I'm not sure if anyone still reads this, but I don't update this site very often.
If often's your thing, then you can visit my blog, This Is This, which is updated daily.
Originally published at This Is This. You can comment here or there.
He pointed to the book and asked "What are you going to do with that?"
It seemed a stupid question, but he's a really nice guy. Odd and funny, too. He asks, out loud and serious, questions like: "Have you ever punched a horse in the face?" Or "Have you ever seen a slug that's been stung by a wasp?"
He is also fascinated by Simon Weston, who he suspects is a fraud.
Anyway, me with a book and he goes: "What are you going to do with that?"
It seemed an odd question about a book, so I said sarcastically: "I'm going to fuck it and eat it." Then: "What do you think I'm- " but his face changed.
"Like a baby fox."
"Yeah," I say. "Like Viz, right?"
Reset the counter. Rewind to tweny years ago and a cartoon strip in Viz where two boys are in the frame, one with a boy and the other saying to him: "Is that a little puppy?" The other says: "No, it's a baby fox." The first kid goes: "Oh. What are you going to do with it." The other boy's expression changes and he says: "I'm doing to fuck it and eat it."
A friend pointed it out to me and we thought it was hilarious.
Fastforward back to 000 (so retro) and back in the office. Colleague says: "I wrote that."
"That was you? That's the greatest comic strip I ever read."
He explains he sent it in and then starts to reel off submissions they didn't print. Some I can't repeat even here.
But fucking hell, yeah? I've never quoted a comic in my life and then a like-minded friend from work makes a link with me as a fifteen year old on a train, reading a joke he sent in to a magazine which was relatively unknown then.
This is going into my list of coincidences, and adding weight to my theory that everything I have ever done is catching up with me in ever converging circles, like a whirlpool. And in the middle, where the energy is stronger and everything joins up - that's me.
Originally published at This Is This. You can comment here or there.
On the bus, a woman sitting next to me dropped something. I was in a confined space, so I didn't really get a look at the falling object. But I decided it looked a safe shape - nothing in other words that could cut or burn me. The likelihood of my fellow commuters doing hotknives on the way into work seemed pretty slim.
So with the object falling and gathering pace, I knew there was no time to lost. I decided to stick my foot out. It was a round object. It hit my foot. It felt soft, because it absorbed the impact and bounced off foward.
...bounced off forward.
Listen to me. I kicked it.
Next thing I know there's a peach rolling away from me and a look of horror on the passenger's face.
I looked at her with an expression that plumbers give you while they are soaking your house, apologetic but reassuring. Kind of: "I can fix this."
It got about two feet away before I put my foot on it. Not stamping on it, you know. Heel to the floor, ball of the foot on the stem.
Her horror turned to grief. I had distain for my previous enthusiasm. I picked up her peach with a bashful gallantry. Kind of: "Here's your fruit, ma'am."
She took it with a muted thanks.
I decided that the Ninja Footsave is a young man's game.
Next time someone drops something, it's going down, and taking my good intentions with it.
Never kick the peaches of strangers.
Originally published at This Is This. You can comment here or there.
Like most uncharted subjects, I am finding that the more I discover, the more I have to find out. 3G, smartphones, battery life, Qwerty keyboard, wifi. There's too much to know.
Predictive text, polyphonic ringtones. pixel resolution. And who the fuck is Carl Zeiss?
I decided that I'm probably not going to go for one with a keyboard, since I'm rarely more than twenty feet away from a computer, although add another mile to that and that's when I normally get an idea for a post but that can't be helped.
I want a phone with a camera, so I can take pictures and stick them up here. The blog, pervert. Not here. Like I'd take pictures of me doing that and stick that up here. No - I will not do that. This is the internet, OK? It is not some place where people get their kicks looking at pictures of sexual deviants. Or videos. Or one to one porn chatrooms. No. What are you thinking? This is the internet.
Also, I can't be bothered to learn new things. I'm not getting old - I'm not OK? - It's just that I can't be shat to learn someone else's "intuitive" format. I know plenty of people (saps!) who switched from Nokia to Sony Goran Eriksson only to curse their decision later. Maybe the phones are better designed; I couldn't give a WAP - I'm sticking with what I know.
Nokia it is.
Done.
Network.
Orange - that is what I am on now. OK. Tariff? They have stupid names. Dolphin, Racoon, Monkey, Marmot or Skink? Half cashback for six months on an eighteen month contract or pay fifty quid for the phone on a twelve month deal? Or free phone and an xbox or a Nintendo wii with a standard eighteen month commitment. OK, that could be cool. But does a wii play dvds, or is that just the xbox?
Do I get the phone from work or go to a store which can get a better deal and I have to change my number? This would be a pain.
I do not know, but the longer I wait, the more I am on my crappy current deal and the more it costs me. But the sooner I choose, the more likely I am to make a bad decision.
I have become a phone bore among my friends and colleagues. I see a new phone on their desk and ask to have a look about it, mumble something about battery life and marmosets.
They usually take my picture and then show it to me, and I look at the picture and say "Hmmm - I'm not sure" before wondering off, none the fucking wiser.
Call me.
Originally published at This Is This. You can comment here or there.
Apparently he was pushing a balloon in the wind when he became locked in an invisible box. People just stood around and clapped.
Tragic.
Witnesses at the scene say his last words were
Originally published at This Is This. You can comment here or there.
Stranger: You know, you shouldn't smoke.
Me (smoking, obviously): And you shouldn't talk to strangers.
Nobody likes a wiseguy. I will endeavour not to be one.
Originally published at This Is This. You can comment here or there.
There are first two muffled bars and then it kicks in with that muddly highhat and the Hendrix riffs and the cowbell and badass happy lyrics. You don't get a lot of badass happy.
You also don't get much cowbell in rap and MCA sounds so good when he's singing loud, like being hit in the face with a velvet pillow.
I have and will always love the Beasties. That shameless fun and cool thing they have is a nice change from the bored and tough persona of most acts. It's more like the jazz guys have. Maybe it's a personality trait in people who improvise. Interviews with jazz musicians are often really eloquent and I've always wondered if it's because of the inventive spontaneity of the music, or are the drawn to jazz because that's how their mind works anyway.
But The Beastie Boys have that. Plus they can jump in slow motion, which is cool.
Watch this interview with CNN and you can see how funny and smart they are. They are the guests of heavyweight reporter Charlie Rose and it sounds serious, which makes it funny. The words and pacing of the answers is exactly like you would get in a political late-evening interview, which is hilariously clever. Or is it meant to be funny? Satire, irony, subtlety and song that rock like fuckers.
Ladies and gentlemen -Â The Beastie Boys.
People how you doing? There's a new day dawning.
For the Earth mother it's a brand new morning.
For such a long while there's been such a longing,
but now the sun is shining let's roll back the awning.
Listen: Jimmy James
Originally published at This Is This. You can comment here or there.
I was on the phone last night on the bus ride home from work, when the guy behind me huffed.
Straight away, I thought: "That's it. I've had it with the huffing. When this fucking call is over, I swear to god."
Then things got worse.
He has done this before when I've been on the phone. He's a regular on the bus, but not that regular. He had huffed before not sitting next to me, but when he was behind me. We travel on a bus, doing up to sixty on a motorway - so you can imagine it's a noisy environment.
Now, people have conversations on the bus with fellow commuters, so if I'm talking at the same volume, I give no fucks for people complaining about my being on the phone.
While I continued talking to my friend he stirred aggressively, laughed, huffed again, stirred and said to someone across the aisle: "God. Verbal diarrhoea".
My call ended shortly after, and I stood up and walked to where he was sitting.
Me: What's your problem?
Him: What?
Me: What did you mean by "verbal diarrhoea"?
Him: I don't want to hear your conversation.
Me: I'll endeavour to keep my conversations quiet, but there's no need for that. That's just name calling.
I actually said endeavour.
Him: I'm trying to read a book and you're inflicting your conversation on me.
Me: I'm not inflicting anything, this is public transport. I respect your privacy, but don't insult me.
Him: I didn't. I don't want to hear your phone call.
Me: You turned around, laughed and said "verbal diarrhoea". That's just abusive.
I looked at the person he said it to, who was staring down into his lap. I turned back to this guy.
Him: I don't have to hear your conversation.
Me: Understood, but don't point and laugh, either. Let's have some dignity. Jesus.
Then my stop turned up and I walked to the front of the bus.
Nice.
"Fucking dignity" would have been perfect, but I'm not. Especially not these days. I've got so much going on that I can't begin to explain it all. Physically, emotionally, professionally... Let's just say this year is living up to the unexpected. Sorry I haven't posted over the last couple of days. I'll try to get into more arguments.
But how about that, right? Go me.
But please: have a good weekend.
Originally published at This Is This. You can comment here or there.
THIS IS THIS....... (CHOEW!! PI-CHEOW!!!!)
Type it in - (Jhhhevvvvvvv)
... and rip out your keyboard. (BYOWVVVVV!!!!)
...From the USB thing. If you have one.
Unless you're wireless. Then, I don't know - rip THAT out.
This is why my radio career was shortlived.
The first song I played on radio, working the graveyard shift for Warrington Festival FM, was Me In Honey by REM. It's a song that feels like the start of something.
That's a part, that's a part of meeeee.
The programme manager, a guy with the dubious mantle of being my first editor, was called Phil. He was in the next room listening to the song which kicked in within fifteen seconds of him shouting: "I don't hear anything..."
Me, Ken and Matt - all Joneses and yet unrelated - we were young and we were on the air, eager to stick it to The Man. We had power without responsibility and it was payback time.
The point that we had taken way more from life that we had put in made little difference as we dropped the needle on Radio Asskiss by The Wonder Stuff as the last song on our first show.
So bold! So full of life and energy and rebellion! We were on the air.
Phil wasn't going to be outdone by our upstartly insolence, and took the handover to his breakfast slot by defiantly backannouncing the record as "Radio Arse".
He looked at us like we were all sticking to The Man.
We looked at him like he was The Man. Except so not the man.
Originally published at This Is This. You can comment here or there.
We drove along, wrapped in a silence I eventually punctured with: "Some rain ahead."
She didn't reply, but fifteen miles higher up the country, turned on the radio, perhaps to seek confirmation, and I took it as an interaction of sorts.
That was something, because we hadn't really spoken much over the last couple of days, since her dog died.
Her fucking dog, I swear to Christ. I mean as dogs went it was a fine animal, but we'd been seeing each other (me and Janine, this is, not the dog, OK?) for six weeks. She never mentioned him once, even when we went to see her parents, with whom he, in happier times, had once resided.
Jesus, that was a visit. Her parents announced their separation the following week and Janine took it really badly. But this could have been how she took all crises. I'm not sure, we had only been together less than two months before they took her away.
My train had arrived on time, so that was one less source of tension as she picked me up from the station, and we headed north to her parents, whose relationship (she hoped) would be rekindled by Bingo's passing. Really she was stoking the ashes, in I can stick with the fire metaphor, but she laid on the guilt pretty thick and told them she needed them to be together again so they could bid the family pet farewell.
She turned down the radio and dialled a number on her mobile. I gathered she was speaking to her mother, judging by her frequent and long silences.
"This is Bingo," she said into her mobile at one stage, "you and dad have to put aside your differences. For me. For Bingo."
After the call, she said, "It's kind of nice, really."
"How's that?" I said.
At least we were talking, even though I wanted to ask her what the hell was nice about driving north rainward to bury someone else's pet with your estranged potential in-laws.Â
"How mum and dad are going to be together again."
"What did she say? Are they working things out?"
"I can tell," she said. "Everything's going to be OK, Peter. Adversity brings people together."
"How have things been over the last few days?"
She had spent that week with her mother, who had been living on her own for the past three weeks since her father had agreed he would live elsewhere. Her daughter thought it best she needed company, which turned out to be a good idea because the dog, her only companion of late, three days after Janine's arrival.
"Difficult." she said, "She sounded upset. I don't know if it's from the break-up or Bingo. But dad's on his way now and they can be there for each other now."
Adam, her dad, struck me as highly strung and overworked; her mum Joyce was and had always been the stay-at-home type. She went for coffees and manicures with slim-waisted, bechunky-kitted similars. She cooled pies on the window ledge. Literally - she had a window put into her kitchen especially, even though the cost of the structural work would have kept her in cold pies until long after Janine and her sister Cathy had left home.
Her parents never seemed to get on all that well. They settled down too fast, too young and papered over the cracks with kids and that was years ago, as Janine had grown up and was now my (gulp) girlfriend. Actually, I say gulp, although that's purely a figurative word which to our cold, fledgling relationship pays mere lipservice. As does the term lipservice, if you get my meaning.
So we were in the car, not talking, hurtling towards a dead dog and her separated parently when the rain opened up. I smiled a little while she tried to find a signal on the radio.
An hour passed, then three more. She called ahead to say we were stopping for food because we had missed lunch, but her mum and dad could eat together after we arrive. I think she thought they would reconcile their differences over a dinner, which she started cooking for them after we arrived.
It was quiet as the evening crept in, and even the rain seemed to restrain itself to a muffled respect. I dug the hole while Janine prepared a meal for her parents waving to me occasionally through the kitchen window. She had a big stupid smile on her face, mixed in with admiration and pity every time I caught their eye. Her father paced around upstairs and I cursed ever getting myself into this situation. I didn't love her.
I'm a sucker for the sympathy vote and when we met, Janine was heading for a landslide victory. Her parents had just split up, she had just moved to London and didn't like her job, and I seemed to be this light at the end of the tunnel. I had wanted out before this whole dog thing and I think she knew it, because she said she would do anything to keep me from leaving. I wish I'd seen it coming, but her dog wasn't even ill before he died. Would that have made it better? To leave someone on the news that their dog is going to die?
She often asked me if she thought we would stay together. I lied because I couldn't break up with her at a time like this. I guess I was waiting for things to straighten out for her before making my excuses. Adversity brings people together all right.
Her parents ate their dinner and then we buried the dog. The hole was filled with an inch of rainwater, so Bingo kind of floated for a second. No one said a few words and the whole thing seemed like a waste of time. On top of which I had to sleep downstairs on the couch in the living room at the other side of the house because woe betide the thought that me and Janine might actually share a bed. In fact, we all slept in separate rooms. It seemed like the perfect end to a perfect day.
At first light, while the house was quiet and still, when Janine came downstairs to me, and we made love on the floor.
"What about your parents?" I said as she fumbled to touch me, enthusiastic, but I still said again: "What about your parents?"
I didn't want her mum or dad to walk in on me having reluctant morning sex with their daughter.
"My dad's in my mum's room right now. We're the only people who aren't doing it. Come here."
"Really? They're together again?"
"Mmmmm hmmmm," she said, and she put her leg across my stomach, leaning in to kiss my neck and pull herself towards me.
She was OK, Janine. I was probably being a little harsh on her. She deserved better that me, but even though I felt a little sorry for her, she was had started to grow on me in the new dawn after that miserable day.
We left the house before breakfast, on her insistence, so as not to disturb them. She looked different, and I felt better about us.
Her phone went about about hours into the journey and she let it ring.
"Aren't you going to get that?" I asked.
"It's OK," she said.
"But it might be them. It's probably to say goodbye. Or thanks."
"No, it's OK," she said, a little harder.
"OK, but if they're back together, you should really take some credit. The adversity thing, right? That was pretty smart."
"It wasn't me, it was Bingo."
We picked up coffees on the way and back on the road she ignored two more calls, one from a number I didn't recognise and another that showed up as Cathy, her sister.
"That's Cathy," I said, "Are you going to get it?"
"I'll answer my phone when I want to," she snarled.
And there it was, the cold grating tone I had hope she had left behind found its way back to her as we headed towards London.
I cursed my false hopes of wanting her and turned on the radio.
"...have been found dead in their home in Cheshire. The couple, thought to be in their early to mid-sixties, have not been named and are believed to have been poisoned."
Her phone rang again.
"Everything's going to be OK, Peter. I can tell." She reached for my hand. "Adversity brings people together."
