Saturday, 30 April 2011

Tremendous sausages for tea tonight. Cumberland.

Friday, 29 April 2011

Freakin' out in Asda

Watching the royal wedding in HD. The Queen and Prince Philip have just arrived. Just think, imagine if the Queen died today... heart attack, live on global television... in high definition... go on, imagine it. Go on.

You disgust me.

Heh. Anyway, royal wedding or not, the blog must go on.

Had quite an embarrassing episode in Asda yesterday. I'd just come from the opticians where I'd just had a (long overdue) contact lens checkup and, because he'd dropped some kind of fluid in my eyes, I wasn't allowed to put my lenses back in afterwards. Luckily I'd brought my glasses in my bag. So, anyway, I've now made my way from the optician to Asda and I'm stumbling around quite self-consciously, not really able to see that much. The glasses are very old and nowhere near as strong as they should be... if anything they just make me quite shortsighted rather than very shortsighted. So I'm freaking out a bit as it feels like I'm hallucinating. People are everywhere, and there's an old lady in front of me who's clearly struggling with the concept of the shopping trolley. I can't get past.

I successfully pick up some sausages and then move on to the next item on my hit list; yoghurt. So far so good. But just as I turn into the yoghurt aisle I see somebody who I'm certain was my brother's ex-girlfriend. Now, I'd always got on with her quite well when they were together - which was quite a long time too - so I was fairly certain she'd recognise me and maybe we'd have to do the stop and chat thing. So I had a little dilemma... would I engage in the stop and chat, or would I ignore?

Automatically I opted for ignore. There was a little bit of distance between us so I thought I'd get away with it. The setup was good for an ignore. It was text book really. But then, for the first time ever in this situation, I felt some hesitancy. I was confused; I'd opted for the ignore but my body was rebelling against it. I think it was because she'd moved closer towards where I was hovering. In that moment everything changed and I was suddenly thrust back into the possibility of the stop and chat. It was going to happen. It was definitely going to happen. I felt it happening. Nothing I could do but go with it.

For some reason, and maybe it was because I was still freaking out over the whole not-being-able-to-see-properly thing, I became aware that I had raised my left hand and was kind of limply pointing at her with it. All of my fingers retained some curvature, but the index finger still led the bunch, and I was sort of jabbing it without much conviction in her direction. The movement was coming from my elbow, so it was my forearm dipping up and down. Anyway, by this stage we were about two feet in distance from one another, facing each other. We made eye contact and I said 'hi'. It was precisely at this moment that I realised I did not know who this woman was. She looked back at me with a look that was in equal parts confusion and horror.

A wave of embarrassment swept over me and I made my escape. I decided not to look back over my shoulder for fear of what I might see. I'd made an arse out of myself. I did, however, manage to pick up the yoghurt before I left - although I found out last night that I'd mistakenly picked up two mango & passion fruit instead of toffee. Idiot. So now I've picked up some eggs and some bread and I'm waiting at the checkout. I thought I'd call Min to tell her what had just happened... she'd possibly find it quite amusing.

The phone call didn't go well. She was making dumplings at the time.

Tuesday, 26 April 2011

The trouble with snooker



1. Players with bald patches.
2. Graeme Dott.

During today's commentary Willie Thorne said "very rarely does anybody beat Graeme Dott comfortably" like it was a good thing. When I think that, for 99% of the population, what he actually meant was "Graeme Dott is like a nasty little smear of dog shit that won't come off your shoe."

Mind you, bald patches and Graeme Dott aside, there are other problems with the game. These include;
  • Players that look like local-branch building society managers (Stuart Bingham)
  • Players that look like vicars (Martin Gould)
  • Players that look like live-action amalgamations of several Matt Groening characters rolled into one & served up with a hefty dollop of Pillsbury Doughboy (Mark Allen)
  • Big Baby
  • Oh, and Stephen Lee is still a massive problem too.

Word.

Wednesday, 20 April 2011

Barât

"I'm indie, me... I was the creative force behind Dirty Pretty Things. Done a stage play and everything. A play for the London stage no less! Written a memoir. Musician, actor and author. Very indie, me. Oh, and it's Barât, not Barat... and don't you forget it, dear."

Tuesday, 19 April 2011

The Chaperone

Saw an advert on TV last night for a film called The Chaperone. It's one of those abysmal* films made by WWE, the wrestling people, where for some bizarre reason they have these big, oiled-up men with small heads 'cutting loose' and showing off their 'softer side'. Plot-wise, 'kooky' is probably the right word to use. Basically you have these coked-up, slippery, bulging, grunting goons grunting and gurning their way through 90 minutes of straight-to-DVD gold. Inevitably there will be a humorous child/mentor angle. The wrestler will try to win back the trust of his estranged wife and kids. The wrestler will sit on a whoopie cushion. Like I said, gold.

So, yeah, this one - The Chaperone - stars a wrestler called Triple H. (There he is, up there.) Now, here is a man who - and I mean this with the greatest respect - possesses both the screen presence and the charisma of a grizzled testicle. That's right... a grizzled testicle. The most worrying part of all this is that my (otherwise perfect!) girlfriend used to fancy him... and, even worse, I suspect she still does.

* I suppose I should admit that I've never bothered to watch a film made by WWE Studios. I am fairly confident that they are shit though.

(Oh yeah, and the beard is still intact. Still not very convincing though)

Sunday, 17 April 2011

Okay, so it's got to the stage where I should probably address this in writing:

Despite every sign pointing to the fact that I'm physically incapable of doing so, at this moment in time I am actively trying to grow a beard. I am cultivating, nurturing and encouraging. Anyway, it's been a couple of weeks now and, I kid you not, I saw an old lady in Morrisons the other day with a more impressive showing than me. Although I'm probably being too hard on myself as her effort consisted of a handful of hairs, maybe thirty or so at a push. I have at least 31. Win.

Hmmm, so, yeah, I thought that by getting this beardy admission out there I would maybe feel a little better about the whole thing - and that maybe some of the burden would be removed. I don't think it's helping though.

It's a strange thing as sometimes I'll catch my reflection in a mirror or some other surface and think "yeah, that looks impressive" or, if I'm feeling particularly buoyant, it can manifest in something like "go for it my son!" But then there are also times (far more frequent times) when I will see my reflection and think something along the lines of "Adam, that looks shit." I think the problem is often that I see my offering more as an apology than a beard... especially when you come face to face with a fully-paid-up, card-carrying veteran of the beard wearing scene. I mean, really, it goes without saying that these fuckers will send an aspiring beard-grower like myself into a spiralling vortex of self-pity and embarrassment, but I'll say it anyway. Of course, when we've come to our senses, woken up and realised that this facial hair lark just isn't for us, done the sensible thing and shaved, well... well then we can go back to simply admiring the beard from afar. We can appreciate it at face value (beard value,) freed from the all-encompassing gloom of self-loathing.

Conversely, even people like me have our little moments of satisfaction when we stumble across others in what seems to be a worse position than ourselves. And because these situations can be few and far between, the victory is a sweet one. In fact I almost felt this rare and sweet sensation of victory with the old lady in Morrisons but for two reasons; firstly, the fact that she was an old lady, and, secondly, the thickness of those hairs. She was showing substantial girth.

On the plus side, I think it's going well.
Or maybe I don't. I dunno...

I think I'm going to stick it out for a for more days yet. I'm starting to think that it could be like that awkward stage people go through when they're trying to grow their hair long. When it's too long to be short, and too short to be long, so instead resides in some kind of no man's land in between. Maybe that's what's happening, right? Hmmm. I shall plough this furrow for the foreseeable future. I'll keep you posted.

Saturday, 16 April 2011

I ventured round the back of our flat this morning to empty our little compost bin when I saw something quite amusing. Some poor bastard living here owns such an old and crappy car that they've resigned themselves to driving around with a sign stuck in the window declaring that 'THIS CAR HAS NOT BEEN DUMPED'.

Hardcore.

Friday, 15 April 2011

I was going to open this post with the paragraph below this one, which I was fairly content with, but then I happened to click on 'view blog' by mistake during the all-important writing phase and read my previous two entries for the first time in months. They made me laugh as I recently sent another angry email. Got me absolutely nowhere again too. Thinking maybe I should stop sending angry emails.

I think I just committed twitticide. I realised after much soul-searching (and one particularly harsh but fair comment from my girlfriend) that it was a pointless exercise. I mean, I'm not Louis Spence or Jeff Brazier... nobody wants to hear about me. Also, those heady days of tweeting gold ("... because I'm wary of stollen goods" I'm looking at you) are way behind me. I peaked too early and no amount of "Lewis Hamilton. Boiled egg" tweets were going to save me, much as I liked them. The world has moved on, and it's time that I faced up to it. But I blazed a trail, matey. Make no bones about that.

Yeah right. So here I am; crawling back to my trusty blog, tail between my legs. Well I'm sure it must be my tail... it wouldn't be anything else at that length. Oh dear. I'm reading Frank Skinner's second autobiography at the moment, so don't be surprised if the odd sprinkling of smut comes spurting out. All over the keyboard.

Woah, I think I hit a new low there. Sorry.

Anyway, I'd intended this post to be much longer than this. Some kind of triumphant return or something... but then I went and made the ludicrous choice of putting David Bowie's Scary Monsters album on the stereo. I mean, really, I've never, never, ever been able to write this kind of thing with music on in the background. Even the most inoffensive, soothing music I could find would render me powerless... I struggle to piece even the most simple sentence together (this paragraph has taken the best part of half an hour now, jumping back and forth) so what the fuck I was thinking when I opted for this album I have no idea. But I can't turn it off! Teenage Wildlife now... man, that guitar work... those crazy high notes he starts wailing around the 6 minute mark... what a record.

Laters!