the ground, or in an instant of finely honed power and technique achieved what they had been training all year for. For me, being an athlete must be somewhere near the best job in the world. And how fit, in every sense of the word is is Kelly Sotherton?

In some breaking video clip news, I have been watching and listening to a lot of Mark Watson (for example click on me and try not to smile), and he is my new fave comedian. I also came across this video showing a tiger being so fantastically (and yet sickeningly) agile that I later realised I hadn't moved for a full minute after watching it:

Cool jumping Tiger

He would be in the elephant jumping event at the Tiger worlds.

If only that competition existed outside of my head.

Random jury thoughts...

There are only a few days to go in the court. I have been on one case since last Wednesday morning and the worker there thinks that it is very unlikely for us to get put onto another one at the end of the week. I'm not supposed to talk about the case to anyone, in case they influence my decision on what conclusions I reach, which is a big crock as they wouldn't know the details. Anyway, if you are at all interested you can read about the case here

(Ssshhh, obviously)

I feel that they're both guilty, but it is obvious that there are at least some who would disagree with this in my fellow 11 jurors. I'm not sure if I care enough to argue with these strangers with whom i share nothing but random twist of fate.

Highligths have included the Judge, who has been both superior and entertaining in equal measure, and being locked in a room with 11 complete strangers which was both surreal and slightly uncomfortable in similar volumes.

I am most surprised at how difficult it is to say something is true, 'beyond reasonable doubt' and the more i think about it, the more ridiculous it becomes. I think that this is because of my work. I spend all day doing science things, basically trying to attain some level of, if not absolute certainty about the result of an experiment. In court, you don't do this, you just listen to some people go,

'he did it'

and some other people go,

'i didn't do it'

and then hopefully there is some evidence to give you some sort of better clue. Then you think about it and go,

'yeah, i 'think' beyond reasonable doubt that they did (or didn't) do it'

Some of the people on the jury are nice, but really stupid, and I think that beyond any doubt whatsoever their thinking about it is 100% comprised of what the person next to them has just said. I swear I am not exaggerating. It bollocks, but I haven't got a better system to suggest so I'm just going to revert to the original idea for this post which was random thoughts I had while waiting to go into court:

1. Was there a big blog bang at the beginning of the blogosphere?

2. Is it possible to die of boredom?

3. Has anyone else come up with The Antarctic Apes as a great name for an Arctic Monkeys tribute band?

Case is very nearly closed...

Send them down

I have been summoned to perform jury service on Monday. The letter says it will last for at least two weeks.

This has brought about two unlikely coincidences. I was originally called to do it in the 'Stol, but since I have moved house, I was able to move it to down to the Scally-riddled Crown Court in Janner Land. I found out a few days after that if I had done it in the 'Stol, it would have been at the same time as my friend, or my now socially separated friend at least, JA4, would have been in court. This would have been at the very least extremely strange.

Even stranger is that I will also know someone in the dock down here. My ex housemate Andre the giant's ex boyfriend who I met about three times is going to court after he hit and killed two people on a motorbike whilst driving his car on the Moor at 3 am in June. I found this out when i saw is face on the front of the local paper, and thought, 'oh shit- this guy I made a cup of tea for is a murderer or something' and I might well have been right. Ive looked on the Internet and while the court date is there (31st Aug) there are no facts about what happened. I guess that this is what the trial is for.

I feel fairly sure that when I tell the court assistant the fact that I have met the guy before, ill be excused from the trial. Im sure thats how it works on American TV court dramas at least. Part of me wants to not say anything and see what happens. I suspect that being on the Jury may well not be as exciting as I currently hope, so it would be nice to have at least one serious case to ponder. I dont think id be influenced by the fact that I have met him before, but I suspect that there are rules about such things.

I only hope its not too boring after the novelty factor has worn off. I will at least enjoy getting some Chavs off the street (untill they legalise Chav hunting(!))

I feel slightly giddy with the power I have to significantly change the course of someones life.

Saying that ill probably get 10 persistent parking offenders.

We'll see.

A Rant

Brrrrrr. I'm annoyed.
I'm not really into getting wound up about stuff that doesn't matter, but I have to vent some frustration on the 'Top Dives with Tanya Streeter' programme that was just on BBC2. I first heard about Mrs Streeter a few years ago when a friend said she had broken the mens' world free diving record- and that it was the only world record in which the female record was 'better' than the males. This was quite a cool fact, although Ive just checked and both her records (there were two- the 'Variable Ballast' and 'No Limit' categories) have since been bettered by men.



Anyway, Shes a world champion, and shes hot, so some bright spark decided to give her a presenting job. Unfortunately, for the spark, she is a most annoying person, and while she looks amazing, I found the things she was saying made me swear more than i have in a long time. She was, much like her silver diving suit, so far up her own ass it was painful to watch.

Her general chitchat always started with stuff like, 'when people ask me...' and then went into some self worshiping delusion like 'how I manage to hold my breath and stay calm for so long' or 'if I get scared when I dive so incredibly deep' or 'why I'm such an arrogant posh fucker' and she was grating me with her, 'is it me, or am I just so fucking wonderful' attitude.

Worse of all though she was just so stupid.

At one point they went looking for Whale sharks in the Maldives and while Tanya was looking for a 'pure' encounter, the only one available was with a juvenile (still probably 6-7 meters) that had 10-15 tourists in tow, snorkeling along thinking 'oh my god this is amazing'. They had, like Tanya, been waiting all day for their opportunity to swim with the biggest fish in the sea (I know - I've been on 3 whale shark snorkelling trips and never been lucky enough to see one), and Tanya was fucked off because she couldn't swim with it on her own. Then one of the tourists reached down and touched the sharks dorsal fin. Tanya was distraught. She said it was an 'invasion of space' and a 'crossing of the sacred boundaries between their world and ours'. She was also banging on about how the tourists were chasing the shark, scaring it, and 'not letting it escape'. The next scene she is crying at how fucked off and posh she is.
What a crock.



I agree that the guy shouldn't have touched the shark, but lets get some perspective here. Without the snorkeling tourists, a lot of the sharks would have been killed for their fins. Its because of the tourists and their money that the locals have a high incentive to look after the sharks and their environment. If the odd one gets touched in their conservation, OK, it probably shouldn't happen, but don't cry about it- be glad that this amazing species is still alive (unlike the Yangtze river dolphin, for example). Anyway, that isn't my point. In the next scene Tanya starts going on about how shes wants to 'study the sharks natural behaviour' and eventually they find one that she can swim around and look pretty with. In doing so she swims below and in front of the shark, at one point obviously forcing it towards the surface- something the tourists certainly didn't do. Then she narrates saying that she was careful to always allow the shark to retreat to deeper water, and that the interaction was on the shark's terms, not hers. This was, obviously not what had just been shown. She ends the scene talking about how wonderful she is for emulating the shark with her free diving.

In the end, the icing on her rimtard cake, she swims with sharks. We hear Tanya explaining how she is terrified of sharks, and very nervous about the encounter. With her tears after the whale shark touching incident still fresh in my mind, we see the reef sharks come to investigate her. She panics, freaks out and kicks them away with her fins.

Kicks them away!

Then she does it again! and again! I nearly exploded I was so angry with her. What a colossal idiot. On the boat she got off her high horse, and was like, 'oh i was so scared i just had to get them away from me'. Right, so its OK to lash out at animals, 'breaking the sacred bond', so long as you can justify it by being scared- of a reef shark that dont ever bite people. You could always get out after the first time you fucking airhead.

I hope she drowns.

Not really, obviously. I hope she doesnt make any more TV shows.

Not really, obviously. I hope she only makes TV shows with no sound.

The Spanish Bruce Willis

We've lost a few housemates of late, in fact its only me and L upstairs who are left from when I first moved in only 4 months ago. That seems a very rapid turnover for such a nice house. I hope I don't smell.
Andre the giant left without a trace, and I couldn't be happier that ill never have to put up with that giant drama queen ever again. French T's room has a new girl in it, Vosam, while M and N downstairs have also just left, and been replaced by Catwoman. Catwoman was named, some say ingeniously, I say it just comes to me naturally, because shes a woman and she owns a cat. We have also got Spanish D, who is here for 3 months to do some work of his PhD studying aquatic beetles.

And so, with the intensely boring introduction done and dusted, I can finally reach the point of this so far, at least, disappointing post.

Spanish D and I are watching Unbreakable last night, a Bruce Willis film about a guy who part realises and part always knew that he never gets ill or injured, and that essentially, that makes him a superhero.


I couldn't work out if it was good or shit- bits I enjoyed, but a lot of it didn't quite sit together, but anyway. Spanish D explains that in Spain, all of the American movies are dubbed into Spanish, and that each English speaking actor gets assigned a Spanish voice over actor, who will, to aid continuity, dub all of this actors films through his career. I find this fascinating.

I wonder how the voice over actors get assigned. There must be huge competition to get Hollywood's next hot property, simply because you'll be quids in doing his movies for the next few years. I guess Bruce Willis must be a good actor to 'get' as you'll get loads of work, but then again there must be high demands on your time as they cant delay a film release because you're off on holiday. I wonder if they copy accents, or if there is no need to, as its being translated anyway. I wonder if they go to premieres, or what happens if they die before the actor? What do they do if their actor sings, and they cant? Is there an official governing body who control all the voice artists and who make sure Bruce Willis is always Bruce Willis. I wonder if they can get assigned two or more actors, and if so, whether a curious casting incident has ever led to an actor talking to himself offscreen, onscreen. Or, on the same lines, since most voice over people are actors, they might not be able to get real acting work in films that their English speaking stars are in.
D explains its funny hearing the real Bruce Willis's voice for the first time, and that his Spanish counterparts is completely different (in addition to it being Spanish, obviously).

Yeah, that's what I was thinking about last night.

Fishing, drinking and dressing up adventures

It got dark and i retreated into my bivvy (den) to keep warm. My rods were ready, two baits in the margins and one about 30 yards in front, all single, sinking, caramel flavoured boilies. The bite alarms were waiting to alert me to a carp taking line. I was too on edge to sleep, so made a cup of tea, fidgeted, and eventually got out my phone. I randomly clicked my way through to the new recorded videos section. The dark screen shot of MOV00030 seemed unfamiliar, and said it was from 3.14am on Friday night. I clicked it twice to get it playing and saw an image of my (silver- I'm getting to this bit) face swing into semi-focus out of the blackness. The timer said it would go on for 2 minutes 12 seconds. I was walking back from the club, alone. The first ten seconds was me explaining, in a horribly drunk voice that I was doing a video diary of my thoughts as I was obviously not going to remember anything the following day. I was, evidently, right, as I had no memory of making this video, and became curious and slightly nervous as to what i might come out with.

I should explain a little background. There was a leaving party on Friday night with work and a Superhero theme for fancy dress had been called. I went as the Silver Surfer- I spray painted a rash vest and pair of boardies silver, got some face and body paint for my head and legs and then silver hair sprayed my hair. I also made a board out of a polystyrene sheet and wrapped it in tin foil. To be fair, it was a good costume. I got on the wine and quickly arrived at the village of Too Much Wine, which I decided looked like a rubbish place to stop for the night so carried onto the next town. I arrived at Far Too Much Wine quickly and then really started caning it, and then got on the beer and eventually spirits. By about 1 am, I had, as a friend once so insightfully described, 'gone to the other side'

I paused the video and got into my sleeping bag as the clear sky was making the air cool a lot faster than my jumper alone could warm it. MOV00030 continued and I squirmed with embarrassment and disbelief as I described my thoughts on:

1) The difficulty of walking in a straight line and how I kept stumbling to the left.
2) Girls at the party; I apparently 'fancied' Lara Croft and something about trying to dance with another.
3) The fact that I was worried about the lack of sleep aspect of getting up for the camping trip the next morning.
4) The fact that I was worried about whether or not I would remember to have a shower when I got in (I didn't, my quilt and pillow is now also silver).

At one point a car goes past and beeps at me and someone shouts something at me, but its hard to hear or see what happened as the video and sound gets blurred.

Of the 4 points above I vaguely remember half of point 2 (Lara was hot, if a little posh) but nothing about making the video. I told my workmates this story and they thought it was funny to record yourself when drunk. They also laughed at the thought of me walking up a road with silver surf board in one hand and phone in the other, filming myself talking to myself about myself.* I have to agree that is slightly unusual behaviour. They wanted to see the clip but I made an excuse as I didn't want them to hear the bit with about point 2.

I lie back and eventually relax. The black closes in and I'm asleep.

Zzz

Zzzz

Zzz

ZzBEEEEEE-EEEE-EEEEEEP BEEE-EEEEEEEEEEEEE-EEEEEEEEP and my middle rod has screamed off. I fall out of bed, out of the tent and eventually make it to the rod and strike into the fish. 15lbs 4oz, a mirror carp. Steveo also gets a run at 5 o'clock ish and it turns out to be a 26lb 4oz beast of a carp. Im chuffed for him, and immediately our yearly night fishing session is a success.

*It seems crazy, but at that point in the post a iwas talking about myself filming myself talking to myself about myself. The chances of this happening again seem very remote.

Den making

When I was little I used to make a den with a blanket drapped over the back of the settee. When I was old enough to play outside I made dens at the end of the garden, using bits of wood and old carpet from the garage. I once planted a conker because I thought it might grow into tree big enough to hold the den holy grail- a tree house. Then, when I got a bit older, I started making dens in the woods and once spent a week making a den in the middle of a hollybush. The hollybush den was so big i decided to call it a base. On scout camp I made a den in the woodpile and shot people who couldnt see me with my waterpistol as they walked past.

Then I got older and forgot about making dens.

Then my sister got married, had two little boys and last christmas I spent most of boxing day making dens with my nephews. I started them off with the classic blanket over the back of the settee, and finished the afternoon with a very spacious blanket over the dining table. The delight in my nephews' faces was remarkable. It was nice to be back in the den making circle. I envied all the den making possibilites that their future holds.

Then yesterday I recieved my ebay-purchased overwrap that fits onto my giant fishing umbrella which will be used in my night fishing trip on Monday. I put it up in the garden to check it out. Separtely they didnt make much, but together, I was delighted to see, they made a den.

Dens rule.

Leaves on the line

Its not quite gone off the rails, but progress in my new life down south has been frustratingly slow for the past month or so.

I wont blame the weather, and will try not to dwell on the wettest June for 95 years, or the severe flooding that has followed it in July. Things have just slowed to a near stop after a frantic first six weeks of meeting people, drinking, and then meeting people I would struggle to remember the next day.

I guess that things run in cycles, and there can't be solid back to back great times, if for no other reason than their regularity would, by definition, stop them being unusually great.

I'm amazed at how close I've got to my French housemate T. I'd had an irrational loathing of the stereotypical french ever since 'they' stole my football while I was inter-railing with friends as a carefree 21 year old. Both the already departed J, and the soon to depart T have been wonderful to live with, and I feel lucky to have met such a friendly and funny pair. Ive had great fun spending a whole evening getting drunk with T, saying 'un bon muff' and laughing whenever an attractive looking girl has come onto the TV. Sad, I know, but somehow it was brilliant. I'm not sure what I'm going to do when T leaves on Weds. Not in the mopping a tear with my hanky type way, but because his room is the first in a series of three that will quickly be emptied and refilled by a girl. A few years ago this would have filled me with excitement at the prospect of rolling round the lounge floor with a new arrived single housemate (happened once in 8 years!), but today I'm genuinely more worried about being in the middle of the winging / bitching / tension that is bound to happen when 5 twenty somethings with no Y chromosomes start interacting.

Still, the cycle will turn around again I'm sure, and it is interesting to imagine what the future holds down here. I hope I can get a neat circle of friends together and start doing some things on the weekends when the weddings and watching le tour de France have run their course.

This might well start next weekend, as camping and then a night fishing trip are all booked in.

3 Shreks, man

Just saw Shrek the third.

I'd partially heard some rumblings that it wasn't very good, but I really enjoyed the first two so thought it was worth a go. Id give it 7 out of 10 for entertainment-generally a bit average, but looked amazing, and a few very funny moments. My favorite bit was when the Gingerbread man thought he was going to be killed and his life flashed before his eyes- his legs got pulled off by some kids and then they had clips of him training back to full health, then running through a field on his repaired legs with tears in his eyes.


Genius. (it is on Youtube, but really crappy quality so no link). There was also a Damien Rice song in there, which was a slightly strange choice, but a nice surprise.

Looking forward to the Simpsons movie- the whole Spider-Pig thing in the trailer probably got the biggest laugh of the night. Most of all though, I simply cant wait for Transformers (Check out the High Def trailer here- I haven't been so excited about a film since Starwars Episode 1.

For the first 10 mins, this post had no title

I had my staff induction today, and it was absolute bollocks. I hoped I had left behind all the corporate rubbish in my last job, but it seems to also have a stronghold at the Uni training centre. If it wasn't for an amusing incident with a spider, I might well not have made it through the day.

It didn't start well, as I was hungover again after another trip to the Drum and Bass empire that is known as the White Rabbit (my dancing had not improved, BTW).

I got a coffee, sat down and introduced myself to my table. Within 1.5 seconds there were 3 middle aged women whinging at me about how shit their jobs were, and how under valued and under paid they felt at work. This was depressing, at best. I looked at the floor in the hope that they might stop, but only succeeded in noticing a spider (quite large, maybe a category 2) that had suddenly appeared (as they do, probably out of a His Dark Materials -type window from another world) and was bundling his legs towards me. I tried not to panic, got my feet up off the floor and followed his every move like a hawk. My behaviour attracted some attention and I felt that I had to say something. I interrupted the conversation of the women, which had continued (probably on auto-moaning pilot) in spite of my evasive actions,

'Sorry to butt in, but theres a spider down there' I pointed out, now trying to casually shuffle my chair out of his predicted path of terror. In a moment of genius I decided to move my bag too as I thought he might be trying to get to get under it as a shelter. He was, and I took a brief, but sweet moment of celebration as Spidey's plan was foiled, and he changed course towards the organiser’s bag, which upon reaching he promptly disappeared underneath.

Semi relief. *

'Sorry, I don't like spiders much' I said, and the women all gave me a look which suggested I had lost all of my credibility as someone who was worthy of having them whinge to.

2 hours later and I was sitting through the 3rd talk that was presentation-rohypnol and decided that I had actually reached the point at which I had no further will to live. At this point the organiser guy, who was changing the PowerPoint slides for the speakers, decided for some reason that he wanted to have a fumble in his bag.

Aaarrrggghhhh..... not good.... My mind was desperately grabbing at anything that might have kept it awake, so I started thinking through the possibilities of what lay instore for the next 10 seconds.

If he fumbled too much, spidey might have got hurt, organiser guy might have seen spidey next to his hand and panicked, or worse still, and most likely, spidey might have run out from his hiding place and resumed his march of death towards me. I’m not sure if it was my hangover, or my brain craving for something to do, but I thought it would be a good idea to warn the guy. Since 'Equal Opportunities in the Workplace' lady was in mid-speech, I thought that maybe I should write down a warning. I got my pen, and scribbled down this on the back of my staff induction timetable:













and tried to catch bag fumblers eye as I tentatively put it on the floor with the arrow pointing towards where I had seen spidey disappear.

Bag fumbler wasn't expecting this, and I got my second strange look of the morning. After an uncomfortable 30 seconds of me trying to whisper an explanation that a spider had run under his bag earlier, and that this was not a good thing, organiser guy decided it was best to not talk to the weirdo who was whispering something about a giant spider and turned away to continue his slide swapping over.

Phew, that was close. I had almost looked a bit silly there.

50 more minutes and 'Volunteer Coordinator Widening Participation' woman had overrun into lunch by 17 minutes. She seemed awfully chirpy about this, which, needless to say, I was not. I began considering which of the things available on the tabletop I could have used to kill myself with quickest if she had carried on speaking for more than another minute. Finally she gave out a copy of her presentation in case we ever wanted to refer back to it (yeah, as if) and offered the critical words,

'So, has anyone got any questions?’

Surely not.

Please no.

'I wonder if you could just explain again about where I can find you on the intranet' says the woman who taught me what hate really is.

'Oh now let me see... if you go onto the intranet, I think we're under the 'volunteering' tab’ says chirpy. 'Now just let me check..'

Yeah, funny that, id have never looked for volunteering info under the volunteering tab.

Lunch was good. I didn't go back for the afternoon.

I need some sleep.

*No not that sort (honestly, your dirty minds), I meant I was partially relaxed.

Soz, but once again its all about me.

Some facts about my weekend:

I got changed into a really posh hired suit in a campsite, while 8 old people cheered from their static caravans.

I got up to do my reading during the wedding and the church setting and powerful words reminded me of doing a reading at my nan's funeral last year. This was awkward and quickly uncomfortable as I went from quite casually reading it out to a struggle to maintain my composure. Afterwards, a lot of people said that they thought my reading was 'brilliant' or that they 'loved it,' so I'm not sure if they were being nice, or if the tension in my voice and face added something to some of the words. I hope that most of the drama was in my head.

JA4 was on bail for Affray and Actual Bodily Harm during 2007 and had a darker side that I didnt know about. He dumped LEA and has since been a nightmare towards her, such as hacking into her Facebook account and then demanding to know who her friends were. This is not the guy I knew. I'm confused as to what I should think about him. Even weirder is that I have been summoned to do jury service in the 'Stol for two weeks and it seems likely that this period would coincide with his trial. Obviously I wont be doing it, but I found myself imagining my confusion if id not found out, and gone to court and then JA4 walked up to the dock.

I sensed an unusual parental urge to look after my parents who came to the wedding reception, but didn't know many people. I kept looking to see if they were alright or on their own, which felt strange, but good*.

I felt a twinge of unexpected attraction toward one of my friends who was looking particularly hot*.

I came home to find out 3 of my housemates are moving out; French T I knew about, but Gay A (AKA Andre the giant....) and M & N downstairs are also leaving. I am gutted T is leaving as we get on really well but I am happy that the others are leaving.

*A large quantity of the local 'Summer Ale' was almost certainly responsible for exacerbating these emotions and dwelling on them more than would usually be deemed appropriate.

Socially separated friend

During my lunch hour today I was organising and booking camping pitches for wedding #3, which is on Saturday. A few of us have decided to camp nearby rather than get a taxi home as there are no local hotels. I started a group email with about 15 people who are going to the wedding, and very quickly 'reply to all's began pinging into the inboxes up and down the country.

One couple not in the email list are LEA and JA4, two friends who I have got to know quite well over the past 3 years. LEA went to Uni with another friend Barbie, and through him, about 15 weekends away and several bottles of wine I have become really good friends with them both. They’ve recently bought a new house and I was emailing LEA last week about a possible night out in the homeland. She also confirmed that her and JA4 would take one of the camping pitches.

The next email is from Barbie saying that LEA and JA4 have split up.

I'm shocked. I have to read the words again to make sure I have understood correctly. There are no details, Barbie just says that he found out on Monday, and that LEA will still come to the wedding on her own.

I spend the rest of the afternoon wondering what has happened. I consider emailing one or both of them, but think better of it. I feel sad for them both. I am also sad that my friendship-through-a-friend with JA4 is effectively over. Although in theory it would be OK for me to speak to and hangout with him, in reality we became friends because of the fact that he was seeing (in fact practically married to) LEA who was good friends with Barbie. There is just not going to be the opportunity for us to hang out. Its really sad, but the chances are now that ill never see him again.

Ive got quite a lot of female friends, and thinking about it now I can recall at least 3 other guys from the past who I've got to know for years, grown to consider them as really good friends and then have them socially separated from me by a break up. This seems awfully unfair, especially when there are people like Mr Negative knocking about who I also spend time with because of their relationships with my friends, but who are complete dicks.

(Reading this back I guess I should be caring more about LEA feelings and what has happened rather than acting like its all about me.

Dam it.)
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On a separate note.

Do you ever jog up the stairs, get halfway up and then just loose all rhythm, get scared you might trip up, and then with your confidence in tatters have to hold the bannister and slowly start climbing again?

Oh, just me then.

PP Episode 4

I did my first ever Olympic distance triathlon on Sunday morning. As I walked from the race briefing to the swim start I tried not to think about what the next few hours was going to bring.
The swim very hard for the first few minutes and several times the thought of stopping and getting out crossed my mind.

The cold knocked the breath out of me, peoples flailing arms knocked my goggles off and the crowded start knocked my confidence. But after a few minutes the bodies spread out a bit, my head stopped protesting when I put it under water and I really started to enjoy swimming without having to stop every 25 metres.

I got out in about 25th place, managed to get my wetsuit undone but took forever in transition and lost a lot of places before I even got on the bike. I did quite well on the ride though, and just about kept up with the people around me. The run was more like a hike, and the organisers thought it a good idea to include the steepest hill ive ever seen, yet alone thought about running up, about half way in. I got to the top (of the aptly named ‘Murder Hill’ I later learnt) and started to experience my first ever cramp in my quads. It felt like there was a tennis ball being forced between my skin and the muscle, and I could barely waddle along for about 2 Ks. I tried to stop and stretch it off, but this seemed to make it worse and I feared I might have to walk in the rest of the way. After a while though it seemed to work itself loose, and by the time the final mile approached I was enjoying both unrestricted running and the knowledge that I was going to succeed in making it round. Ive thought about doing a ‘proper’ triathlon for years, and now I have.

My legs are knackered, but the feeling is sweet.

Measure twice, cut once (and the crab that time forgot).

Building an aquarium system this last week has had its ups and its downs. Sometimes I feel happy with my day’s practical work, and get a sense of satisfaction in creating something physical rather than just reading papers or playing in the lab. Other times it goes unbelievably wrong and I look very unprofessional when I find myself laughing at things that aren’t really very funny.

Yesterday morning we had to cut the main air feed into the aquarium, take out an unused junction, and reconnect it back up. We measured the diameter of the pipes (I’m using ‘we’ here to dilute the blame, obviously), got two straight connectors for either end, and cut a bit of pipe long enough to join up the two connectors. Easy.

I did get slightly nervous when I felt that there was so much pressure in the main air-line it was hot to the touch. Then the distant vibrations of the compressor transferring into my hand began to stir up further worries in the back of my mind. Unfortunately, these instincts were quelled by the ‘it’ll be fine’ thought that was currently on a hot streak of form in my frontal lobes, and kept putting a hat-trick past the doubts every time they got up to anywhere near actionable strength.

I took the trusty saw in hand and began to cut. Once the blade had breached the pipe interior the noise began and this soon rose up to the level the Killers attained when on the Pyramid stage at Glastonbury (Yes! back of the net for that topical reference! I thank you). The resonating woodwind-type whistle got lower as the saw cut deeper, but was regularly interrupted as the motion of cutting blocked then let through the escaping air. I was making air-line music, so loud it shook me to the bone. It reminded me of being at playschool as a child and blowing raspberries down a long cardboard tube, which amplified the noises I was making and led to about a year’s solid entertainment. This time, the tube was much longer and wider, and the mechanical blower had the power of hurricane Katrina.

I finally got all the way through, and with my stress response in full fling I frantically tried to push the connector onto the pipe.

It wouldn’t fit.

Oh total bollocks.

I madly cleaned away the rough bits of plastic left on the cut edges and tried again.

No. Too big.

Double total bollocks.

Cue ten seconds of doing that looking around in disbelief thing, hoping you’re about to wake up. This changed into some not fully committed laughing (which although inappropriate, was better than the other available option). We then managed to find some duct tape (crikey thanks for duct tape) and after wrapping three quarters of the roll around the cut managed to block off most of the escaping air. Then by a mighty stroke of luck, a random connector lying about in the ‘bits and pieces’ box fitted both the thicker and slightly thinner pipes, and our noisy fuck up was finally silenced for good.

While having a tidy up, we moved a long trough of rubbish away from our side of the room which had been there since the beginning of time. We uncovered a dead, mouldy mouse, and more interestingly the remains of a dead crab.

Despite his collapsed shell, it was still easy to see his classic crab pose, wedged backwards into a slight hole, with claws at the ready, saying, ‘im a crab, I dare you to disrespect my personal space.’ He must have got out and thought, ‘shit, its nice to be out of that tank, but it ain’t very wet out here, or salty, for that matter.' Then a few days later he must have thought, ‘oh shit, I appear to be dead’

Where he came from is a bit of a mystery- they’ve kept crabs in the aquarium before, but nothing as big as this guy, and none have gone missing (they have, by all accounts a crab register (imagine them waving their claws from the back of the class, ‘Here Miss!)). They do have some on the sixth floor, but how on earth would he reach the lift buttons?

4 Weddings and a Stag do (Anon)

[I was writing the below post about weddings and for the first time had to stop and think the annoyomous bloggers worse thoughts;

What if this ever got out?

Id initially wanted to remain a completely anonymous blogger. The internet cloaking device of anonymity is a good one. Ive felt confident writing anything about anything, safe in the knowledge that the subject matter would never be able to put two of my posts together with two uncanny resemblances to themselves and make a very uncomfortable foursome. However, as it has gone on (and I’m still just beginning, to be fair) a few of my friends have found me out, usually because of a few, ‘I’m so blogging that’ comments (No, really) down the pub. This is fine; they know the score, plus Ive got nothing to write about my friends that I wouldn’t say to them anyway (well most of the time). I’m more worried (not sure if that’s the right word... yeah, worry it is) that ill reach the point where I cant write what I want to because there’s a chance the subject of the post might read it, and if so it would be unfair on them. It’s difficult, as if I have to hold back the point of it seems reduced.]

Anyway, back to the weddings

Wedding number 2 in the series of 5 this summer is on Saturday. I am only really a ‘oh we’ve got a space left, lets invite... oh what’s his name... you know, JP’s friend... the fish guy’ type of invite so am only going to the evening do. My friend actually suggested that I might only be invited as the bride would like to tell people shes friends with a (insert my distinguished sounding title) and that another friend who is a Lawyer was invited for the same reason. If that’s the case she’ll almost certainly be disappointed when I break out some knee slides and air guitar on the dance floor.

Im probably more looking forward to number 3, for which I’m an Usher, and doing a reading at the church. I decided that because of this reading responsibility I should be known as ‘head’ usher, and after much self proclamation this title has stuck, much to the annoyance of the (now known as) ‘inferior other’ usher.

Number 2 will be good though, don’t get me wrong. Weddings have a certain sheen about them that seems to make all the expense worthwhile, and observing the families raw emotion up close can be really moving. On top of this, having an entire group of friends together in one place is recipe enough for a magnificent evening. I wish the couple a wonderful rest of life.

Even the cake is in tiers.

Boom Boom.

Over analysis of a 4 second incident

I take a sip of my drink and look over to see the Stag laughing and dancing his way around the dance floor. Five minutes earlier he had been told that two of the ladies in this bar were the ones we had danced with in the previous evenings karaoke club.

‘Hiya, we were in the same pub yesterday’ said the Stag, ‘I was wearing a dress.... do you remember?'

The lady looks back, questioningly. The eight of us not on the dance floor are grinning, then laughing, then struggling to not pass out laughing as the Stag realises that this isn’t the pair from last night.

Suddenly, I get kicked in the back. The short sharp pain makes me wince as I fall down the two steps of my vantage point at the bar. My mind races. Adrenaline flows. I look back behind me in search of an explanation...

Poland was a fantastic trip. I went expecting (naively) a bland European country, like Belgium or Holland and found it to be anything but. However, while I am again experiencing a low-after-the-high feeling of a weekend done well, the good times were due to the company, not the hosts. All of the laughs came in spite of, rather than because of the locals we encountered. I have never felt less welcomed as I have explored a city.

I guess id better get explaining.

The females were simply beautiful; very pretty, amazing bodies and always immaculately turned out. The few 'nice' locals we met were of the female variety- the two hostel receptionists, for example, were always chatty and helpful and interested in what we were up to.

The males were very, very dismissive, and probably 60-70% of them skin heads with an obvious devotion to pumping copious volumes of both iron and steroids in the gym. They were not friendly.

Back in the bar and I can see that the owner of the foot that has just dispatched me on a stair-surfing escapade belongs to one of these locals, who along with his friend stares coldly back at me, goading me into retaliation. I fight the urge to react instinctively and fight. The protagonist remains on his stool, I look around and recognise that only one friend has seen what has happened. He, like me seems unsure of what action should follow. In the next two seconds a tidal wave of thoughts crash through my head.

I decide that the best thing* to do is to ignore him. I turn back around and warn a few of the friends nearest to me, but don’t want to cause everyone to look around, which might be like waving a naked flame next to the barrel of petrol that sits behind me. A few minutes later and the two guys push past me, and then through the dance floor, knocking two local women over as they leave. I’m boiling like a kettle that has had the switch jammed on.

Later the same night another local guy nonchalantly pushed past a toilet queue and takes great offence at me when I ask him what he thinks he’s doing (I normally wouldn’t have cared, but was still upset from before). On the last night another three meatheads push through the group when we are outside, then walk around and do it again, just to be sure we weren’t up for a fight. Luckily the group were all sensible, really sound guys and we were finding the whole aggressive thing quite funny by then, calling it ‘Polish hospitality.’ We also experienced a lot of hostility from shop owners, waiters and the like, who either ignored us completely or asked us to leave before we’d even sat down. The public, especially at the airport, were also difficult and would queue jump, push and shove or just tut and do anything other than stand in line and wait. Being English, good queue etiquette is in my genes and I get really wound up with people who don’t respect it.

I guess that one explanation is the supply of brain dead Stag parties that come through the city, acting up and giving the Brits a bad name. This seems likely, but I don’t want to let Krakow off the hook that easily- other popular Stag destinations I’ve been to, such as Amsterdam, Prague, Cardiff and Barcelona have all managed to remain user friendly, despite probably getting far more groups than Krakow does.

*There is obviously a balance between letting a complete idiot kick you in the back and not reacting to it, and maintaining certain core principles of what is right and wrong, even if standing up for them means definitely getting into a fight. Ive thought a lot about this over the last few days. Ive only ever been in 3 fights and a few sport related skirmishes in my whole life, all of them stemming from similar situations where someone has stepped so far over the line that it found it impossible not to retaliate. However, I can see that if it had all kicked off in the bar (which it probably would have if the same guy had done the same thing in my local) the chances of me or someone else in the group getting hurt suddenly gets very high, which would obviously have spoiled the weekend. The very fact that I did find myself able to ignore him, suggests that I probably should have, and it all turned out alright in the end.

Andre the Giant....

Oh dear, more negativity to deal with. Not Mr N this time, I havent seen him for a bit, but this time my housemate Andre the giant idiot. He really is such a tool.

Our house bills get paid by M downstairs who is happy for us to pay her back the cash. I think it’s a bit unfair on her, but seeing how she insists on it (she likes being in the centre of the involve tree) im happy to carry on. Anyway, Andre the giant fraudster owes M downstairs £105 from various bills, dating back about 4 months. Andre the giant liar claims to have no money, and always promises it at the end of the next month.

This is strange. Andre the giant swindler regularly comes home ‘bragging’ - im not sure who to exactly, but he’s talking to me - about getting £30 or £40 or £50 worth of tips from his waiting job. He is also always buying designer clothes, accessories wine, more wine and even more wine, which seems incredible when you consider how often he steals other peoples wine.

He used to be best friends (his assessment, not hers) with L upstairs, but now has fallen out with her because she won’t spend every waking hour massaging his ego. The other day he was being Andre the giant bitch and said, ‘Ooooo, you’ve got fat!- you’re mum must have been feeding you up’ when she returned from a week at home. This is a bit rude, obviously, but then L told me she was a bit upset, because she ‘used to have a bit of an eating disorder’ which Andre the giant nob head knew all about. What a complete prick.

Worse of all, he really likes horribly bad music, like Euro-soul-swing (that category Ive just made up), and plays it excessively loud when hes feeling 'so depressed’ or ‘just so happy’ which are the only two moods he’s ever in, usually at stupid o’clock in the morning.

Anyway, rather than dis him any more on the internet, which I was taught to do better than by my mama, much like Destiny’s Child, I’m going to try to talk to him. Ill probably have to talk to his hand, in the full knowledge that his face isn’t listening, but talk I will try.

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Oh well, that’s the week done. Im off to Krakow for a 4 day stag do, so theres a fair possibility ill never be the same again.

I think the kids say;

‘Laters’

Bring in the lobster pots, Im coming home with crabs.

I learnt to snorkel as a fish-loving child while on my family holiday in Minorca. I remember clinging onto my dad’s hand as I felt a strange sensation of vertigo while watching shoals of sea bream 40 metres below me in the crystal clear waters around Cala galdana. That holiday I went on to see a shark-shaped dogfish (Shock! Ahh Help! No, panic over he’s not coming to eat me), an octopus, and countless other beasties living in amongst the rocks of the shoreline.

Snorkelling has remained a great favourite of mine, but only on holidays in the tropics where the water is warm (and the DVDs are copied). Back in England I always assumed that the sea would be too cold, the water too cloudy, or that the standard of marine beasties on offer would not be up to scratch.

I was wrong.

On Thursday night I went to Wembury with Big J. We arrived, donned our neoprene, and swam out from the beach- our fins enabling thorpedo-like speed through the shallows. The cold on my head seemed severe at first, but then I started to see some fish and I soon forgot about it. Here I was in England, looking at brightly coloured wrasse, shoals of sandeel, gar fish, pollack, mackerel and at least 3 other species that I didn’t recognise. It was amazing.

Big J found a huge edible crab living under a ledge. I dived down and clung to the rocks, the air being the only part of my body wanting to get back to the surface. I watched the crab for a bit, then realised how peaceful it was under the water. Behind me a field of seaweed sloshed forwards and backwards as the waves passed overhead. The rhythm was hypnotic, there was so much seaweed moving together in perfect unison that it made the exposed rocks appear like they were the things moving. I enjoyed confusing my brain and I wished I could hold my breath forever, but quickly realised I couldn’t. We swam on and saw loads of spider crabs, which weren’t scary, despite their large size and likeness of giant spiders. They were so easy to catch that I wondered if they'd make good eating. An investigation of a Lobster Pot showed me my first English Lobster that wasn’t in a restaurant and I was tempted to free her, but didn’t.

We drove home and wondered at the possibilities.

The Drum and the Bass.

[Having chosen this title, part of me wishes the post was about a fishing trip where I caught a Bass and perhaps saw a drum floating by in the sea. As will become obvious, this is not what has happened.]

J of the French couple fame is leaving the house. This is a shame. However it did mean a going away party. We had a BBQ* in the back garden and drank, in descending order of quantities, Stella, Wine, Pastis and Vodka. After the BBQ we went to a Drum and Bass club, as chosen by the departing J. We got back at 3 am, and I am, needless to say, feeling completely ruined today. I was singing to Fall Out Boy’s ‘thnks fr th mmrs’ embarrassingly loudly on my walk in. Oh the fun of alcohol lasting till the morning.

I’ve never been to a real drum and bass night before, and can report that I was pleasantly surprised. It was kind of like speeded up rock music. I found it hard to dance to as it’s so fast. Rock music is good, as the beat fits our anthropometrics (whey-hey! anyone having that?)- you can nod your head, jump up and down, tap your hand on the bar – and all these things seem to happen naturally and easily within the timeframe set out by the beat. For Drum and Bass, they’ve got 4 or sometimes 8 beats in the space that there’s one for Rock. If you nodded your head you’d look really silly, and probably strain your neck. Gravity isn’t strong enough to fit a jump into time with the drum, and hand tapping that fast just isn’t enjoyable.

Once I was drunk though, I started to get it. I tried to dance faster than normal and to get with every two beats. Occasionally I tried to get every beat, by moving alternative arms on each beat, or doing some small karate-chop type things I saw some of the regulars doing. Luckily, I couldn’t actually see myself, so (in my head at least) can only assume I was looking good.

The MC wasn’t what I had expected either. I thought he’d be just saying stuff up the front like, ‘Come on Plymouth’ ‘Yeah’ ‘Yeah’ ‘One love(!)’ etc, but he was almost singing - making a load of really fast noise over the music. My other French housemate T, who struggles with his English, was saying something over the noise,

‘I can’t understand what he says, its too fast’

and I was replying,

‘Mate, its not your English, I can’t him understand either’

My housemate L upstairs was really good at dancing, she was pulling all sorts of moves id never even seen before, and somehow she overcame the limits of speed my body was struggling with.

Im glad I went though, its good to understand what other people are into, even if its not your first choice. Plus, its not every night you go to a club in a Bus Station, and for that alone it was better than a night in the cheesy chart music type place.

*We have been trying out different makes of disposable BBQ, and last nights effort from Asda scored the lowest yet, despite being a relatively hefty £1.80. So far, the ranking in terms of maximum heat output and duration has been Sainsburys, Morrisons, Aldi, Trago Mills then Asda. The cheapest is Trago Mills at 89p each. That is a brilliant BBQ bargain.

Days of Wonder

It is now 7 weeks since I moved, and overall would say that I am enjoying being back in Janner-land. I previously lived here for 3 years while doing my degree, which in September will be (quickly-check-the-calendar-oh-my-god-it-is) a decade ago. Its strange how you remember things when looking back so far. Certain aspects of what happened at Uni, like the way I acted, the things I said, and did, seem similar to today, but others appear completely foreign. I see myself in some of the memories and find it hard to recognise the guy there. Its me, of course, but much like a severed arm must look like to its owner when its on the floor, seeing things from such a starkly different perspective can make them hard to recognise. Other memories seem more familiar, and make me wish I could go back to that time. They’re as clear as Blu-Ray, and cast a picture into my brain that can still make me smile even ten years on.

Like yesterday, for example:

I was walking up some steps in the centre of campus. They have had an extra flight added since my first stint here, and I started wondering why I would notice such a strange detail. As I was about half way down, a memory flickered a few times, jammed on, then off, and then came through in a clear stream:

These were the Bread Crate steps.

And suddenly I'm back in 1997.

Upon leaving the Union on a Friday night, usually with an obscene amount of snakebite and black swirling in our stomachs, my housemates and I would be on the look out for something amusing to do before the takeaway – puking – sleep – hangover cycle of the weekend would kick in. Occasionally we would be late, and lucky, enough to be around these steps when the previous morning’s bread crates were stacked up outside awaiting collection. The crates were heavy duty red plastic, about two and half, by three feet long and their length meant that when placed longways on the steps, they were always in contact with at least 3 of the step corners. This facilitated a smooth(ish), continuous slide down the steps as if they were a solid 45 degree slope. However, the small area of step corner in contact with the crate meant that they’d slide down at some pace, and this pace was considerably increased if you sat in them.* They were the luge for the concrete generation.

Breadcrates?











Check.

Extremely drunk competitors? Check.

Steps with a central handrail separating the track into two identical racing lanes? Check.

Race-on? Ahhhhh-Ch-eeeeeeeeaaaaa-ck

The chanting would begin, ‘Bread-Crates! Bread-Crates! Bread-Crates!’
And before too long a crowd would form and take bets on who would win, fall out, or just kill themselves.

I remember once (though how much is snakebite memory im not sure) rotating around 180 degrees on the way down and doing the final flight of steps (at considerable speed, by now) backwards. Another time I spilled out of the cart and did the final flight on my head, then shoulders, and then back, as I rolled, long-ways down the track. Whatever happened, however horrendous the crash, or narrow the defeat I always found Bread Crate Racing a pure delight. If Id have broken my neck, I would still have been telling the doctor about how much fun it was when you reach the bottom and see how far you can skid out on the flat.

Back to 2007 and Ive reached the top of the steps. I get out my phone and text a fellow Bread Crate Racer from back in the day,

‘Mate they’ve extended the Bread Crate track by 10 steps’

To which, 10 minutes later, he replied:

‘You are to Bread Crate Racin’ what Ali was to Boxing. Youre a gent and a Scholar, and of course a complete cu nt. Do some work you old student wannabe’

Which I thought was a bit harsh, but probably fair.

Im already looking forward to when the next memory hits.

*Ive just checked, and of course you tube has come to help my poor explanation...click here (don't blink).

Mr Weather and Mr Negative

The second May Bank Holiday is the weekend that signals the arrival of summer.

My friend’s mum has a timeshare chalet on a holiday park and everyone traditionally gets down there for a long weekend of relaxing good times. This, of course, can take many different forms for different people, so there is usually a nice range of ‘relaxing’ things to get involved in. Most of them however, rely heavily on being able to go outdoors.

The trouble this year was that Mr Weather got his weekends mixed up. He showed up on the first May Bank Hol, and turned it into a classic weekend (which, incidentally, has been blogged, recovered from and im now wearing the T-Shirt). This time, he decided to have a holiday of his own and disappeared completely. Saturday, he had probably just popped down the shops, or something, because it wasn’t horrible, just never really got going. Sunday, however, there was no sign of Mr Weather anywhere. My dad summed it up quite well when I called him to see how he was getting on with his camping trip with Mum, Sister, G, and the two boys;

'Hey Dad, is it a wash out?'

‘Son, it feels like the end of the world here’

Not that the rain spoiled everything- its just ten times easier to have a good time when there’s a warm blue sky as a backdrop. A warm blue sky and not having Mr Negative with you.

Ive known Mr Negative for a few years but this was the first time that I couldn’t find anything to like about him all weekend. He is one of the difficult friend-of-a-friend types that I wouldn’t choose to spend time with, but can’t really do anything about his occasional presence. It seemed that every moment he wasn’t moaning about being tired, or complaining about Mr Weather’s absence, he was being aggressive and rude to our mutual friend. What she sees in him ill honestly never know.

He is the thorn in the back of the weekend and a big thorn this year because of the small group size. The numbers probably peaked two years a go when 12 or so were in the chalet, 8 or so camped, and then another group which had a few overlapping friends were all down too, so at one point we had 30-odd playing Rounders on the beach. In the first year, 5 years ago, there were just 5 of us. I think the neat normal distribution of numbers agrees with the organiser in that this years trip should signify the end for this weekend- at least in its current form, and it will be replaced by a newer model next year.

On Monday, when it was almost too late, Mr Negative went home and Mr Weather turned up. I had an ice cream in the sun, went out on the Mackerel boat and drove home looking forward to the coming months. 4 Weddings and a Stag do make June and July a densely packed social affair, I just hope the Mr’s make the right decisions on when and where they should show up.

Stars in my eyes

This was sent by a friend, and is the reason i did no work today. If you get addicted to little puzzle games dont go to this page. Seriously, dont do it.

It is good though....

http://ece4co.vis.ne.jp/sw/2007/05/post_16.html


(Added Monday)..its not working this morning- too much traffic I expect! so its here for now... http://media.fizzlebot.com/hoshisaga.php

PornoPants, Episode 3

The best thing about wearing triathlon shorts in public is that you’re almost always too knackered to care how ridiculous you look. This was my third outing in the pants of power, and despite all my strings of social fibre straining to get some baggy boardshorts on, I made it round the course in a respectable 63rd place. Despite my perma-white upper thighs and lanky frame, I wasn’t the funniest looking specimen on display (though some may disagree!)- I saw at least 7 pairs of Speedos mincing around the course, some of which had a matching crop-top type vest to go with them. Seriously. What benefit can having a three quarter length vest top on give you? Does it stop your belly from over heating? While on the run, with my legs and lungs feeling like they were about to explode, I don’t recall thinking, ‘oh my stomach really is a bit sweaty’. As for cycling in Speedos, on a knife-like carbon saddle, there really is no need.

After the race I noticed another slightly worrying tri-phenomenon. I was showering in the sports centre and three quarters of the guys in there were almost entirely hair free. It was quite unsettling. I appreciate there’s a fine line between noticing and staring when in a communal shower, but Ive never before been in the presence of so many hairless Back Sack and Cracks. Sure, it makes some sense to shave your legs if youre cycling every day (no that I do) but surely there’s a limit to the benefit that can be gained by having a hairless B, S and C? Perhaps its not a triathlon thing, and Ive just lost touch (whey-hey!) with the current culture of modern male cleanliness. It seems fairly common among some friends to trim ‘down there’ but this was more than a bit of national trust forest maintenace- this was complete amazionian deforestation. Some of the guys were completely hair free, as in ‘bald round the front’-? I’m not sure of the correct expression. This really was strange, and although I had the hair, I didn’t have the balls to ask the guy why.

Music to walk in by

Since moving and starting my new job I now a walking commuter (which takes between 17 and 19 min) and have been enjoying the free time I get to listen to music. My mp3 player is on my phone, and has only 512MB of space, so thus far (yes, I just said ‘thus’) Ive just been uploading my fave singles. Ive got some killer* play lists for running, which are quite upbeat* and some more chilled out walking-in type stuff.

*Yes I'm down(*) with the kids.

There’s a really good Saab advert on at the moment, and after a quick look I found that the song is called 'Release me' by a Swedish band called Oh Laura. You can download the mp3 for free from the Saab website (www.saab.co.uk). I am grateful to Saab, as I love this song and it’s unlikely I would have heard it otherwise. Similarly I am grateful to Sony for doing their bouncing balls Bravia add (www.bravia-advert.com/commercial/braviaextcommhigh.html) last year and introducing me to Jose Gonzalez. This got me thinking about where I first hear music.

I remember a few years ago watching an episode of Scrubs and loving one of their songs that played out over a funeral. After some searching I found out it was 'Winter' by Joshua Radin (www.youtube.com/watch?v=R2Z1Zk4zXNg) who is now one of my favourite artists, and I have still never even heard him mentioned over here. He is, in my humble opinion, of Damien Rice (who himself has had songs on Lost, and the movie Closer) quality; and that is praise indeed.

Putting your song on an advert or TV show always used to be considered a bit naff, or some sort of sell out by the artist. My cousin used to be in a band that had their second single on a Sony advert. At the time they got a load of stick over it from some of the music press, who said they had lost some credibility. I think the Internet (myspace, youtube etc) and music technology (file sharing, mp3s) have driven this attitude away. The exposure and availability of music nowadays makes it easy for someone like me to pick and choose from a much bigger range of music than I did 10 years ago- and hence (yes, I just said 'hence') hear stuff that I otherwise would have missed out on. For most artists, having an advert, or being available online is now essential, rather than an nice extra.

If I was in an up and coming band now Id cut my arm off to get on the next Sony or Saab advert- and use it to beat some sense into anyone who thought it was a bad idea.

Spring surf

The beeping signalled it was time. I cursed at the thought of leaving my warm lair, and reached into the darkness to find the button that would allow another 8 minutes of warm black sleep. Somewhere into my second snooze the Bed Balance of Power swung past the tipping point of awakeness, and the importance of getting up was suddenly an alarm in my head that I couldn’t switch off.

I didn’t bother with a shower, had a quick brekkie and set off to the north Cornwall coast. The weather was awful and several times I questioned my motivation for going. What was I doing out here on my own in the cold and wet? I reminded myself that the surf forecast was 4 stars, 4 STARS! (Magic seaweed), and it would be worth it. Solid bands of rain were keeping both the visibility and speed on the roads down, but eventually I arrived at the beach car park in Polzeath. It had taken 1 hour and 8 minutes.

When I came here at the end of last summer, the small stream that ran down the beach was a hive of activity with toddlers playing the ‘lets make a dam!’ game while their parents looked on over the top of their books and newspapers. On Sunday, the stream was a wild river. It was honking it through like an Amazonian tide on the push (well not quite, but I am getting Amazon-excited!) and I feared for my footing and safety as I gingerly crossed it on my way down to the shoreline.
The surf was as good as they had promised. I struggled a bit at the start as I re-familiarised myself with the weight balance of my short board, after hiring mini mals for the last few small-wave trips. I caught the first few waves too late and did some funny bouncing around and arm waving before succumbing to the inevitable violent dunking. It was so nice to be in the water with virtually no wind, and I marvelled at how the lake-like conditions between waves contrasted with the huge power of the walls of green water that were relentlessly coming towards me. The atmosphere was electric, with people whooping as the bigger sets rolled in and cheering as a few elite showed off their potent skills. For me, waves #4 and #6 were good and I got out after about 90 minutes with a bruised hip, aching arms, but a big old grin.

I drove home in the sunshine and thought about how glad I was that I had made the effort to go.

Photos are not me, but taken at Polzeath about 1 hour after I was in. I did a lot of the first, and not a lot of the second.

Spiderman 3

Spiderman 3 was good. It was 2 hours 10 mins of solid entertainment, and that’s what I paid my money for. Yes, there was a weird 20 minutes when he became a member of My Chemical Romance and minced around a bit in his Emo eyeliner and outfits. Yes, there were a few unbelievably miss-placed scenes, like the flag and the news reporter, but there were as many funny (the posh French restaurant manager) heart warming (the Stan Lee cameo) and breathtaking (the Sandman effects) moments to more than compensate. Sure, the comic purists I went with weren’t that happy, but they never are.

Plus, did you see the Transformers trailer? Oh my.

Hey lady, there aint nothing wrong with me*

I’ve decided I don’t like occupational health nurses.

In the past year Ive been three times for various work related checks. It works like this: I go in, feeling super healthy and carefree. I come out angry with some health worries I could do without. The first time, I had an ‘irregular heart beat’ which I later got checked with a doctor and he said was normal and nothing to worry about. For my new job I've got to go 4 times in my first year and have my lung function tested. This involves blowing down a tube with a little windmill type thing on the end that spins in the air you blow through it. Apparently it measures various aspects of you lung capacity and power.

Ive done this before and I sucked. Not literally, obviously, that would be silly (though possibly more successful) I just couldn’t blow out anywhere near what I should be doing. The nurse had all these graphs and my jaggley little line of puff was always under the smooth dark line of normality. The whole thing blows (sorry, couldn’t resist). The nurse is saying stuff like,

‘Oh that’s not very good’
‘Come on now, really blow!’
‘No. That's poor again. You should probably do some more exercise’

and I'm getting wound up more than the spring in the little windmill thing.

The nurse is hardly Carolina Kluft herself. I go running or cycling or swimming every day. I feel great. I dont, in all honesty believe that there is anything wrong with my lungs. I feel like asking her flabby ass for a race. While I was on holiday last year I held my breath (as you do…in an impromptu competition on a boring boat journey) for 2 minutes 21. I’m a regular in the top three of the annual Beach Olympics competition that me and my friends have. Without wanting to sound like a dick (too late, I know), I'm not happy taking any aerobic advice from anyone who looks like they take the lift up two floors.

This time the machine wouldn’t even work, so Ive got to go back next week.

‘Its OK though’ says the nurse, ‘we can check your glucose problem while you’re here’

Hang on a minute. A glucose ‘Problem?’ Five minutes ago I went into the toilets and struggled to, but eventually successfully urinated into this little pot. The nurse took it away and came back with a little dip stick thing that said I had glucose in my urine, and that this might be an indicator of type 2 diabetes.

Now shes saying I shouldn’t eat so much sugar as it ‘might be using up all my insulin’

To be fair, I have been enjoying the two-for-one offer on ‘Rocky’ chocolate bars (just the right balance of chocolate and biscuit; well worth a go) currently available in my local Sainsburys, and I did step it up to 3 sugars in tea and coffee this year, but a glucose problem?

Im thinking its best to wait for the second test. When I go in this time everything in my pee is gunna be diluted out of sight in 2 litres of Evian before I go in. My supervisor always used to say that all chemical problems can be diluted. We'll see.

Off to see Spiderman 3 tonight; I guess I should lay off the sugary confectionery products.

*Mike Strutter, 1998