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[Feb. 2nd, 2008|02:17 pm] |
Climate change. Global warming. Carbon footprint. All terms which make me want to tear my own face off.
If human beings are helping to change the future of the earth, as Al Gore and the doom-mongers are telling us, how do you explain the Ice Age?
Personally, I reckon human influence on the heating of our planet has some effect, but not nearly as much as some claim. Could it just be that the Earth is inching a little closer to the sun, and this is just the natural progression of this rock that we call home?
Now, I'm no scientist, so I may just be talking shite, but what gets my back up the most is all these pleas for us to turn things off so we reduce the damage on the planet. I reckon there's a better way of encouraging us to cut the amount of carbon dioxide we release into the air.
Show them their energy bill.
I'm expecting an electricity bill which would make you think I've been running a cannabis factory in the attic (I haven't, by the way, before anyone asks for an eighth). Likewise, with the price of petrol beyond a pound a litre, I'm not thinking about using the car less because of pollution - I'm doing it because I don't like ploughing my way into my overdraft. Therefore, I keep my tyres pumped at the right level - including the one with the slow leak - and try to use the Ford Ka as little as possible.
For example, I filled my car up in Leicester on Boxing Day while enjoying the festive... er... festivities with my family, and buggered off back to my Wolverhampton flat ahead of my breakfast shift on the 27th. For the following month, I only drove between here and work, apart from a round-trip to Leicester for a birthday bash during which I snogged nobody. Promise. Nobody at all.
The point is, I filled my car up for the first time since Boxing Day on Tuesday. More than a month after the last stop at the services. If I carry on like this, I'll only spend about £360 on fuel this year. As a side-note, I'll be cutting the amount of exhaust fumes I'm throwing into the sky, which I'm sure will please Mr Gore, but it'll please my bank manager a lot more.
Economy is a greater motivator than saving the planet. Fact. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jan. 12th, 2008|11:10 am] |
I got woken up this morning by the sound of smashing glass and twisted metal.
I live on the corner of a crossroad junction, and it can get quite busy at rush hour. But at 9:50am on a Saturday, there's no traffic there. Which makes me wonder why some people still feel the need to belt down a hill and skid on the tarmac, causing them to spew into the barrier and wind up facing the way you just came.
At least the loud bhangra coming out of the stereo wasn't affected, even though the front of the car and the wheel alignment seems to have been. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jan. 7th, 2008|05:41 pm] |
I've had three debt collection companies chasing me.
Strangely, only the third decided to actually call my mobile - a number which hasn't changed in 8 years.
The reason why they've been after me is because I apparently owed NTL money from when I had TV, phone and internet with them in Nottingham. Three years ago. Since that time, I've had internet with them, and now have that 3 for £30 deal with them. In all that time, they've never said anything to me, and let this company chase the money for me.
The first and second debt collecters kept sending letters to the old address in Nottingham - none of which reached me, so thanks very much to my ex-housemate for that. The third actually had the sense to ring, so well done to them.
They explained that I owed this money, and how they were the last company who would chase it before I'd be issued a court summons. When I explained that this was the first I'd heard of this debt, they backed off with the threats and let me know that they'd be sending an official letter to me to let me know how much I owed. I quickly mentioned that I wouldn't receive it if they sent it to my Nottingham address, so - intelligently - they asked for my current address. Smart cookies, this lot.
So I've received the letter, paid the cash off and don't have the threat of a CCJ over my head.
And you may be wondering how much I owed.
A mind-boggling £20.91.
Was it really worth it, I ask myself. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jan. 5th, 2008|05:08 pm] |
Waiting outside the O2 Arena yesterday, I had a horrible feeling. My heart was thumping rapidly, and I felt really weak.
Was it because I was about to see the Spice Girls in concert, and was excited about the event which was waiting for me? Well, sort of.
I'm sure part of it was down to that, but the other part of me was nervous. I mean, really nervous.
Like I've mentioned before, I've been waiting ten years to experience the Spice Girls live. I'd slogged, begged and toiled to get hold of tickets - straining friendships and working relationships with colleagues in the process - and I was about to nail another ambition - much like when I went to Madison Square Garden to see WrestleMania XX. However, it's that memory of WrestleMania that was making me feel uneasy.
While it was a defining moment in my wrestling fandom, it was a double-edged sword. There were two awesome heavyweight title matches, but the rest of it felt a bit rushed, and thus didn't register that well. I'm not saying it was a bad experience - far from it, it was one of the best days of my life - but I was hoping the Spice Girls gig wouldn't be a case of one or two songs being great, with the rest just coming off as average. I wanted this show to be great. Even brilliant. And that was what was worrying me.
What if it's not? What if my expectations were too high?
***
I arrived very early at the O2, which was quite a good thing, as I was hungry. After rejecting Nando's and Frankie and Benny's, as they're a bit too commercial, I settled on some gourmet burger joint called Jimmy Monaco's. I was sat beside a grumpy German guy, who I assumed wasn't there to zig-a-zig-ahh with the rest of the people milling around the complex. Still, the food was good, and nothing fills a gap like a half-pound burger and potato wedges.
Just a quick comment on the O2 itself - it's an astonishing venue. It's sleek, cool and has an air of quality about it. Not bad for something which started out as a £750 million white elephant.
A quick look at the merchandise stand made me decide to keep my money in my pocket for a couple of reasons. The first one is because it was pretty much all tat; the second is because it was very expensive, and £75 for a ticket was enough, and; the third is that there was only one male piece of merchandise, and that was a vest.
My old university coursemate Emma had taken up the offer of my spare ticket, so it was while I was waiting for her that I felt this sense of possible disappointment that I described at the start of this entry. We took our seats, not exactly knowing what time the gig started, or even if there was a support act. Not that the support act would have mattered - it would have been a frustrating 15 minute starter before the main course.
As it turned out, we had taken our seats two hours before it all kicked off. Better to be safe than sorry, I suppose.
So, some thoughts on the gig itself, in list form.
- The crowd wasn't just made up of twenty and thirty-somethings, like i'd expected. There were a wealth of kids, who I'm pretty sure wouldn't have even been born when the Spice Girls split up. There were also a couple in their sixties sat behind me - it made me feel like I wasn't the most out of place person there.
- It turned out to be a massive singalong, which suited me down to the ground, as I belted out the words to most of the songs, unashamed of how I looked. Let's face it - I was at a Spice Girls gig, I couldn't really look any more uncool.
- Headlines was a crap single, but it's brilliant live.
- Geri looked amazing. Her legs would have looked perfect wrapped around my face.
- Jesus Christ on a bike, Victoria Beckham is popular. While the others are stars while in this group, and to a certain extent as solo singers, Posh was a megastar. She got massive cheers anytime she sang a line, or even walked down the runway. Strange, if you consider she's the worst singer out of all of them, and was the least beloved during their original run.
- Each of the Spices got a solo moment, and while Geri, Emma and Mel C performed one of their solo tracks, Mel B sang Are You Gonna Go My Way by Lenny Kravitz. On it's own, it would have been passable, but she had got a male member of the audience up on stage, and tied him to a ladder, then swung her cavernous minge in front of his face. Poor guy - that's a lot closer to Eddie Murphy's cock - by proxy - than you ever want to get.
So... how did I find the experience?
It was OUTSTANDING.
I've been to see Michael Jackson, and I reckon the Spice Girls beat him for sheer entertainment. In fact, that may be the best gig I'll ever go to. Girls Aloud can rabbit on about how the Spice Girls are the past and they're the present, but they fail to do rather major things.
Capture your imagination. Define an era. Make me want to spend money to see them.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to listen to Spice Up Your Life again. |
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| (no subject) |
[Dec. 27th, 2007|05:10 pm] |
I know. I said I'd update on what happened at the Christmas party before now, but I was feeling lazy. So here it is.
But before I fill you in on that, let me tell you what my Christmas was like - no better or worse than normal.
***
Everyone at work expected something out of me at the Christmas party at the Cafe de Paris in London that they could gossip and mock me about for the next twelve months. You see, twelve months previously, at the annual bash at Alton Towers, I engaged myself in tonsil hockey with the sales and promotions manager at our station. Not bad work, considering I'd only been working there for seven weeks at the time. I though we'd been quite subtle about it, but I guess it was hard to do that for a couple of reasons.
Firstly, we were very drunk, and she was getting over the fact that she'd just been propositioned by Terry Christian, former presenter of The Word. Secondly, we'd kissed in the middle of the dancefloor. And thirdly, our station director's PA saw us and promptly told everyone with ears.
Neither of us wanted to go back for a repeat showing, as neither of us fancied each other. But we still had to suffer the jibes for a long time.
I'd set a precedent for myself at Christmas bashes, so it was expected of me to do something as outrageous this time round. I, on the other hand, was planning to have a conservative evening. Guess who got what they wanted?
***
I was one of the first people in, grabbing multiple glasses of champagne from the free bar and making myself comfortable at the table to look around and see what everyone else was wearing. I was the scruffiest by a country mile.
That doesn't mean that I was looking like a vagrant though. I'd gone in jeans, a white t-shirt representing SHIMMER Champion Sara Del Rey, and a suit jacket - which looked fine, until my colleague Shantelle asked to borrow my jacket so she could go out and have a cigarette without suffering a horrid case of hypothermia. When that happened, I just looked like a fool in a t-shirt.
Between about 7pm and midnight, I don't think I had two free hands - there was a glass of champagne or wine in either one or both of them. Not that it stopped me from dancing though, as I was throwing shapes with the best of them, and even in my inebriated state, I didn't spill any plonk. Priorities, you see.
We were told that the bar would be shutting at 3am, so I - in my infinite, yet exaggerated arrogance - claimed I'd be the last one standing. I hadn't thought it through though, as though would mean I'd have to be up for 23 hours, because I'd had to get up at just after 4am for work that day. As it turned out, I was out for the count at midnight, after five hours of solid boozing. I meant that I poured myself into a taxi and crashed in my bed at the Cumberland Hotel.
Ah yes, the Cumberland. It's like the Tate Modern with beds. The reception area was filled with art and mood lighting, but it all felt bloody cold - both in a welcoming sense and temperature-wise.
However, I am happy to report that the shower was lovely - I judge hotel quality by the shower, and the benchmark is still the Westin in New York - and the bed was so lovely that I wish I could have folded it up in my bag and took it home. In the end, I just took the shower gels and stuff to give to my mum, who said they were from a shit-hot brand and was very grateful. I should have just given her them and not bothered with the Eternity box-set.
So, I won. No snogging, nothing to be ashamed of, and no ammunition for jibes for the next 12 months.
***
I'm braving the sales at the moment for bargains. I'm going in armed with a meat cleaver and a fully-charged MP3 player. |
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| (no subject) |
[Dec. 20th, 2007|05:47 pm] |
A first for me today:
I got asked for an autograph.
I've been in this business for five years, and this is the first time someone's asked me to sign something.
It was a young boy who had come in with other pupils to sign carols on the air. He came out of the studio with a piece of paper and a pen, and asked me. I was flattered and terrified at the same time.
First off, I've never practiced a celebrity signature, so I had to make something up on the spot. I then had to perfect it for another 20 kids who asked for the same thing.
However, the second reason is that I never got into this business to be a celebrity, or to be famous. All I wanted to do was be a journalist and read the news. I never saw myself as somebody other people would want to get an autograph from. While I enjoyed the experience of feeling special, it was humbling and a little embarrassing at the same time. I'll leave the star-stuff to the presenters; I'll get back to my news.
***
Coming up at the weekend, I'll do a full review of this year's Christmas party, with flashbacks to last year's as well. |
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| (no subject) |
[Dec. 16th, 2007|04:42 pm] |
I've been called a Scrooge, a miser and a killjoy.
Why? Because I've not put up a Christmas tree.
Personally, I don't see the big deal. Just because I don't have a tree, people say I'm not getting into the spirit, but I reckon that's a pile of arse. The truth is a lot more simple... and maybe a bit depressing.
I don't have a tree or decorations because I don't have that many guests, so the only person who would see them is me. And seeing as I'm not that desperate to tinsel the place up, I don't see why I should go through the effort.
My dad's the same. His idea of Christmas decorations is getting the 3 foot tall fibre optic tree out, putting it on top of the stereo and plugging it in. Job done.
***
By the way, I was out on Friday night, and one particular moment made me feel really old.
I led the way into the disco room, and I was the only one out of the group I was with who recognised the song playing as Every Little Step by Bobby Brown. Everyone else said they had never heard it before.
Pff, kids. |
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| (no subject) |
[Dec. 3rd, 2007|07:05 pm] |
I've still no idea what zig-a-zig-ah is, but I'm going to be doing it.
This evening, I returned from work to an envelope containing my tickets to the Spice Girls gig at the O2 Arena on January 4, 2008.
It's a big moment for me, this. I'd been a Spice Girls fan from the very start, but kept it quiet for a number of reasons:
1) In an era when all your mates were into Silverchair, Nirvana and other bands, it was less than cool;
2) I didn't have anyone to share my enthusiasm with, and;
3) People thought I was gay anyway - this would have just solidified those untrue rumours.
These days though, I don't care who knows. Take me or leave me, as I come with the Spice Girls and Sophie Ellis Bextor in tow. Deal with it, bitches.
When I was 17, the Spice Girls held a gig at Wembey Stadium, and because of reason number 2, I didn't go. I regretted that, as while I was working at Burton Menswear in Thurmaston, there was a TV nearby which played the show on repeat, meaning I got to hear the songs multiple times per shift. Everyone else got hacked off with it, but I couldn't join in with the complaining, as I was secretly singing along. And sometimes openly, when the store was empty.
A couple of years ago, I re-bought the Spice Girls' first two albums on CD - I was a cassette boy for years after it became uncool - and really got back into it. Sure, it's not songwriting gold, and the vocals are hardly the lovechild of Mariah Carey and Leona Lewis, but for pure, undiluted pop, you can't do much better. Keep Stairway to Heaven - I've got Say You'll Be There.
Anyway, when I found out they were reforming for a tour, I resolved to be there. I didn't care how I'd manage it - I was going to make it, and love it. I registered on the site, and got my colleagues at work to do the same for me, and sat back and waited.
As it turns out, I was driving back from Cornwall on October 1 when I got the call from Sam at work, saying she'd had an email saying she was eligible to buy tickets, though when she tried, TicketMaster kept crashing.
This was fucking torture. So close to tickets, and technology was denying me the chance. I got home about 3 hours later, dejected, as Sam had tried for ages, but bless her, she was busy at work, and couldn't put everything on hold for my pseudo-homosexual obsession with five thirty-something women with emotional baggage and eating disorders.
I turned on my PC, had a quick look through my inbox, found nothing, then got onto MSN to see if any of my friends had had better luck with their quest for their own tickets. As it turned out, none of them had been that fortunate, though one friend said I should have a look in my junk mail folder, as it may have been recognised as a mailshot instead of something personal. Uninspired, I took a look.
Success~! Verification code saved, I got onto TicketMaster to see if I could have better fortune than Sam. As it turned out, just 5 minutes before, a new date had been added, and I slid in there, bought two tickets and got the confirmation email within 4 minutes.
Fair play, I'm £166 lighter, but I had my tickets. But then I had another problem - who am I going to take with me? Sure, I could go by myself, but at £83 for 4 hours, that would be the most expensive coat hanger I'd ever shell out for.
My old university coursemate Emma was the only person I asked. I knew she'd wanted tickets, but came up short, so I threw her the offer. Woman almost bit my hand off.
So, hotel booked, train tickets delivered and gig tickets sitting four inches from my left hand, I'm ready. Bring on January 4.
Hi Ci Ya Hold Tight. |
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| (no subject) |
[Nov. 27th, 2007|04:37 pm] |
"So when are you having one of these then?"
I'd been here before - my mum asking me about when I'm going to produce offspring. She never really asked about when she was going to get a grandchild until my cousin and his girlfriend had their first baby. It's got worse for me now, as they're expecting their second, and his sister's having her first in February. I've never really felt broody, as children usually scare the hell out of me - not because they're frightening, but because they're sponges for information, and they're really fragile. I don't want to be the one to teach them the wrong thing or drop them on their head while trying to give them an aeroplane.
Poor mum - she's in her fifties now, and I think she's starting to wonder if I'm ever going to give her grandkids to play with while she still has two functioning hips.
Unfortunately for her, I'm in no rush to have children. Well, I say no rush, but I've set myself a deadline.
Thirty years old.
That gives me just under three and a half years to find a crazy female to form a relationship with and impregnate. Ideally, I'd want to be married to the mother of my children by then too, but I doubt that's going to happen.
Maybe I'm thinking about all of this because I've seen so many of my friends from school and university tying the knot, and I'm single with no prospects of stumbling across "the one".
Having said that, I reckon I'm still too selfish to be with anyone and share my life with them at the moment. For the first time in my life, I'm living alone, which means I don't have to compete for the TV remote and I can leave as many plates on the kitchen surface as I like without having to clean them. Although I do clean them, because I'm not a slob.
One day, I'm sure I'll find someone to have a family with. At least I hope I do, as I really don't want to be that unattached 45 year old guy who hangs around pubs leering at women half his age and dancing alone. |
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| (no subject) |
[Nov. 20th, 2007|10:54 am] |
Never go food shopping when you're hungry.
Case in point: in my freezer I've got a pack of four Spam fritters. |
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| (no subject) |
[Nov. 11th, 2007|03:46 pm] |
I've had a few days off work. And right now, I shall document what I've done with them.
WEDNESDAY
I woke up later than desired, which annoyed me straight away, as I'd have to drive 7 miles out of Wolverhampton during rush hour to put my car in for a service and MOT without the benefit of a shower. Therefore, I smelt like a railway station tramp with hair which was greasier than a Turkish waiter's pick-up lines.
The dealership said they wouldn't have a spare car for me to use to drive back, but that didn't bother me, as I'd prepared for a bus ride. And by prepare, I mean I'd charged up the MP3 player and added some new aggressive songs to listen to at a respectable volume, so as not to annoy the elderly folk and the great unwashed (of which, technically, I was one).
It didn't start off well - I only had a £5 note, and the bus didn't give change. I asked the driver if he had any, to which he responded, "ask the passengers". Unfortunately, they didn't want to help out the mixed race guy in a black beanie with one headphone still in my lug-hole, and the other spewing out tinny theme tunes from SHIMMER: Women Athletes. I resigned myself to the fact that bus passengers are arses and bus drivers are the missing link, and got off to find a newsagent to break into my note.
A 15 minute walk and a Mars bar later, and I was at another stop, dropping £1.40 into some machine.
I got home and plugged in my new phone, which I'll get to later.
In between that, I got a call from the garage saying that the MOT was already done. Given my past history of cars - which I'm sure is covered in this blog - I was expecting the worst. But the news I was given floored me.
It passed.
It fucking passed.
As I gathered my senses, he told me the service would be done at the end of the day, and they would give me a ring when it was ready to be collected. In the meantime, I came across all peckish. Luckily, there's a McDonald's 10 minutes walk away, and I wanted to try out that Chicken Legend.
The verdict? Tasty, but not a patch on KFC's offerings, and too expensive for what it is. Plus, because the McStaff were in a particularly lazy mood, there wasn't much lettuce or salsa on it, and the little that was on it was redistributed across the table as they hadn't secured the box properly. Luckily, I saved the chicken, so all was not lost.
I got a taxi back to the garage to pick up the car, and it seems I struck lucky/unlucky with the driver. It seems he'd recently broken up with his long term girlfriend, was having to deal with the fact that she dumped him, and that he only gets to see his child a couple of times a week now. I'm sure he took me on the long route to give me the whole tale. Still, if it helps him get things off his chest and he doesn't go all De Niro-in-Taxi-Driver on us, I can deal with that.
So, two days left of my holiday, and not much left to do.
***
THURSDAY
"We would like to offer you a new Apple iPhone on an 18-month contract at £35 a month, the same as your current tariff."
No thanks.
My phone contract was up for renewal, and I was shopping about for a new handset - preferably one with satellite navigation, as I'm fed up of getting lost in strange towns and cities on the way to wrestling shows. I didn't consider the iPhone for a second on a number of levels:
1) Apple stuff is a fashion accessory. I don't like fashion accessories. That's why I bought a Creative MP3 player instead of an iPod.
2) A supposed top-range phone with 2G internet browsing and a 2 megapixel camera? Pff, try harder.
3) Touchscreens are just asking to go wrong.
As well as all that, I wasn't happy with my current deal and O2 couldn't one which was satisfactory, so I gave them my notice and headed off to Vodafone. I walked out of the shop with a Nokia N95 8gb.
You'll see more of it soon, it's black and sleek. It's also a hulking behemoth of a phone, but it's got a huge memory, massive screen, a 5mp camera and satnav. Colour me happy.
The reason why I'm chronicling this on the Thursday is because that's when my number was ported over, and I was having a tinker about with it, even though I'd had the phone for about a week already. I spent 45 minutes making sure all the contact names were right - which I changed about again yesterday anyway - and made sure I felt comfortable with the thing. Hey, we're a couple for the next 18 months, and I want it to be a happy relationship.
Unlike many previous phones I've had - apart from the Nokia 3210, which was ace - the N95 8gb had something most of its predecessors didn't possess. Character.
So, in that scheme of thought, I've decided to give it a name. I have christened it Black Death - as it's black, and heavy enough to be lethal if connected with the skull of some poor, unsuspecting sap at a great rate of knots.
***
FRIDAY
Sat around in boxers. Ate toast.
***
So that's my three days of holiday. Out of all of them, I think I preferred Friday. |
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| (no subject) |
[Nov. 5th, 2007|06:45 pm] |
Sometimes it's the little things in life which put the biggest smile on your face.
A spam email-bot has found our work website, which has our email addresses on the site, meaning it could throw stacks of messages to our inboxes. This morning, after being off for the weekend, I had 38 emails to deal with.
Most of them are adverts for viagra or fake emails from banks asking you to confirm your details at a bank that you don't have an account with. I'm still waiting to receive my cut of $4 million that some Iraqi wanted to get out of the country, and all I had to do was pass over my bank details.
However, some are just texts with a link to website. Now, I've never clicked on one of these links, but I've been bloody tempted to, on the strength of the text which precedes it.
Below are three examples of things I've had in my inbox this morning:
- Beat her womb with your new big rod, so that she knows who wears the pants!
- Park your mack truck in her single garage
- Dear beautiful lee, don't you think it's time you stopped being a loser with a tiny penis?
It's like they know me or something. |
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| (no subject) |
[Oct. 26th, 2007|07:09 pm] |
"Aren't you on the radio?"
For the first time in my five years in this industry, someone said that to me today.
"Yes, that's me."
"I thought that was you - I thought I recognised your voice from the last time you were in here."
That knocked me back, as I always thought that I sounded different on air to when I'm just talking normally. When the microphone light is red, I add a bit of bass to my voice and sound more confident. In real life, I always feel a bit more meek and shy. Maybe that's why I don't get that far when I haggle for stuff.
It was nice to have someone act like they knew me, even though, by most criteria, I'm a total stranger. Plus, it was good to know that people enjoy what I do, and they're entertained by the segments with the presenter after the half-hourly headlines.
However, the best part is that because the woman knew who I was, she gave me extra crackling with my pork sandwich.
Perks. |
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| save_us.222 |
[Oct. 21st, 2007|10:55 am] |
| [ | mood |
| |  contemplative | ] |
| [ | music |
| | ACDC - Back In Black | ] |
Belle de Jour has a lot to answer for.
Until I started thumbing through her book in preparation for the upcoming television adaptation with Billie Piper - which, I must add, is bloody great for softcore shaggery - I hadn't given this blog a second thought for close to a year. So a couple of weeks ago, I browsed through a few of the entries I made and got this really nostalgic feeling about the whole thing.
Therefore, seeing as it's cool to make comebacks at the moment - isn't that right, Take That and the Spice Girls? - I'm returning to Freakblog.
***
I could rabbit on about what I've been up to over the last twelve months, but instead, I'll probably just mention stuff in flashback anecdotes, a bit like Family Guy. But just to get former readers - and any new ones up to speed, here's my life at the moment.
I'm still working at Wolverhampton's 107.7 The Wolf as the Head of News, having celebrated my one-year anniversary earlier this week. I'm no longer living with Natalie and Angela, as Nat's gone travelling around Oz, and Angela's living with her newly-graduated sister. I have moved into a one-bedroom flat in Wolverhampton, which is brilliant, as I've got complete control over the remote, and I have all my old wrestling tapes about 12 inches from where I'm sitting right now.
Ah yes, wrestling. My passion and my albatross. Yes, I'm still watching wrestling, but am watching less WWE than ever, as I'm more concerned with going to British shows - though I've missed two this weekend and one was cancelled earlier this month - and watching women's wrestling, though I'll probably get to that when the next ChickFight show happens here, or I receive my next SHIMMER DVDs from the States.
Oh, and I'm cooking more. Since living alone, I've knocked up Jamaican chicken, shepherd's pie and spaghetti bolognaise on a regular basis. I know it's not a massive deal, but for someone who lived for more than a decade on what came out of boxes in the freezer, I feel like the lovechild of Gordon fucking Ramsay and Jamie Oliver, only with less tendancies to swear, and a smaller tongue.
Love life? Let's skip over that, and I'll come back to it from time to time.
That's about all I need to mention for now, I reckon, but I'll probably be updating this on a regular basis from now on, unless I get either:
a) bored, or;
b) a life.
I wonder which will happen first? |
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| West Midlands |
[Oct. 16th, 2006|07:29 pm] |
So, I've now moved house and started at my new job.
Everything's going well so far, apart from the fact that I've caught a damn cold. However, I'm not bitching or moaning about it when trying to make a good first impression.
I am NOT Darryl from Tough Enough I. |
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| The last day |
[Oct. 11th, 2006|03:28 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  good | ] |
Technically, I'm unemployed right now.
I finished my last day at Oak 107 FM yesterday, ahead of me starting at 107.7 The Wolf on Monday. While I'm still not worried about the job, I'm now concerned that my preparations to move over there aren't anywhere near ready. For example:
I haven't cancelled my NTL broadband contract.
I haven't transferred the Sky account over to my mum's name.
I haven't decided what needs taking to Walsall.
I haven't bought a bed.
I haven't got the energy to do it.
Admittedly, I've got until Saturday to do all this, as I'm moving over the weekend, but I'm in no mood to do stuff today, I'm out tomorrow afternoon and evening with the UKFF Leicester Posse, and Friday will be me nursing a stinking hangover.
Still, last night was good. After finishing at Oak - complete with a send-off from my old boss Yvonne, live via telephone from Leicester Sound - I headed off to Katie's in Leamington Spa, where an impromptu meet-up had been arranged with Andy, Aaron and Ant. Now there's the title of an American sitcom If I've ever seen one.
It was good to see them. I hadn't seen Andy and Aaron since August; Ant since April, and; Katie since this time last year, as she'd gone disgustingly AWOL.
Not that it mattered, as we all had a great night of drinking, though I'm not certain that me drinking scrumpy which was a year out of date was a great idea. |
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| The move begins |
[Oct. 8th, 2006|02:09 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | Placebo - Every You Every Me | ] |
I've taken over some things to Natalie's. I felt as I was going over to measure up my room to see what will fit where, I thought it may be a good idea not to go over empty-handed. That's just unproductive and Hermes would shake his head with dismay.
So I carted over my DVDs, as Natalie and Angela - being girls - have very few DVDs, and most of them are sitting there with the cellophane still on.
Ah yes, Angela. The anomoly in all of this. Sure, I know Natalie, but Angela was a wild card. Sure, she's Nat's best friend and I trust Nat's judgement on this one, but I wondered if we would get on face-to-face. I say face-to-face as we had already talked on the phone a couple of times and on a handful of occasions on MSN - the great communication vessel for people who know each other, but not really.
Still, we got on well. She wants me to take her to see Triple X Wrestling later this month and also wants me to see Dirty Sanchez: The Movie with her aswell, even though I've already seen it before. So, she likes gore and is open to the idea of watching sweaty men in pants. Two thumbs up, says I. |
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| (no subject) |
[Oct. 2nd, 2006|10:09 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | Evanescence - Call Me When You're Sober | ] |
My phone rang about every 20 minutes from 9am on Saturday morning till 6pm. The same thing happened again on Sunday.
I wouldn't mind, as I'd put my number in the paper in order to sell my car, so I can't blame them for calling me. It's just that I'd sold the damn thing on Thursday night.
A few weeks ago, I was given an S-reg Ford Ka by my dad to replace my L-reg Peugeot 106. It was a surplus, as he'd bought it for my sister, but she turned her nose up at it, as it was silver and she wanted a black one. So she bought a black one which was a year older and a bit shoddier than a silver on which was better in a number of ways. Still, her loss was my gain, and I now had a vehicle which wouldn't be a rolling coffin.
However, in order to sell it, I needed to convince someone that it was OK to drive, which was easier than expected.
I'd waited about a fortnight before getting round to selling it, as I needed to clean it, both inside and out. In that time, I've racked up more than a thousand miles in the Ka. Not great, considering I told the insurance company I only do about 6,000 miles a year. So I've used up two months of my promised quota in about three weeks, with more to come over the next month or so.
I'd spent £29 putting my car in the local paper, knowing that I wouldn't get more than £350 for it, but still advertising it for £400, expecting to be knocked down in price.
I decided to sell it for £320 to a newly married couple who needed it for the wife's job. I thought I'd got a decent price for it, and they seemed happy with it, so everybody wins. I suggested giving the money to dad as part-payment for the Ka, but he was having none of it. Instead, he said if I took him out for a steak, we would be even.
So, one ribeye steak in exchange for a car. Decent deal, methinks. |
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| Kent |
[Sep. 24th, 2006|08:36 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  exhausted | ] |
| [ | music |
| | WWE - Billy and Chuck: "You Look So Good To Me" | ] |
Driving back from Kent after waking up at 8am, only having 6 hours broken sleep and watching more than 5 hours of mentally draining awesome wrestling that day was probably not a good idea. Especially when things went bright for two brief moments. But I'll explain...
The valet known in wrestling circles as Donna had invited me down to see her do her thing at IPW:UK's second anniversary weekender. Granted, I wanted to see her work, but I was unsure whether I could be bothered to go all the way down there. However, after a quick chat with Alex and Chris, I decided it should be a big wrestling weekend, and we were going to hammer it.
Driving down was my deal - drinking while I drove down was theirs. I think by the time we got there, they'd consumed about 2/3 of the first crate they had brough with them. It was probably a few more than they would have managed if we had got there without any wrong turns, but never mind.
One of the sweetest moment was pulling up at the Dartford Toll on the M25, with my wrestling tape blaring out of the speakers. Nothing cool, like Stone Cold Steve Austin, Demolition or Brock Lesnar. Nope. It was Billy and Chuck - a really boy-band style tune to accompany two of the most openly fruit-booty wrestlers to ever wrestling in WWE. To the bloke in the booth, we must have looked like three screaming nancy boys on the way to a dirty weekend of rampant bum sex.
Because of all those wrong turnings, we only just made it to the building on time, and for that, we needed to get a taxi. Luckily, on the back seat of that taxi was somebody's mobile phone. I'll let you decide if I was honest with it or not.
We found seats near wrestlers Berry, JP Munroe and Jezebel and settled in to watch the first of three shows in two days, and I started drinking. Which was nice.
As is customary with this blog, I won't comment on the show, apart from saying it was very good, and I thoroughly enjoyed it.
After leaving, myself, Chris, Alex and Berry moved on to the local Wetherspoons, where we arrived just as last orders were being made, sat down in a booth and chatted about nothing much, except for the hilarious moment where a moth made a beeline - Moths? Bees? Meh - for Alex's eye, and caught him square on the eyeball. Awesome, hilarious moment.
We returned to our hotel and sat in watched the 1993 King of the Ring, enjoyed Bret Hart's quarter and semi-final matches, and we all passed out while Hulk Hogan wrestled Yokozuna. There's a message there.
At about 8 on Sunday morning the fire alarm went off, and we all shit our pants. As it turned out, the alarm was merely a message to let you know breakfast was served. I would have preferred a softer wake-up call, but this was Kent, I suppose.
The three of us checked out while Berry hid, having slept in our room and not paid for the privilege. However, it was 10:30; the afternoon show wasn't until 3, which meant we had more than 4 hours to kill. So we went to the Wetherspoons pub, and what followed was three hours of the geekiest conversation probably ever heard in that building. Topics covered included Spiderman, the Marvel 2099 series, Marvel Zombies, sci-fi films, professional wrestling, and a moment where Alex spat out the dregs of his beer all over the table at the thought of Doctor Doom having to go through an airport metal detector.
The afternoon show came and went - albeit with a drunk old man shadowboxing everyone before getting thrown out for not having a ticket - and we all got ferried out of the door to queue up for the evening card. It all seemed a bit illogical, but must make sense to the southerners. By the time the second half of the evening show rolled around, I was feeling burned out, and getting worried. That was because I knew I had 3 hours of driving to do to get Chris, Alex and myself home.
And that drive was not fun in any way. I was fighting to stay alert, and was terrified I would lose concentration, fall asleep at the wheel and kill us all. As it turned out though, I managed to get us all back safely, until I went to put a sleeping Alex on his doorstep.
I'd gotten lost, turned up a backroad which I thought would get us back on course, and felt two massive flashes behind me, only to suddenly realise I'd been caught by a speed camera. I was thoroughly annoyed. My 7 year spotless record on the road is blighted by a fatigued drive - what made it worse was that I'd gone through miles of speed cameras on the M25 and M1 without a problem, only to be caught by a bastard Gatso less than 5 miles from my own home. Still, I may get lucky - it may not have any film in it, and I'd had a lucky escape. We'll see though.
To sum it up, Kent was a great weekend - one of the best of the year. But it was far too far to drive on such little rest, and I wouldn't attempt it again. |
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| Satisfaction |
[Sep. 19th, 2006|09:33 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| | satisfied | ] |
While walking to the cashpoint, some little nimrod on a bike said to me, "Is that your tenner mate?"
Naturally, I look down, and all I hear is him say "one-nil."
A minute later, I walked past him to go into Tesco, flashed the £10 I had just withdrawn and said, "No, THIS is my tenner. One-all."
Ah, that was a good feeling. |
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