In Girum Imus Nocte Et Consumimur Igni

Got Milk?

2012-01-26T13:18:00.000Z

As I mentioned in the last post I went along to see War Horse with He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named as he made his way to York from D***** we had the following text conversation:

Him: Dear alex, i should be getting to york about ten past one. Shall i come to yours for lunch, or do you want to meet in town? Lots of love, ****

Me: Dear ****, I'm sorry to tell you I'm in Basingstoke today. So your journey is wasted. I hope you die. Lots of love Alex.

Me: Actually, i didn't check cinema times, did you?

Him: Yes, there's a show at 4pm. So you're not in Basingstoke? Was that some kind of fucking joke? Did you think you were funny, clown boy? Did you?

Me: I don't even know where Basingstoke is. Do you want to come here, but buy some tickets on the way over? We can have lunch here. What do you want?

Him: I'll eat whatever you put in my face, you know that. I'll get tickets on the way over. Basingstoke is in Hampshire.

Me: OK, I might get us a pizza! I don't know where Hampshire is. Or give a fuck for that matter.

Him: Hampshire is somewhere south of sheffield, that's all you need to know. I fucking hate pizza, and if you get pizza i'll throw it in your FUCKING FACE.

Me: Then I'm certainly not interested. What flavour do you want on your pizza. I know you love pizza.

Him: I don't mind. Get avocado ice cream flavour if you can. Or margherita.

Me: Pepperoni? Only gays eat gay flavour pizza.

Him: Yeah that's fine. Thanks petal.

Two hours later

Him: I'm at D***** station, i just bought my ticket to york, now i'm sitting on a bench waiting for my train to arrive.

Me: So?

Him: I just thought you might like to know that everything is going to plan so far.

Me: Fuck you and fuck your plan.

Five minutes later:

Me: In light of that, I'm changing dinner plans. We're having Mexican wraps instead.

Him: You can't fuck with the plans like that, it was all arranged. Now you've fucked everything up. And you probably expect me to pick up the pieces, as usual.

Me: Yeah.

Him: I just got on my train. At least i'm following the plan. Let's see if we can salvage something from this shipwreck of a sunday.

Me: Make sure you get good fucking seats at the cinema or I will set the dogs on you.

Him: Where would you like to sit?

Me: In the middle, you know where.

Fifteen minutes later

Me: And can you get some milk, please, I love you.

Him: For fuck's sake.

Me: I love you.

Him: Fuck off. You're only saying that so i'll get you some milk.

Me: No, I do.

Him: Right i've got the tickets. I'll pick up some milk. anything else i can get you? The golden fleece perhaps? The holy grail?

Me: Actually, I've decided i don't want to go to the cinema after all. I'm gonna stay in and paint some tanks. So don't bother coming over.

Him: Okay. I guess i'll see you around at some point.

Me: Don't count on it. Actually, will you put the milk on my doorstep? ring the bell so i know it's you, but fuck off immediately.

Him: If you let me in i can put the milk in the fridge for you. I wouldn't want you to over exert yourself by going all the way to the front door to pick it up.

Me: But I'd still have to get up to let you in. And I'd see you. No dice.

Him: I've left milk on window sill, i'm going back to d*****

I looked up and there was a pint of milk on the window sill.

Who's Horse? (In a Northumbrian accent) Why, It's War Horse!

2012-01-23T21:32:00.001Z

Von He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named rocked up his white stallion on Sunday afternoon to deliver my monthly thrashing and to drag me to see War Horse, the film he's been raving about all year. He hates horses and war, so this was the perfect film for him. I wanted to see it as well, because I'm SUCH A MASSIVE FAN OF THE BOOK, YOU KNOW, THAT BOOK THAT IS FOR CHILDREN. CHILDREN, NOT 37 YEAR OLD MEN.

Read an adult book, you slack jawed cunt...

I actually wanted to see it because Dr David Kenyon and TV's Andy Robertshaw had done the military advising on the film and Andy appeared as an extra. It became a game of 'Spot TV's Andy Robertshaw'. I won it outright as Herr He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named doesn't know what TV's Andy Robertshaw looks like.

That's one nil to me

There will be spoilers from here on in, so if you want to go and see this film then don't read on, though why you would want to spend your hard earned cash on this lump of shit is beyond me. I wasn't expecting greatness in the first place and I certainly wasn't disappointed. The film is full of the usual World War One tropes, but that is not the worst thing about it. We were supposed to empathise with the horse but He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named and I were talking about what was so special about the horse and we couldn't work out why everyone human seemed to want to have a love affair with the beast. Sure, it was a good looking animal, but it was patently rubbish. Despite being able to plough a field like a modern mechanical tractor it couldn't jump. What kind of fucking horse can't jump? A shit one, that's what kind. I guess this was a plot device in order to allow the fucking dumb animal to get tangled up in barbed wire in No Man's Land so Tommy and Jerry could have a bonding experience whilst freeing it and demonstrating how futile the First World War was. This last scene was supposed to be tense, with threat of the horse being blinded or dying during the rescue, but all tension was lost when you realised that the film is about the horse and there is no way on God's green Earth that the producers will allow an animal to die on screen. It just became a farcical and over long scene.

Otto Dix was thrown off the production after the unveiling of his storyboard

Speaking of dying, there was another unfathomable factor in this movie. The human 'star', Albert, is given his father's cavalry pennant and this finds its way onto the horse's tack as the horse is taken off to war as a good luck charm. It actually does the exact opposite and brings black luck on anyone that happens across it. The young officer who first buys the horse is killed during an attack, the two young Germans who go AWOL with the horse are shot at dawn without a trial (give me fucking strength...) and then the young girl who seemingly spends two years (as dated by the German soldiers helmets...) trying to teach the fucking useless horse to jump ends up getting killed. Even Albert is scarred for life with a gas attack. What kind of luck is that?

Where's me pennant?

The final scenes really wound me up, when Albert is reunited with the horse it is at an Advanced Dressing Station. The doctor on duty has been pulled out of dressing station to have a look at the horse which is wounded. Now, my first question is, why didn't the Private take the horse to the Veterinary Corps rather than a fucking human doctor? He would have known they existed as the British Army of 1918 was dependent on animals. Secondly, why was the doctor pulled out of the Dressing Station to look at a horse when the men he was supposed to be treating were dying? Why would a single horses life count more than humans? This is the main premise of the film, that we supposed to care more about the life and death of one horse over the thousands of injured and dying men.

Leave those men, a horse somewhere is injured!

Anyway, the horse is injured and the doctor declares it cannot be healed so recommends that it is to be put out of its misery and a Sergeant steps up to the task. This is when Albert reappears, does his stupid owl hoot call and everyone is happy and joyful that the horse is actually his and not just some random horse. But what everyone seemingly forgets is that the horse is still injured and should be put out of its misery. But this fact is conveniently forgotten and the horse miraculously survives its injuries! This is literally scratching the surface of what is wrong with this film and I neither have the inclination or energy to detail everything wrong with it. Modern conception of the First World War is as a futile and senseless waste of life. I would argue that War Horse was a futile and senseless waste of my life.

Anyway, I was actually told off by a woman sat next to me for laughing so hard at the film. She told me to get myself an Airfix kit, I told her I already had some. I'm not really sure what she meant by that insult. He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named suggested the film would have been better had it been filmed by Ken Loach and I can't help but agree with him.

One on Ten.

Bible Basher

2012-01-20T21:02:00.000Z

The Education(!) Secretary Michael Gove wanted to implement a move to ship out thousands of King James Bibles to British schools to a tune of £377,000 at the taxpayers cost. Probably as part of the ongoing Tory Crusade against the Infidel amongst us (for Infidel read: Muslim, Jew, Sikh, the unemployed, anyone that doesn't earn over 50k a year, students, etc, etc). Thankfully the Government has seen sense and his plans have run aground (probably in the yacht he wanted to buy for the Queen the other week...). But my friend, let's call him Mr GB, wrote an email of disgust to Gove in light of this news. I present it below in full (with his permission):

Dear Mr. Gove,

I recently read in the press about your plan to send a single copy of the King James Bible to each school in the country at a reported cost of £400,000 of tax payer's money. While I recognise that the Bible is a beautiful and important book and although I am personally very fond of the King James version, I find myself baffled and upset by this project. At a time when frontline services are being cut, why would you want to allocate a large sum of money to a vain and obviously unpopular symbolic gesture like this?

How would a school use a single copy of the King James Bible? Is it to be placed on a lectern at the front of the assembly hall like a copy of Mein Kampf? If your goal is to give children the experience of there being a weighty and important book they are not allowed to touch, why not go for a spin around the charity shops and pick up a few copies of Moby Dick? If you want children to actually become familiar with the content of the Bible, why not organise the distribution of an e-book copy of the King James Bible? These can be read on computers, Kindles and smartphones, and there are a number of versions available freely in the public domain. I'm not sure how effective this would be as I remember that every child in my school was given a Bible by the Gideons: our response (which I very much regret now) was to graffiti them, actually wipe our arses with the pages, and finally see who could kick theirs the furthest across a wheatfield. If you are hoping to instill Christian values in our
young people, I feel this is a naive way to go about it.

If I can be of any assistance to you in future, please let me know.

Yours in anticipation of your response,

Mr. GB

PS If you have a warehouse full of unused books, I may be able to take a crate of them off your hands for no fee.

Did you know that 'Education Secretary' is an anagram for 'Cunt'?

The Autist

2012-01-18T17:43:00.000Z

I went to see The Artist with Sam last night. It's a silent movie, so here's a silent review:

"

!"

8 on 10

An Ecstasy of Fumbling

2012-01-13T21:28:00.001Z

Yes, what did YOU do at the weekend? I bet you spent your weekend on your fat can shovelling jelly babies into your gaping maw. I bet you lay like a sloth ensconced on your sofa drooling at the latest idiots to parade across the screen in X Factor. I, on the other hand, spent last weekend in a replica First World War trench dressed in the Service Dress of a Great War soldier.

Now, I have made my opinion on re-enactors quite clear at this stage, I think, and you could level the accusation that I spent the weekend re-enacting, but this was certainly NOT re-enactment. Re-enactment involves a bunch of fat men dressing up like nineteen year old soldiers fielding questions from the public at stately homes before pretending to advance as a six man pike block and finally getting pissed up on mead at the campsite. Re-enactment is basically camping in period costume. This, on the other hand, was a tough challenge that was an attempt to understand a little of what the men of the Great War went through. TV's Andy Robertshaw is the luckiest man alive in that he has a patch of ground that he has constructed a Great War trench system in, complete with two fire bays, officers dugout, other ranks dugout, kitchen area (before it collapsed) and latrine.

Yes, that's me...

Andy was writing a book based on our experiences of being in a front line trench for 24 hours carrying out the trench duties that a soldier would have done in 1917. OK, so we weren't under the threat of death from artillery or snipers, but we certainly lived in the trenches pretty much as they would have been in 1917.

It was good fun, but beyond this there was a lot to be learnt. For instance, just the shear weight of Service Dress makes doing even the simplest job a drudging chore. even passing one another in the trench was a bloody hard job and led to argument and fighting:

The plan was to stay in the trench the entire night and although I almost made it, I knew I had a four hour drive back home the next day so made sure I got a few hours sleep at least. The problem was, in the firebay we were posted in the water had risen and taken away any space to sleep so by 4.00am the exhaustion was really kicking in:

Justin managed to stay out for the entire night however and sat on guard in our firebay:

The next morning after breakfast we got to write letters home, these were then passed on to the Lieutenant to censor. For some reason, mine passed censorship:

What we did get out of the experience was how much comradeship and laughter counted to keep us going through the night. The good humour of the British Tommy is famous and we were no exception. All in all, it was a great experience and I'm not going to relate everything that went on in that 24 hour period, you'll have to wait for the book to come out.

All photos by Dr David Kenyon and Martin Stiles.

Miserable New Year

2012-01-01T00:00:00.006Z

I hope everything you've strived for in 2011 is dashed on the rocks like a ship wreck in a stormy ocean. I hope every new venture you attempt in 2012 is doomed to miserable failure. I hope your fate involves being strung out on the meathooks of dreary fortune. Fuck New Year and Fuck You.

Fuck Christmas

2011-12-25T18:24:00.000Z

I hope all you got for Christmas was a dead rat in a box. I hope your Christmas turkey was riddled with listeria. I hope your house burnt down and all your possessions with it. Fuck Christmas and Fuck You.

King Kong merrily on high

2011-12-22T17:21:00.000Z

I was at the pub quiz last night and as it is close to Christ's Mass, it was a Christ's Mass themed spectacular. I'm normally above such base degradation, but in this instance each team had to sing Christ's Mass carols at the interval of every two questions. We were all given a song sheet with the lyrics on and we ended up with Once in Royal David's City. 'Fuck that!' we three said as one 'We'll do Tannenbaum. We'll do Tannenbaum, in German.' Nathan wrote out the words, since he'd spent the week learning them and when it was our turn we belted out the ditty.

We do what we want, and we do it with style...

It went rather well, except of the three of us, two had shaven Neo-Nazi style skinheads and I was wearing my Tiger Tank t-shirt. Added to this Nathan's Seig Heiling posturing and also adding the last line' The Fatherland will rise again!' to the song and it was like the Bürgerbräukeller Putsch and Kristalnacht all rolled into one!

C'mon Adolf! Sing louder!!

The night ended with each of the teams having to sing a line from the Twelve Days of Christ's Mass. We had Twelve Drummer Drumming. I like this song as it has nothing to do with religion and you can belt out
Fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiive Gold Rings!!
As the the entire pub did, every time it came round...

I spent today in a blasting icy wind on a hill in Huddersfield trying to hold onto the archive, directing Nick where to put his survey rod and fighting off a hangover caused by too many Roosters.

Kim Jong's Ill

2011-12-19T16:45:00.000Z

Farewell to the world's greatest golfer...

Nail Him!!

2011-12-15T17:26:00.000Z

So, there I was, up to my elbows in medieval riverside deposits trying to find a nonexistent revetted friary quayside, when my mother rung me. She said 'I've got something to ask, but you're going to go mad.' So I steeled myself and asked her what it was. She said 'me and your dad are going shopping and wanted to know if there was any DVDs or CDs you wanted for Christmas?' She is right, I did go mad. And why? Well, quieten the fuck down and let me explain.

This year for Christ's Mass I, like Greece, implemented austerity measures in the Sotheran household. I made everyone else sign up to the idea that we would only spend £25 on each other (give or take a few quid) and we were not allowed to ask one another what we wanted. We would each have to go out and buy presents for one another that we thought they would like or appreciate and the resulting presents would be a surprise. Why did I decide this?

Well last year everyone made lists of stuff they wanted and this was the result: Both myself and my brother bought the same fucking book for my mother. It cost the better part of £20 and my copy has been sitting unsold on EBay for the last year. My brother and my mother both bought me a CD which I already had (I'd forgotten this when I made the list). My brother bought me a DVD that was the wrong region for my player, so had to be sent back. It got farcical.

This is my major problem with Christ's Mass. I love winter, but I hate this build up to the conjectural birth date of a necromancing Iron Age cabinet maker. By eliminating the need to make lists for presents I wanted I had managed to eradicate the stress of the build up towards the BIG DAY!!! Also I'm not seven years old and don't get hyper excited about the prospect of whether I'll be getting a Scalextrix or a Lego castle set. It was getting more and more difficult to think of things I wanted for Christ's Mass than it was to buy things for the rest of the family. I can afford almost everything I want. It's just another day with a week off work, which is the best part of it. If anything, Christ's Mass should be about family and eating a fuck load of food to get you through the winter months, not who can spend the most amount of money on trinkets no one really wants.

So this is why I went mad earlier, because my parents were asking me to give them an idea for a CD or DVD or book that I wanted, that I could afford to pay for myself anyway if I really wanted it. The thing is I've not even given this shit a thought since I assumed we'd done away with the need to create lists for one another, so she was putting me on the spot. this year's 'celebrations' are only a week away but for next year I am seriously considering buying a bunch of cats and stockpiling weapons and living off the land like a survivalist. Fuck your society of greed.

I FUCKING HATE CHRISTMAS!!!!

My only Christ's Mass decoration

Cream of the Crap

2011-12-06T21:48:00.000Z

OK, so I can say with alarming clarity that God does actually exist and the fucker totally hates me. How do I know? Well, 'twas on a Sunday morning that the Divine allowed His presence to be felt by guiding my clown shoe like feet to stamp on my spectacles. They were lying on the floor of my parent's spare bedroom where I had spent the night. 'Oh Flip!' said I, as I saw that the lens had come out and the ear branch was all askance. How did this come about that my glasses were on the floor of my parent's spare bedroom? Well, sit back and I shall tell thee.

Flipping Crumbs!

I had travelled down to Nottingham on Friday night to see Mr McKibbin and Miss Lee in their new house. In fact the house is pretty much owned by Alix and Craig is just mooching off her, as he has done with me all the time I've known him. Thank God, I managed to get rid of him onto her. Anyway, their new place is in the middle of Little Beirut in Nottingham and I got stabbed three times between getting out of the car and going in their front door. We piled the furniture back up against the door and had a good old fashioned catch up as IEDs went off outside.

'Yeah, just park it anywhere.'

I was also there to break up the journey I was making to Birmingham for a day of lectures and presentations as decreed by my MA. And what a day it was. I was sitting there, listening to Gary Sheffield talking about the First World War, thinking 'I fucking love this! This is the best thing I've done in ages. Why can't everyday be like this?'

FUCKING BRILLIANT!!!

The way back to York was broken up with a stop over at my folk's house in Rotherham, which nicely coincided with a gig by Goatleaf. I haven't seen them play for over six months, so it was about time I went back gave them my support. It was like stepping back in time, however, as there was a bunch of folks there I hadn't seen for years. The 'Leaf were on top form as ever, with Mr Deveaux dancing around like bear on a hot plate. The support came from 6 Needles, who were shambolic but fucking ace as well. Their flyer tells you pretty much all you need to know about them:

Anyway, I succeeded in getting drunk and even finding a taxi to get me home. Everything was going well until the next morning when I stamped on the specs. I tell you, Karma is a bitch. I had set Sunday aside for working on an essay, but fate intervened and robbed me of all opportunity to do any work at all. I called down to the Rotherham branch of Specsavers to see if they could do anything about my lunettes. Thankfully I had my work glasses in my bag, but these are so badly scratched that looking through them is like wearing a Medieval stained glass window. I sat in the opticians for an hour while they hammered away at my glasses to no avail. They thought I would have better luck at the York branch, as they have an anvil and forge set up for such occasions, so I finally made it back up north and into town. The place was heaving with desperate shoppers trying to find toys and trinkets for nephew Tarquin and niece Tallulah, as there is ONLY THREE WEEKS UNTIL CHRIST'S MASS so I bravely fought my way to Specsavers, where a callow ginger haired youth tried to help me with my predicament. Again to no avail. This resulted in a new eyetest for me and new glasses, to the tune of nearly three hundred quid. The only good thing to come out of it was the woman who fitted my new glasses was smoking hot, I joked with her as I handed over the money that the kids wouldn't be getting any presents this year. But that, dear reader, is how to put the ultimate dampener on what had been until then, a good weekend.

Gods and Monsters

2011-11-27T20:56:00.002Z

This week has been characterised by a Medieval-deal-breaking growth* on my back. I went to a walk-in clinic to find out what was wrong with me and started explaining the situation to the nurse and said it would be easier if he just looked, so pulled my shirt up and the nurse went' ooooh!' I retorted 'don't say that! You're supposed to make me feel better!' He even went and got a second opinion and when she saw it she also said 'ooooh!' I went there to get better, not to be treated like a circus freak. Anyway, it was an abscess that finally burst on Friday night after I had two days off work because of lack of sleep from the pain.

It did mean that I got to go to Becky's party on Saturday to say goodbye as she heads off into the sunset of Canadia. It was a good party despite not being able to drink. It also meant that I went along to the Movie Buff's fair at the Royal York Hotel on Sunday afternoon, in the company of Logan and Mrs Josh and Nathan. To call it a 'Movie Buff' fair was a little (ahem) unfair (ahem), it was more like a Star Wars car boot sale. It would appear that the only movies ever made were Star Wars and Doctor Who judging by what was being sold. There was also York's premier Captain Jack Sparrow look-a-like on hand, along with the Riddler, fat Superman and a female superhero I am unfamiliar with, but from the tightness of her costume I guessed her name was Camel Toe. I think they had been provided by Hullywood Entertainment, it took about an hour before the name made sense... I actually bought two LPs, the Taxi Driver and Ran soundtracks, so I came away with something.

Logan and Mrs Josh roll into town...

I arrive in style...

Logan was busy stuffing his little bag full of movie related trinkets, and I was with him as he made a purchase of a Katee Sackhoff photo (she's from Battlestar Galactica, he's obsessed with her). The chap who's stall it was, was also offering a 'One time only and unique' opportunity of purchasing, for the amazing price of £120, Sian Lloyd's ACTUAL HAT from her time on I'm a Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here. Really, why would you want that? Maybe except to sniff the headband and pretend that you have actually touched a woman, rather than face the grim reality of your virginal life spent living in your parent's basement surrounded by original packaging Star Wars figures.

'Hooray!! I can get out of the basement for the day and meet like minded people and buy celebrity sweat infused items for my collection!'

I digress. Josh and I were chatting about him (Josh) putting a bid on Jet from Gladiators' leotard on EBay when the stall owner's ears tuned in and he slid over to us. He introduced himself by saying 'have I talked to you before?' We were stunned, but he continued by describing how the pictures he was selling had all been gathered by himself and he'd met all the people who's signature he was selling and had pictures of himself and the signatory to prove it. These were being paraded as some form of provenance for the signatures. This explanation went on for about five minutes and started to get uncomfortable, especially given that in all of these 'provenence' photos the guy had the exact same stance and expression on his face. Photoshop is a wonderful thing... Josh handed his money over for the picture and the transaction dragged on even longer when the guy started talking about the guarantee of authenticity he had printed up. He told us he had to design new ones because the old ones had his address on and he would have to change them if he moved house. This begged the question, how often does he move house and for what reason? Are the stars who's signatures he's selling after him? What crimes against Hollywood stars had this man committed? Again he gave us the provenance spiel and told Josh he would email him the picture of himself and Sackhoff to prove he met her and it was her signature, despite not taking Josh's email address. He then finished the transaction by telling Josh the picture he was buying had actually been bought from a separate dealer and in fact the signature hadn't even been gathered by himself anyway... We finally extracted ourselves from his grip and went to the York Tap for a debriefing and a de-nerd session.

Trophies of the hunt...

On the way home I saw this homeless Stormtrooper, reduced to begging after the Rebellion destroyed the Death Star and his livelihood:

*Becky's words, not mine

Freakspotting

2011-11-21T19:47:00.001Z

Choose Life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television, choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol, and dental insurance. Choose fixed interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisurewear and matching luggage. Choose a three-piece suit on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the fuck you are on Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pissing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked up brats you spawned to replace yourselves. Choose your future. Choose life... But why would they want to do a thing like that? They chose not to choose life. They chose somethin' else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you've got Cosplay?

Yes, Cosplay, the biggest threat to the country since Hitler and his sharply dressed army. But, unlike the Nazis, this lot know nothing of discipline. In fact a good dose of National Service would sort them out. If you have no idea what I am talking about, let me explain. Cosplay is the attempt by people with nothing to wake up for in the morning to dress up as their favourite characters out of comics or TV series. It probably all began with Trekkies dressing up like General Kirk or Doctor Spock, but has gotten all out of control with people dressing up as minor characters in the Legend of Zilda or E.T. The Extra Testicle. It gives them a sense of being, a belonging in a world that hates them. They gather together and perform strange little rituals, usually at comic conventions. Which is where I gazed into the face of madness. I was attending Thought Bubble, 'an annual celebration of sequential art in all its forms' (LOL. Just call them comics!) Ninjasaurus Rex had brought it to my attention and he was desperate to get to a Japanese restaurant in Leeds again, so this seemed like a perfect opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. If only we'd killed one hundred Cosplayers with the same stone we would have come home happy men.

I arrived at the plaza between the Royal Armouries and the new Savile Building and gazed on what looked like a scene from the Fourth Circle of Hell. The avaricious with their cossetted material possessions danced about to the tuneless horns of Mars. Dressed as Manga characters. I panicked and telephoned Ninjasaurus who had been struck immobile by the scene of human degradation. Seeking comfort in numbers we banded together quickly and watched one anothers backs like hawks. Our fear was soon dissipated by the sight of the very chair SIR JIMMY SAVILE sat in:

Not only his Chair, but his car as well!! This was a man who was living the dream!

This was without doubt the best thing we saw all day and was well worth the ten pounds admission fee alone, but was nothing to do with the Comic Con. Which, frankly, was just loads and loads and loads of comics for sale. But then, what else did I expect it to be? Ninjasaurus saw some of his friends from the dark world of comic publishing and I bumped into the Big O, who rather kindly gave us a free comic each!

Cheers big man!!

Outside, the swirling mass of madness was gathering it's momentum and here are a few pictures to illustrate just what we saw. I beg you, gentle reader, do not allow your eyes to linger too long on these images...

Aren't you a little shit to be a Stormtrooper?

I wanted a photo, not a pose...

Electra's arse and Mario and Luigi. The mind boggles...

Is that a lightsaber or a lipstick?

Wrap up warm, love...

Interviewer: So what is missing in your life?

We retreated into the Armouries to look at real weapons, rather than over sized foam hammers and realised that we had a vantage point over the assembled freaks. After a few minutes of playing 'spot the tard' we both said in unison 'I wish I had a rifle.'

Sargent, three rounds rapid!

I was going to run up to him shouting 'Help! Help! Judge, I've just been raped in the Armouries toilets!' to see if he'd help, but I bottled it at the last minute.

We finished the afternoon off by a visit to this authentic U-Boat which had surfaced in the docks.

It was captained by this fellow:

Horse Droppings

2011-11-18T07:16:00.000Z

I was standing talking to Tab the Muffer on Tuesday afternoon when I got the following text of He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named...

Him: I got given a flyer for a student 'loveshack club night'. Do you think I should go? It's just that the flyer counts as an invitation, and it would be rude to turn it down.

Me: It sounds like fun, I would go if i were you. You may see some of your students there. Then at least you'd know someone.

Him: That's true, i could hang out with them the whole evening. It wouldn't be awkward because i already know them and we could talk about medieval things.

Me: Yeah, or you could break down their latest essay marks with them. You might even get a staff discount for the door entry.

Him: Yes I have some student supervisions coming up, i could schedule them for loveshack wednesday, i think that would be most convenient for all concerned.

Me: They'd probably love you for that. They'd know you were always thinking of their education.

Him: I think i will go along. I'll let you know how it goes.

It all went quiet until Wednesday 22:12

Him: Ok, i'm at loveshack night, i think i see some of my students, i'll go and say hello

Me: Yeah, Good luck! I'm sure they'll be really excited to see you.

Him: It's pretty crowded and noisy in here. I'm waving but don't seem to have noticed me yet. I'll see if i can get closer.

Me: Are they on the dancefloor?

Him: Yes i am trying to get to them. It's really hot in here, i shouldn't have brought my jacket and jumper. I get really irritated when it's too hot.

Me: Is there a cloakroom? Or is it expensive?

Him: I don't know, i was invited here, i didn't expect it to be so hot. Just tried talking to one of my students but she walked away, it is quite dark, she probably didn't recognise me, she must just think i'm some random weirdo.

Me: Go and make sure she knows who you are. You're there for them, remember.

Him: Fucking shit this guy with her just punched me and gave me a nosebleed

Me: What the fuck? Do they know who you are?

Him: He's not one of mine, he might be her boyfriend. I've stopped the bleeding, it's ok, must just be a misunderstanding. I'll try again.

Me: Keep at it, they'll appreciate it.

Then nothing until Thursday morning 08:13

Him: I'm in a graveyard. I don't remember how I got here. And i'm wearing someone else's clothes and my wallet is missing

Me: OK first thing to do is not to panic.

Him: How am i not supposed to panic, i'm giving a lecture in half an hour, i don't even know where i am and i feel sick

Me: Can you call in sick? Surely there must be a sign near the graveyard?

Him: Right i've found my way to the lecture theatre but there's like only three students here, and one of them is crying.

Me: At least they showed up. Do you recognise any of them from last night?

Him: Hard to say, i don't remember much of it and they are all avoiding eye contact. Guess i'll give my lecture anyway, we'll see how it goes.

Me: Are you still wearing someone else's clothes? That might be it.

Him: I vomited on the slide projector and a couple of students. The head of dept wants to see me.

Me: it might have been a bad idea to go last night.

Eyes Like Piss Holes In Snow

2011-11-13T22:07:00.000Z

I have been working up in Masham for the better part of the last week. The job is good for several reasons, one that there isn't actually much work for me to do, so I sit about reading the paper and books about the Great War until I am called out of the car to watch them machine through made ground. Another thing is that the lads on the site are good fun. The dumper driver has 'Tab the Muffer' written on the back of his helmet. He has teeth like a row of burnt fence posts and is the approximate size of a pregnant elephant. He's a good lad. The digger driver has that look of the village simpleton, but as he is in charge of a three ton machine, I guess he must have something about him. The banksman stands about three foot high. He's like a midget, but with a normal sized head. He looks a bit like a Beavis Bobblehead toy. They have a good banter between them and most of the time I stand just laughing at them calling each other cunts.

'You cunt!'

The third and best thing about working in Masham is the butcher's shop just around the corner from site. I found it when I walked around town on the first day looking for somewhere to buy a paper. It seems that knowledge is not needed in Masham. There is only one paper shop in this mid-sized town. One paper shop, but approximately four thousand six hundred and twelve sandwich shops. I guess people get their outside information in Masham from the farmers coming in for the Wednesday market. They bring stories from the greater world that they picked up during their Sunday visits to church. News of Germany's defeat in the First World War only made it to Masham three weeks ago. But then why would a place need news when it is home to two of the countries finest breweries, Black Sheep and Theakston's? Just get arseholed and forget the outside world! Anyhoo, this butcher's shop is probably the best I've been in for a long while. I have made it my duty to buy a pork pie every day so far. And good God, are they good pork pies. The butcher now knows a bit about me, he knows I'm there as an archaeologist and he knows I like pork pies. What more does he need to know? My name, nar, he just calls me 'boss'. So I sit in the car watching the rain teem down, listening to Jeremy Vine patronise his listeners and eating Pork Pies. What's not to like about Masham?

Pie: Pork

Pie: Chicken

There was another 'gathering' of On-site staff on Saturday night. I thought to myself, I'll just have a couple, save a bit of money. Stanners had organised it, and told me that 'pretty much' everyone was going to be there. In the end only myself, Kate, Ryan, Sir Stanners and G-funk came out. Fuck the rest of them. Who needs those bellends when we've got the cream of the crop? Anyway, I threw a load of beer all over Kate's feet, told G-Funk what I really thought of someone, that I probably shouldn't have and ended up incredibly wankered and penniless in the Lowther at 2AM. Sunday has been lost in a day of recovery.

OK, this is a bit awkward. I was a little drunk last night and I really can't remember your name... But would you like some breakfast?

I was chatting to someone t'other day about what makes me happy. I couldn't really think of a list, but I was also thinking of it when I was driving up from London the other day. I like it when lorry drivers flash their lights me when I allow them to pull out in front of me on the motorway. It feels like you've done a nice little deed for your fellow man. In fact I go out of my way to allow lorries to pull out in front of me, just to get that little hit of the light flash. I also like it when the butcher in Masham calls me 'boss', so I'm not going to tell him my real name.

Dulce et Decorum Est

2011-11-11T11:00:00.010Z

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning,

We will remember them.

It's all gone tits up!

2011-11-07T17:09:00.000Z

Christ, that was a fucking week. It all began on Friday night when I went over to Manchester to meet up with Mainy and to see Wolves in the Throne Room. It was their last tour ever, so I had to be there. The gig was fucking excellent as they were last year. It's a shame they are splitting up as they play blistering shows. I had to be gone quick sticks after the show and dropped Mainy off in the centre of Manchester pissed out of his head and clutching a bag of cans. I assume he got home OK as I got a text off him the next day to say he was alive.

An amazing gig photo taken at Wolves in the Throne Room...

I had to get gone because I had to be up at the crack of sparrows to get down to that London to be picked up by Steve to be taken out to Thiepval on the Somme. We spent about an hour waiting for that Posh Bastard Dr. Kenyon to finally show up from Jon's wedding. He eventually arrived looking like he'd slept in his car. Pete was also in convoy and stuck his curly headed head into the crowd.

Fuck you England, I'm going to France!!

The digging in France was good as usual and as I haven't been there for a long time it was good to catch up with the Micks. All the boys were there and my team comprised of PC Plod, the Big C, sweet FA and Dog Bummer. We had been tasked with trying to sort out Jon's trench from the previous season. He was away with his new missus breaking beds in Bruges on their honeymoon, so I took full advantage of the situation to absolutely and completely fuck the trench up. Only kidding, after much sweating and swearing we realised that the trench had been fucked up by a large shell burst long before we got there, which made things quite difficult to work out what was going on.

Fucked

Anyway, that took a rear seat to the continuing musical journey of Justin and I. We decided to form a new band whilst out French side. A little perspective is needed here to put you in the picture. A band is only as good as its name. For instance, U2 is a shit name and U2 are a shit band. Burzum is fucking brilliant name and Burzum is a fucking brilliant band. So with this in mind we have always striven to come up with a name that will lead onto to brilliance. The first band we formed, about four years ago was the seminal 'Space Ponies'. Douche Bag was also in this band but was fired minutes prior to our first ever live performance. This traumatic experience did nothing to dampen the first gig and everyone who was there to see Justin beating on a cardboard box and me blowing on a half filled beer bottle will remember that moment forever. In years to come people will say 'I was at the Space Ponies first gig.' Like they say about the Sex Pistol's first gig. Over time we patched things up with Douche Bag and he was allowed back into the fold, this time in the hardest working band in Rock: The Shit Sweats. The Shit Sweats played an acoustic set in a back room in a village called Wombaix. It consisted of Douche Bag on bongos, Justin on ukulele and me on tin whistle. Half way through we swapped instruments, without stopping playing. This performance was actually recorded through the soundboard recording system of Justin's Dictaphone. A single copy of this exists and it changes hands on EBay for thousands of pounds. Fate was to play its hand again and the Shit Sweats split due to musical differences. Mainly that we couldn't actually play any music.

One third of the Shit Sweats thinks about what could have been...

As I said, a band is only as good as its name, so with this in mind Justin came up with a new band name for us this season. He decided that Kiddy Fiddler would be a good moniker for our forth coming musical ventures. People would know us for the controversy and we would get free coverage from the Daily Mail. This was further embellished with my idea that we could get a group of children together and teach them to play fiddles. At least the band would do what it said on the tin. Further to this we came up with names for the first three albums: God Wishes You Were Dead (You'd Be Easier To Fuck), Je Suis Le Jambon and the third album in the trilogy Shitcat Sheep Shift. Look out for us in the Hit Parades.

And next up on Top of the Pops...

In a similar musical vein, we left France early on Friday morning mainly in order that I get back up North to go and see MANOWAR play in Leeds. As ever, they played a fucking blinding set, I ended up quite close to the front surrounded by a load of meat headed Neo-Nazis. They were all very friendly chaps, who insisted on making everyone around them dance, including a young Asian girl I was standing next to. It was only the Blood and Honour tattoos and Seig Heiling that spoiled the fun.

Manowar = Not Gay

The next day was also dominated by music, this time in the form of the Damnation Festival. I went along with Sam and Matt, meeting Glynn and Scott there. The reason I went was to see Godflesh and Ulver. I was also happy to see Dragged Into Sunlight again and Doom for the first time. Godflesh were easily the standout act, the best I've seen them since 1991. Ulver played a brilliant but somewhat subdued set and Doom set the pace with the words 'Shit Metal has left the building!' Scott was upset by Dragged Into Sunlight because they perform with their backs to the audience. He thought it was ignorant of them. I watched a song by Turisas, about as much as I could take of their faux-Viking bullshit, about half a song of Evile and most of Chthonic's set, only for the bassist (like at least half of the male audience in there). I missed most of Alter of Plagues, and regretted it, based on what I saw. So, all in all, a great £30 well spent!

Another great gig photograph of Ulver sound checking...

It's all mine!!!

2011-10-19T16:41:00.001+01:00

Finally after months of waiting, I get this beauty in my claws, it only cost me a dearly cherished childhood heirloom in exchange. Logan Josh doesn't know what he has given up:

Amongst the amazing music on offer, it boasts the two following masterpieces:

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I own this and you don't, that makes me better than you.

I am the God of War

2011-10-15T12:04:00.027+01:00

Before we get into the meat of this post, enjoy the horses doovers, if you will. It's a video I made for Abwehrschlacht's song 'Die Sturmtruppen':

And that cheeky cunt Pledge Manners has been at it again, reviewing this product:

By now, you know the drill, He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named sends me a text, I reply in kind, then write them out here for you to crow at:

Him: Yesterday i saw a student walking down the street playing a harmonica. A fucking harmonica. Today i saw him doing it again. If i see him a third time i may lose control

Me: I can't believe you held your temper in the first place. I would have stabbed it with a breadknife and dumped the body in some woods in staffordshire.

Him: How easy do you think it is to beat someone to death with a mouth organ? I might try that instead. I'm guessing it would take some time.

Me: You could speed up the process by selotaping the mouth organ to a breadknife then stabbing it and dumping the body in some woods in staffordshire.

Him: Man, you're just the craziest!!

Me: I went to a psychotherapist today. He was dutch. What do you think of that?

Him: Why did you want to see a psychotherapist? Especially a dutch one?

Me: Physio Dickhead.

Him: Your text said psychotherapist, check your outbox. Maybe you are going crazy. Maybe your subconscious is trying to tell you something.

Me: Oh yeah. Lol. Freudian slip. I prolly need one of those as well. My back is fucked. He touched me in my privates. Dutch bastard.

Him: Well he's foreign, maybe when you said 'my back hurts' he thought you said 'please finger fuck my penis'. You should get a book called 'treat your own back'. I got it when i fucked my back a few years ago. It's really good.

Me: You're not coming anywhere near me with your 'healing hands' you fucking pervert.

Him: I wouldn't touch you if i were wearing gloves and you were drowning in a tub of bleach. But check that book out, it's good.

Me: Will do. Dutch pervert.

Him: It's cultural, touching someones privates is like shaking hands to the dutch. I should know, i lived there for three months. They were touching my privates all the time. Sometimes they tied me up too, or left me gagged in a cellar for days. They only do that when you get quite close to the family though.

Me: Sounds like you got TOO close.

As wolves amongst sheep we have wandered...

I don't make the rules

2011-10-13T19:41:00.000+01:00

I went to see A Clockwork Orange on Monday night. I told Nathan about it last night at the quiz and he gave me a vast amount of abuse for forgetting to tell him I was going. That'll teach him to try poison me at his barbecue. Aaaaaaanyway, I figured that the viewing might be sold out by the time I got down there, so I decided to book tickets online. It's showing as part of Mark Kermode's curated Origins series and was only shown on one night and I guessed demand might be high. On the City Screen's website you can actually choose your tickets as you book them so you can get the best in the house. I found a seat that was in the middle of the row and was far away from every other taken seat. This particular seat would have at least two seats around me of space and I assumed since I'd bought the ticket quite late on I would have the area to myself. Bliss. I wandered my merry way down through town clutching my home printed ticket (so I didn't have to wait in line) whilst listening to GG Allin on my MP3 Player just to get me in the mood for some of the old ultra violence and in out, in out.

I thought I'd better dress up for the occasion. I wasn't the only one...

I walked into the theatre about ten minutes before the show and found my way to the row I'd booked my seat on. I noticed a long haired youth sitting alone about halfway down the row. I thought 'I hope that prick isn't sitting in my seat.' I didn't want to start an altercation about who was sat in who's seat, but as I counted the seats it became more and more apparent that he was sat in the correct seat. His seat was correct and mine was right next to his. I took my seat after checking about five times that I was unfortunately correct and what followed was the most uncomfortable ten minutes of my life as I sat next to a complete stranger in a massive cinema that was practically empty. I could feel him shuffling about in his seat as much as I was and occasionally came the true horror that occurs when our hands lightly brushed one another's on the hand rest. They always do this at the City Screen, if you buy a single ticket they fill up the seats around you with other single ticket purchasers. It's as though the staff think they are doing you a favour by introducing you to a stranger who likes similar films. You've already got something to talk about and can see where it goes from there. It's like a dating service that you have no input in at all. I wouldn't mind, but rather than a hottie, I always end up sat next to some fucking stinking hippy student wanker. True story.

Right, where's my seat... Oh fuck...

On Martson Moor Baht'at

2011-10-04T17:30:00.000+01:00

The esteemed Mr McKibbin and He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named rolled into town this weekend, demanding that they stay at my house. What could I do to refuse? HWCBN gave me such a thrashing that I lost consciousness three times and the sight in my right eye due to the crushing of my orbit as the blows rained down on me from his billy club. When I finally came round the two were ensconced on my sofa braying at my predilection like crows. It will take weeks to remove the blood from the carpet. The reason they were in town was because Pragya was having the final of three marriages, all to the same bloke, go figure. Three marriages and I had not been invited to a single one. Not only that, but I was expected to put up these two, who had been invited. Talk about rubbing my face in it. What am I? A fucking hotel? I took umbrage at this turn up of events and went to Nathan's housewarming party instead. But before I did, the three of us went out for a drive at HWCBN's insistence. He broke my ulna as a warning. First stop was to Marston Moor to have a good look at where King Cromwell had smashed the Frenchies in 1389 or something, then it was off to Spofforth Castle to have a good look at some ruins where King Cromwell had smashed the Frenchies in 1389 or something. Here are two photos taken by the amazing talents of McKibbin:

Marston Moor

As I said, that evening I took myself off to Nathan's housewarming party where he had dug a ten foot deep fire pit and stuffed an entire reindeer down there to cook. Later all Hell broke loose involving blue cheese. The less said about that incident, the better. In other news, I have mostly been hopping back and forth between sites and have spent a bit of time at Hes East helping Becky finish off the Roman well she's been hacking out. I present a series of photos for your delight and to give you some idea of the conditions we have to work in:

Brum Brum!

2011-09-25T12:02:00.000+01:00

I got back late last night from Birmingham and my first two days as a student at the University there. I'm starting an MA in British First World War studies and Friday and Saturday were the induction days to both the College of Arts and Law and the War Studies Department. I had been told I had to attend both days and duly bought a train ticket and booked a hotel which cost the better part of £100. This had better be good, thought I. I set off at the crack of sparrows on Friday to get to the college induction at 9.00am. I needn't have bothered to be honest. It basically consisted of several introductory talks about the college and about how great we all are and how we hold the future in our hands. As an archaeologist, I am generally holding the past in my hands, but whatevs. We were also introduced to our student reps and careers people. It was more for undergraduates going straight into an MA than people who have actually spent some time in the real world working. We were then taken on a tour of the campus by a woman who no one could hear and who seemed to have no idea what anything was or had never been in any of the buildings she was pointing out to us. I did notice with glee that there was a clock tower on campus. I only need to buy a rifle and wait for graduation day so I can start doing a Charles Whitman.

Just you wait, you cunts'll get what's coming to you...

The best thing about this introduction was when I was sat waiting for the presentations to start some guy came and took the seat next to me and said 'hey, cool shirt'. He was referring to my BURZUM hoodie, we got talking about BURZUM and what he called aggressive music. The guy was from Chicago and turns out he used to be in a punk band called The Muslims, who had to change their name to The Slims for commercial reasons. Anyway, this discussion was probably the best thing that happened during that morning, so when the tour was over I fucked off to find my hotel and have a look around Birmingham (more of this amazing trip later...). The next day was the departmental induction and we had a full day of lectures. I arrived early to try to find some breakfast, but with the entire campus shut except Spar I had to go hungry. As I was wandering in search of vittles I played 'spot the War Studies student'. When we were all in the lecture room I noticed that I was correct with everyone I spotted... There is a certain demographic in the War Studies department and it certainly isn't slim pretty eighteen year old girls. The rest of the day was spent listening in awe to military history lectures, until the final part when we were taken down to the archives and saw such treasures as I never knew existed. First off there was a 1915 dated manual of British Shell types, a 1916 dated Lewis Gun Manual. It got better, they had Neville Chamberlain's personal copy of Mein Kampf, with a little dedication written by Nev himself. There was a stack of the English version of Mein Kampf in magazine form. Dutch copies of Signal Magazine. They even had Oswald Mosley's personal scrapbook of all his public appearances. It was a Fascist's wet dream! I wasn't allowed to take photos, so you'll have to make do with this picture of Natalie Imbruglia instead:

But, I hear you ask, what did I do with my Friday afternoon? Well, settle down and I'll tell you. I walked into the city centre to have a look-see at Birmingham. I've been through Brum a few times, but never really stopped so I thought I'd have a wander around. Also, a conversation I'd had with Becki at work inspired me to try to find the aquarium. I finally stumbled upon the Sea Life Centre and approached the desk. I asked the guy selling tickets how much it was, he told me £18 for an adult. I took a step back and composed myself. I asked how much with a student discount. He told me £15. I picked myself off the floor and asked him if it was worth it. He said yes, but I glanced over his shoulder and realised that because Birmingham is land locked they have no idea how to look after fish. There were cages piled on top of one another with fish flapping about in their death throes. It appeared to be feeding time as workers were pouring fresh Haribo on top of uneaten Haribo in feeding tubes on the sides of the cages. They kept shouting at the fish 'You'd better eat this, there's nothing else!' I decided the price was too high to watch fish slowly dying and took my leave.

WE NEED MORE HARIBO!!!

Jesus, I'm glad I did, because as I was walking through town I passed the Art Gallery and saw that they were housing the Staffordshire Hoard, but even better than that it was the last weekend of the HOME OF METAL exhibition! I'd completely forgotten it was on and I ran in as fast as my little legs could carry me. Here are pictures, I'm sorry about the quality but my phone camera is and the venue was dark:

Geezer Butler's favourite!

40,000 gram Sabbath vinyl!

Which one's Pink?

#22: Robert Plant buys a Laney Amp in March 1968...

I would have given my first born to have seen this gig...

Or this one...

Or any of these...

The Gods Made Heavy Metal: Tony Iommi's Laney stack and SG. Literally, cum in my pants.

CLASS WAR NOW!!!

Shane Embury's personal Napalm Death cassettes...

Pre-print mock up of Scum album

Oh God! It's Brian Tatler's guitar!!!!

A letter from Lars Ulrich to Brian Tatler from about 1982!!

The Blizzard of Shit...

Original Napalm Death rehearsal recordings...

This has to rank as one of the best live photos ever, Napalm Death at the Mermaid 1988

The King is commemorated by the city of Brimingham!

Also in the gallery I sat in awe in front of a Botticelli, then found my way to an Indian restaurant and woke up the next morning with a jelly botty. BOOM BOOM!!

Svarte Vidder

2011-09-17T11:26:00.001+01:00

I was just in the office chatting to Berny. The conversation went like this: Me 'What you doing this weekend Bern?' Him 'Decorating, I think.' Me 'What you decorating?' Him 'The living room.' Me 'you want some help?' Him 'No.' I told him I used to be a P&D (painter and decorator) back in the day in Dublin. But even this failed to sway him. It's true though, for a short while I worked with Mad Tommy, aka, T the P (Tommy the Painter). How did this come about? Well, sit back, relax and I'll tell you. As I was saving up to drive across America with four other idiots, I needed a bit of extra cash so I turned to my landlord, Micko, to see what he could do for me. I knew he had properties all over Dublin that were ever on the mend so there wasn't a shortage of work. He told me there was a block of flats in Temple Bar that he had Tommy painting at weekends and said I could get involved in that if I wanted. I would be working free in order to pay for the rent. I agreed and went off to meet Tommy one bright sunny Saturday morning. Tommy was a stout man, a little taller than me, looked to be in his late 50's though was actually probably early 40's. He'd had that outside battering only a life in the countryside of Ireland can bring. Now, to call Tommy mad would be a disservice to mad people everywhere. He was a fucking fruit loop. Doolally and deranged, that was our Tommy. He had a heart of gold, but a mind like a box of frogs on angel dust. He didn't seem it at first, except he looked at you that way that bulls do when they are about to charge, nothing unusual about, I thought, plenty of Irish people have a similar look. Especially culchies. It's something to do with the breeding I think. But as I got to know the man I got to know the madness. He was from Galway and told me he used to be an alcoholic, but in order to drive himself away from the demon drink he'd taken up as a self employed painter. That way he could spend every hour God sent to work rather than have to take the weekends off as if he was in a regular job. Now, I'm not sure if Micko was taking advantage of this affliction or it was a care in the community type of situation. I never worked it out. Maybe Tommy was taking advantage of Micko? Who knows. The point is he also collected every single receipt for any item he ever bought. Most people who are self employed collect their receipts in order to get something back from the tax returns, a lot can be gained from self employed work if you play your tax cards right. Free lunches (business meetings), new computers/cars (business essentials), etc. But Tommy wasn't collecting his receipts for that, oh no, he was far too honest for that, he was doing it in case the government audited him and his accounts couldn't demonstrate that he had spent 178.45 Euro a year on coffee but in fact the books showed it was 179.21 Euro. He thought an Irish government tax official would drag him off to a lock up in an undisclosed location on the outskirts of Offaly and torture him to find out just what had happened to that seventy six cents:

Where's the fucking money, Tommy? Where is it?

So you can imagine his disappointment when he sent me off for coffee one time and I returned with the coffee but NO RECEIPTS! This wasn't the only eccentricity in Tommy's life. Again, as I got to know him he told about his life long dream for Galway. He'd had his eye on a patch of waste ground for years that he was saving up to buy. He was wanting to build a children's roller coaster type ride which he'd proudly called the Beetle Bug. He'd been working on this idea for years and it was what he did in the little time he had outside of work. He'd drawn up all the designs, unfortunately I never got to see them, and worked out all the costs, and submitted countless applications to Galway Council to get the project off the ground. Every single one had been roundly rejected. He couldn't understand this continual veto of his life's work and kept throwing himself against a wall of silence. Maybe it was something to do with the fact that he was a painter and decorator and not a FUCKING ROLLER COASTER DESIGNER! Yeah, maybe that was something to do with it.

Oh Tommy!

He was also naive to a point of childishness. This is not a problem at all and certainly not a personality flaw, but it did fill my days working with him with endless amusement. as I said, we were painting the interior of this massive block of flats in Dubbers and would be working along the corridors (I would do the large block areas in the centre of the walls and he would 'cut in' the edges, a P&D term for you there... Don't say you never learn owt from this blog...). Obviously we would see people come and go throughout the day and get to know some of our temporary neighbours. One day I was stunned to see two beautiful women walking down the corridor. Both were heavily made up and Eastern European looking. Both were wearing what could be best described as 'slutty' clothing. Now, I am far beyond casting dispersions upon other people's way of making a living, but I would bet ten pound to one that these girls were ladies of the night. The kind of girls that would make Jack the Ripper's whoredar go off the scale. Anyway, these girls smiled at me and disappeared into one of the flats leaving me all discombobulated. Throughout the rest of the day of us working on that corridor level several gentlemen would pass us and enter the flat, leaving about an hour or so afterwards. They wouldn't make eye contact with either myself of Tommy and had a certain shambolic shameful gait. Punters. They were all punters. But Tommy thought he had the answers. He took me into his confidence and one tea break opened up his concerns. 'Alex, I tink dem girls in that flat might be dealing drugs in dere. People keep coming and going all day long. It's the only ting I can tink of that might be going on in dere. It's shameful that such young lovely girls should be drawn into such a dark world.' I didn't have the heart to break his deeply held Country Catholic view that no one has sex before marriage and drugs would be the only possible answer as to why men kept visiting the girls.

'I'm looking for some Bolivian marching powder...'

In the end I saved up enough to be able to go to America, had the time of my life and eventually moved away from the Green Isle. I think of Tommy from time to time and wonder if he's still cutting those walls in and if he ever got the Beetle Bug built. Maybe he did. Maybe some child was decapitated by a loose iron bar and Tommy was languishing in jail for failing to comply to building regulations. Who knows?

Lazy Journalism

2011-09-15T17:55:00.001+01:00

OK, it's that time that I again that I lazily write out some of the text message conversations I have had recently.

Ninjasaurus Rex is the subject of this latest tirade. He sent me a picture of a toy church he'd bought and included the message:

Him: My new toy. A sixties style happy clappy hippy church. I'm looking forward to burning it down.

Me: LOL, make sure there's a little plastic vicar in there when you do.

Him: I might use those PP nuns...

Me: Rape them first if you do.

Him: I'm too big for them to take.

Me: No, you're not. Don't flatter yourself.

Him: My wang is as big as an entire Peter Pig's nun's body, I'll have you know.

Me: No it's not, I've seen it.

Him: Your eyesight is far better than I thought then.

Me: It's microscopic.

Him: You giggy twat.

No response

Him: You four eyed nerk.

No response

Him: If you were a transvestite superhero, what powers would you have?

Me: Xray vision, invisibility and the ability to walk through walls. the only ones you need.

Him: I *know* that! I want superpowers that a transvestite superhero would want.

Me: A non clashing super hero costume?

Him: Is always being able to find an absolute bargain in the end of season sales a superpower?

Me: It is for Gok Wan.

Him: You know he's secretly straight, don't you? What a genius way to feel up loads of women and get away with it!

Me: I might try being secretly straight then.

Him: You could start by keeping your gay bear hair.

Me: It takes one to know one.

Him: You giggy twat.

No response

Him: The ability to coordinate any person's clothes with a single punch: Pow! Now you have brown shoes with your jeans!

Another one concerned He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named:

Me: Have you ever sat down and gave serious thought as to why it is that i absolutely fucking hate you?

Him: No, i hardly ever think about you.

Me: You do. You think about me all the time. Especially when you are touching yourself. There is a load of good films coming to the city screen this month. They are showing goodfellas on monday, you can crash here if you like?

Him: OK cool, I have booked my ticket, getting train down after work on monday and train back in the morning. This better be worth it or i'll kick you in the pancreas.

Me: I don't know where you are going to stay. I'm not here monday.

Him: Are you sleeping in the cinema?

Me: What cinema? I'm going on holiday on saturday for a week.

Him: Who is this?

Me: Your worst enemy.

Him: I hate you.

Then the next morning:

Him: Great. I walk into d----- for the first time since i got back. How long does it take till i see some student prick wearing a fedora? Two minutes. It isn't even term time yet. Fuck sakes. This is going to be a long year.

Me: Nail it to his fucking head. You need to make a swift and decisive statement to stop anymore of this shit.

And finally, I wrote the lyrics for this song about fourteen years ago, back then Johnny took them and changed bits and pieces so they fitted the music but they are still essentially mine and are just as relevant (to me anyway) today. Enjoy the 'Leaf.

Troll Piss

2011-09-12T18:37:00.000+01:00

I went to see the Norwegian Documentary 'The Troll Hunter' last night. It served to cement my idea that Trolls do in fact exist. When I was in Iceland I saw enough evidence to point to Trolls and this documentary has only confirmed my suspicions that we are not alone in the world, but in fact are continually at the mercy of 100ft giants. Imagine being a poor Norwegian farmer and having trolls run across your land smashing the crap out of everything, just for shits and giggles. I for one am glad they use power lines to fence them in.

Lauren and I at Dimmuborgir, Iceland, STANDING IN THE MOUTH OF A FUCKING TROLL!!!!

I have been working back in an Twelfth Century church today. Previously I was excavating in the bowels of the west tower and undermining the foundations of the church in the lovely little village of Alne in the hope it would collapse. I am always wary of going in churches, my deep seated hatred of organised religion always make me think that I will either burst into flames or do something to incur the wrath of God that will see me struck by lightening. But this was not so. I suppose we were working hand in hand with the church authorities so God kept his fucking nose out of it for the time we were there. Basically the church is having a new floor put in and as the church can be traced back to the 12th century it was quite important that we were on hand to see if anything from the olden days came up. It was actually a watching brief that should have been an excavation. What I mean by this is, the builders should have been digging out the ground surface of the tower whilst I watched, but in reality, the possibility of archaeology being present meant that I had to dig out the ground surface whilst the builders watched. It became one of those jobs where I had to spend a few days explaining to the builders that my job wasn't about the fact that we hadn't found anything 'interesting' but the fact that I was actually there to make sure anything that may come up was recorded. Being a part of the building industry, you would assume that builders have a reasonable idea about what archaeologists do, but this never seems to be the case and I end up explaining my job to people who don't really give a fuck in the first place.

You do what? For Money?

The builder lads I was working alongside were good guys, as people generally are, except for the cunts. Who are cunts, whatever. Anyway, these lads weren't cunts. One of them had the best two tattoos I've ever seen. One was a dog that looked like Rude Dog, from Rude Dog and the Dweebs, giving a smutty gesture. If that wasn't bad enough he'd gone back a few years later and got an even worse inking. It was a heart with a scroll across the centre. Upon the scroll he'd had written the name of his object of affection: BABY SPICE. I also had the usual queue of interested parties coming through the church to have a nosy at how the work was progressing. The trendy vicar, with his 'hair do', the church warder and the 'Colonel' from the Vicarage over the road. I don't mind the general public, or explaining what is going on, but when each one requires a half an hour lecture on what we've found, I wish they'd all come at the same time so I can get on with the work with minimal interruption. Despite all these interruptions, Jim and I managed to get the job done well within time. There was quite a panic on getting the job finished as there was a wedding being held, we were repeatedly told, 'On Friday'. Obviously it was the biggest thing to ever happen in Alne since the Plague and the entire village appeared to have been invited along to see the youngest people in the village betrothed. In actuality the couple weren't even from the village and were coming up from the south to get wed, so most of the village were probably gathering to see 'the queer foreigners from that London.' And our work had no right to stand in the way.

Nothing stands in the way of this!

But today I was sent back out there, ripped from the warm bosom of my front room, where I was writing a report, into the howling gales of Hurricane Scrimshaw or whatever it's called. I had been told the builders might have found some bones in what I previously thought was an empty trench. The trench actually was empty when I walked away from it the other day and they assured me that they would be doing no more digging in there. Surprise surprise, they did some more digging when I wasn't there and found some stuff. So I found myself scratching away at a child's skeleton whilst the noises of playtime drifted across from the local primary school. a very strange experience indeed. Added to this I was still recovering from Saturday night when we had one of our twice-a-decade work night out. This one was pretty messy in all events. There are large chunks of Saturday night missing from my memory, which is unusual for me.

Stanners tries his luck

Project Dim

2011-09-07T15:53:00.000+01:00

I went to see Project Nim last night, Chris and Chloe were also there so I ended up getting pissed with them in the bowels of the Lendal Cellars. A couple of weeks ago I went to see Rise of the Planet of the Apes with Moogdroog, so this was a perfect continuation to the monkey themed cinematic experience. Being a massive life long fan of monkeys I loved both shows, I was roaring with laughter all the way through because monkeys are so funny, even when they aren't wearing fez's or riding around on tricycles. Here is a review of Rise of the Project of the Nim:

In 1972 a monkey (Nim, played by a heavily made-up Orson Welles) is born to human parents in Connecticut, Harold and Katie Dre (Joe Pesci and Oprah Winfrey). At first the monkey child is placid and friendly but full of intelligence, the monkey hides his intelligence knowing it may one day be his downfall. The Dre's take Nim around the country showing him at Country Fairs as his skills in riding tricycles grows. Nim becomes a national sensation as a daredevil Wall-Of-Death monkey tricyclist, quickly securing a TV contract he becomes a television star. As he becomes more famous, he grows further and further away from his parents, who by this time have given birth to a performing dog (Joe DiMaggio, uncredited). The Dre's put all their attention into the new child's singing career and Nim grows impatient and more and more distant. Nim ploughs part of his vast fortune into the fledgling race to the moon, sending monkeys into space to explore the outer reaches of human (and monkey) understanding. Then tragedy strikes and Nim is apparently killed in a stunt that goes wrong when he was set to jump over twenty London buses on fire. The nation mourns the loss of a hero and visionary, but quickly recovers when the stunt is finally beaten by the performing dog who has abandoned the singing for a career on the track.

Five years pass and the action switches to the dark side of the moon, where we discover Nim still alive and well. The stunt catastrophe was a cover up for his escape from Earth. We also learn the monkeys sent up to the Moon are also alive and have created a colony far from their human oppressors. Under Nim's instruction and funding the colony have built a startling array of weaponry, including tricylces fitted with heavy machine guns and armoured fez's. All set for an invasion Nim's monkey army begin the assault on Earth and it isn't long before all the monkeys in all the zoos in all the world are brought together to fight humanity.

Nim leads the monkeys to victory and vanquishes the remaining humans to the zoos. Only one human is left, Harold Dre, Nim's father. During Nim's absence, Harold used the time to create an exo-skeleton suit, initially for use in stunt tricks, but also housing a complex surface to air missile system. Dre defeats Nim's monkey airforce but has underestimated the intelligent powers of his son. A 78 minute cataclysmic showdown in the Grand Canyon sees Nim finally defeats his father with a clever use of an armoured tricycle (I won't reveal the delicious twist here!) and the world is enslaved under the yoke of the monkey. The film ends with a long scene in the monkey parliament where they decide which monkey will be in charge by throwing shit at each other and wanking.

10 on 10!!

Calamari Ferrari Pt.2

2011-08-31T15:50:00.001+01:00

August 17th 1844. Lord Roberts, being an excellent engineer, soon set the feckless Greek locals to building a pontoon bridge in order to ease our passing between points of strategic import. The Greek is a feckless worker, he is prone to bouts of inactivity which he calls 'Siesta'. These occur, in the main, between two and six bells. Being of stout English stock, I was most distressed to see these daily occurrences and bid Lord Roberts to quicken the pace of the labour. The Turk is almost equally feckless, but the fighting spirit of Pasha's soldiers is indomitable and he is quick to gain advantage, so we had to work fast if we were to give him a thorough drubbing. Lord Roberts used his usual form of coercion upon the Greek, that is, with the stout end of his billy-club. The labour was quickly completed, a d--n good thing too, as the heat was playing havoc with my distemper, and we were able to leave the isle of Santorini. To Naxos we were bound.

Farewell, Isle of Disrepute...

Naxos; the birth place of that most heathen of Greek deities; Dionysus. A man I would have no truck with, a licentious beast given to the baser of humanities depravities. So it was with a wary eye I travelled to Naxos. During the crossing Lord Roberts and I made the acquaintance of a middle aged travelling lady from the Atlantic colonies. She was engrossed in a tour of sites of antiquity and spoke eloquently of history and conjured up wonderful images of the graceful ancients. Lord Roberts fell into a deep slumber upon such utterances, but I was enraptured. I have often wondered why it is that well-to-do ladies of a certain age are enthralled by the Ancient Hellenistic Culture. One hopes it is nothing to do with the large amounts of phalluses that are on display.

All the girls like a Greek

As we set about our stabilising the defences of Naxos I took the chance to commandeer a schooner out to the ancient island of Delos. I brought Lord Roberts along in a vain attempt to distil some culture upon his persona. Upon dispatch from the great Motherland I had also been instructed that this was not a purely military expedition and we were to return to London with treasures of the ancients. The Greek has left his past to go to rack and ruin and as Europe's retainers the English were in the perfect position to corral and protect his treasures. Lord Elgin had already done marvellous work at the Parthenon and we were not about to be over-shadowed by his achievements. We brought several strong-arm boys with to help in the task (these boys seemed to follow Lord Roberts wherever he went; when I pressed him on their presence he always muttered ‘women for dynasties, boys for pleasure’ I was always at a loss to fathom his words). We arrived at Delos and immediately set about our task with gusto. The statues offended my eyes with their nakedness and I instructed the boys to remove the offending articles with chisel and hammer. The ladies of London would no longer have to suffer fainting fits when gazing upon such marvels of the ancient epoch.

The scaffolding isn't original...

We left Delos empty of treasure and set sail for the island of Mykonos. The poverty and desperation we saw there made us flee almost as quick as we had arrived and I for one was glad to not have to stayed another moment in that G-d forgotten land.

What a dump

For those with an interest in that sort of thing, I prepared several Lithographs during my time in Greece, they hang in a public gallery which may be seen here: TRAVELS AMONGST THE ANCIENTS

Calamari Ferrari Pt.1

2011-08-24T17:57:00.004+01:00

August 16th 1843. It was with quite considerable consternation that I was given my first overseas assignment. Having served with the Household Cavalry for some two years I had yet to be given the opportunity to 'see the world', as is the case with most soldiers of the Her Majesty (Gentlemen, The Queen). Rising through the ranks to Captain (with a quite considerable monetary greasing) I was given the most honoured position of overseeing the defence of the Hellenic Islands against the incursion of the Turk. Although I had not left these green and pleasant lands before (Oh! Jerusalem, bring me my arrows of burning desire!) I was well versed in the ancient wisdom from that antediluvian Cycladic culture. My lofty time at Harrow and the dreaming spires of Cambridge were spent immersed in the elegant works of Homer, Plato and Zorba. I read Archaic Greek as a matter of course and could recite large chunks of the Iliad in it's original tongue. I was ready for the grandest of great tours.

The Temple of Apollo Creed

It came as quite a shock to step ashore from my packet steamer in that island called Santorini. From my garret room in Magdalene college, Ancient Thira had held a special charm for me, being, as it was, the end of Minoan rule through climactic catastrophe. However this was not the land of culture, the mythical locale of Socrates and Stavros. No this was (G__ forgive me for using such vulgarity) a den of the utmost inequity. A motley collection of ne'er-do-wells, twerps and vagabonds greeted me that first day, each advertising a flesh pot of greater depravity than the last. Swarthy features and dark eyes peered about my person, each looking for a weakness that they could exploit. This was not the only foulness to beset me at my first posting. The damnable heat and flies bore their individual burden upon my body. I assumed that this heat was the reason for the locals baring as much flesh as they did. Most walked around brazenly in what appeared to be little more than loin-cloths. Even the during the most heathen heights of Sodom and Gomorrah had not such wanton crudeness in the display of the human form been realised. I for one was red faced ashamed at the exhibition and was glad to have brought my stiffest of starched collars within my travelling bag.

A hive of scum and villainy

It was amongst this scene of licentiousness that I first met my compatriot for the task that lay ahead of me. Striding through the crowd, swinging his billy-club at the locals, came Lord Roberts of the Royal Welsh Fusiliers. An uncouth man, it must be said, a Gentleman of low learning, like many of his native country-folk. Lord Roberts could not bear what he termed 'culture' and a man with little or no time to learn the ways of the Hellenic Aboriginal. I feared that my time in this country would be a most depressing misfortune on my part. These doubts were soon swayed when I saw the swift way with which he dispatched a particularly foul inhabitant by dashing said beasts brains on the walkway. A manly handshake from a black burnt hand further assured me that no harm would come to either of us during this time.

Transit infrastructure in place

Lord Roberts was there in body as an engineer attached to the project and we wasted no time in establishing a rail-head. He knew the land better than the locals, having braved the areas they avoided due to long held superstitions of ghosts and other supranormal phenomena. In no time we had a working transit system that was the envy of the island chain. It was from this establishment that we launched our first punitive expedition...

2011-08-14T21:37:00.000+01:00

Just a test:

If you can fly a Sopwith Camel...

2011-08-12T21:08:00.005+01:00

I have been working at home this week, so I haven't had the (mis)fortune of braying at Logan Josh and his usual apish antics. I did go to the cinema though, twice, in fact. 'Twice in week? You must be crazy' I hear you say. Well, believe it, baby, because I did! I went to see Hobo With A Shotgun on Monday and then the Congolesian crime drama Viva Riva! on Tuesday. Helen also called over on Tuesday on her way down from Edinburgh. It would appear that my house is now a pit stop and lies equidistant between Edinburgh and anywhere that anyone wants to go. So the cunts line up at my front door to use the amenities. Well, sleep on the sofa anyway. And eat my crumpets. Helen interrupted a get together drink with Chris, Jitka and Ryan and forced her way into the pool team. Even with three against two the game lasted for about eight hours, so we got our money's worth at least. In all seriousness, it was good to see her again, even though it was only a couple of months ago when I last saw her at Lindisfarne.

Speaking of Logan Josh, I saw him this afternoon. He'd manged to find the Holy Grail of soundtracks in Oxfam and sent me boorish and bragging photos of it on his phone. It was the Biggles: Adventures in Time soundtrack on vinyl. Let me allow that to sink in:

The soundtrack to Biggles: Adventures in Time on vinyl.

On vinyl. This was it, this was the big one. Now if you know me like I know me, then you will know that Biggles: Adventures in Time is my second favourite film of all time. Ever. It has one of the best ever songs ever recorded ever in it, Do You Want To Be A Hero? Ever. I looked at the pictures the ape had sent and wept like a baby. This was the kind of item I would gladly give my first born for. I told him so. I shouldn't have because it gave him a position of high ground over me. I should have feigned disinterest, played hard to get, but emotion overcame me and I was caught in a moment of weakness. He said he would be up for a trade of an item of equal worth. Secretly he wanted my Oddball hooded top, but I held out on him until finally he buckled and money spoke louder than trinkets. I have yet to hold the item in my hands, but believe me, it will be mine, oh yes.

Featuring Motley Crue!!

He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named is not the only one to send me bizarre and abusive text messages. During the riots Danny Salter made the mistake of making an inflammatory remark on Facebook, which I told him I'd forwarded to the Police:

You're nicked sonny...

Later that evening I had the following text conversation with him:

Him: There are police helicopters circling above my house. Is this anything to do with your web of lies? You shit.

Me: I hope so, you're going down in fast track justice!

Him: I'm not going down without a fight. I'm going out in just my pants to face the filth. Let it be known that I intend to have 'Alex Sotheran Is A Twat' carved onto my gravestone. Nothing else. Just that.

Me: I hope they tear gas you, like the dirty rioter you are.

Him: I've always loved the police, you know that. I was devastated when ITV axed The Bill. Your filthy hate campaign has brought me to this. I hope you're satisfied, you shit.

Me: I'll only be satisfied when you're getting bummed in prison.

Him: I'm not here to at out your sexual fantasies, Sotheran. They'll never take me alive. Onwards to Asgard!

Then ten minutes of silence, until:

Him: It turns out all the helicopters had RADIO CORNWALL emblazoned on the side. May have been a slight misunderstanding. Slightly regret the little rocket launcher thing. Fuck em.

A Torrent of Shit

2011-08-10T14:51:00.004+01:00

More texts from He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named. It was his birthday:

Me: Happy Birthday, you shit

Him: I can do anything i want today, i think i might fucking stab someone in the gut.

Me: Well, it's your special day princess.

Him: That's what I'll tell the coppers, i'm a princess and it's my special day so they can fuck off.

Me: You tell 'em girlfriend!

Him: The copper was being a dick so i stabbed him too. Then more cops came. Now i'm hiding in the fun factory at the harvester restaurant where i was having my birthday party before the police spoiled it.

Me: OK. It's a pretty tricky situation you've got yourself into. At least you're in a place with food so you should be able to hold out for a while.

Him: I've taken a bunch of toddlers hostage, should i start cutting them now to show i'm serious, or should i wait for a bit, or maybe just cut one to start with

Him: The little shits won't stop screaming and crying, i can hardly think with all this fucking noise

Me: Give them some chips that will keep them quiet

Him: Awesome idea thanks, that worked really well. One of them would not shut up so i cut her and put her outside, problem solved! We make a great team.

Me: I'm just giving you advice. We are not a team. In fact i was the one who called the police in the first place.

Him: Bullshit, you're not getting out that easily. You said it was my special day. You said i was a princess. You as good as stabbed that girl yourself.

Not the only ridiculous text messages I received this week, however, were from He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named, I got the following off of Berny:

Thinkin about doin a riot in york, u in? I know a big furniture shop where i hav a hire purchase account with, could start there, yeah? Then always wanted a blackberry, there is a nice hat shop i like, after wine store then finish off with sex shop. Sound good?

That was the weekend that was

2011-08-08T15:37:00.000+01:00

Wow, that was a fucking busy weekend. I'd wanted a nice quiet Friday night in, watching Kagemusha and stuffing my face with pistachio nuts and bottles of beer. My plans were thwarted when I got the following text off of Denise 'Me and my friend are coming down from Edinburgh and will be stopping at your place. Not only that, but I've told her you are wild and will show us a good time in York.' What was I to do? The pressure was enormous. I hadn't seen Denise for two years and had never met her mate before. The last time I'd seen her was in Sligo when everyone was coming down from a mountain of pills taken at a beach party. It was time to pull out the big guns and no mistake. I took them to the House of Trembling Madness to meet up with some archaeologists. Despite this, they did seem to enjoy themselves, with the exception of one guy who was an absolute cunt and trying to make an argument with everyone he came across. He was so much of a cunt that Kirk actually told him to his face that he was a cunt. Surprisingly, he was offended by the idea that he might be a cunt. You'd think if you were a cunt and someone told you that you were, it would only serve to confirm your suspicions that you were, after all, a cunt and should start thinking about changing your cuntish ways. Let's just hope that Kirk's newsflash worked in his favour and he has stopped being a cunt now.

Just stop already.

All that besides, Dervla had not only grown up in the last two years (she was able to give and receive hugs now...), but she had been inked upon. She lives in Andover where Chinooks are a common sight overhead and it has now become her lifelong dream to get a ride in one (this dream surpasses her earlier lifelong dream of holding a lamb. Unfortunately this dream has never been realised, so she has had to make do with another one). In an attempt to get a ride in a Chinook she befriended a soldier, who promised her the world (and a ride in a Chinook), all she had to do was endure endless mind numbing phone calls where he asked her what her favourite colour was. Quickly tiring of this she never got the ride she was promised, but then neither did she have to ride the sentry, so all's fair in love and war, I guess. Anyway, I suppose she thought the next best thing to riding in a Chinook was to have one tattooed on herself. Which she did and is without a shadow of a doubt the single best tattoo I have ever seen:

Womp womp womp

No sooner had I waved Dervla and Kristy (as was her friend's name) off, than I was off to pick up Gilbert and Kirky and whisk them away to Posh Bastard's country pile. For nearly a year he had been promising to host a barbecue for us survivors of Engaruka. It was complete coincidence that Gilbert was in town from Kenya for a week, but the barbecue was more spurred on by the fact that Mrs Posh Bastard was having a clear out of her old records and had promised me some Slayer vinyl. Now, I have a passing interest in both Slayer and vinyl, so this was great news indeed and any opportunity like that should be seized upon with great gusto. It took half an hour to drive down PB's drive and we were greeted by a butler upon arrival. PB and Mrs PB arrived moments later on horseback, covered in the blood of the hunt and surrounded by foxhounds that yapped at our ankles. PB seated us outside (an ancient law he quoted; something about proles not being allowed under the roof) until the weather took an inclement turn and he grudgingly allowed us into the West Wing. The food didn't stop coming and I was gripped with meat stroke yet again, for about the sixth time this summer. Not only that but our munching was drowned out with the dulcet tones of Slayer, Metallica, AC/DC and Led Zeppelin. Gilbert was taken away by the funniest taxi driver that North Yorkshire has to offer and the rest of us were free to continue drinking like fish and playing shithead, only interrupted by the occasional bellowing of SLAYEEEEERRRRRR!!!!

Posh bastards...

Mrs PB suddenly decided that it was time for everyone to go to bed and Kirky and I were shown our respective rooms, mine was up in the garret of the North Tower, his, a fourth floor lodging overlooking the gardens and the fountains. PB dressed in his finest tweed for breakfast the following morning and piled more bacon on us than the local pig farms could handle. I spent the afternoon lying on my couch in the recovery position watching The Redemption of General Butt Naked until Pins texted me about meeting up for a drink in the evening. She and Dermo were over from Northern Ireland for various weddings and such and were camping close to York. I met the two of them and we ended up in the Punch Bowl waiting for an hour for clap cold food whilst a Brazilian couple on the table besides us beat the shit out of their six year old son. Refusing the food and demanding a refund we eventually ensconced ourselves in the Bombay Spice and had a feast of curry that was only two hours after we had originally decided to eat...

All the Fun of the Fair

2011-08-06T12:27:00.000+01:00

Some background, Sam is excavating in Durham, He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named wanted to see the excavation so I put the two in touch. He went to see her and I received the following text messages:

Him: I went to see sam's dig. She got all the other people to hold me down in the dirt while she stamped on my stomach. 'this is from alex' she said. It was awful.

Me: Well I guess she only did it because you deserve it. I don't remember telling her to do that but i guess i must have.

Him: I don't care whose idea it was, it has ruined my afternoon

Me: That was the plan. So it's worked?

Him: Yes. Even the dig was fake, the thing was an elaborate hoax to humiliate me. I guess it was you who arranged all my students to be there too. Jerk.

Me: That was me! I admit it! Was your departmental head there as well? He was invited.

Him: He couldn't make it. He sent his wife and kids though. There was a candy floss seller and a small funfair, and donkey rides. Everyone was having fun except me.

Me: I did tell the mayor of durham about it so he must have set the whole thing up. I had nothing to do with the funfair. I'm pleased it came off though.

Mercury's Moustache

2011-08-04T23:03:00.001+01:00

This is completely anachronistic, but I'm going to tell you about something I got up to last year when I was out in Zanzibar. Exactly a year ago I was in Tanzania, excavating some olden days shit. When we'd finished the work I was left alone in East Africa to fend for myself. My colleagues cast me off to the lions with no protection besides a crumpled copy of Catch 22 and a beard as big as a house.

I'm ready for anything...

Anyway, I found myself on a bus from Arusha heading down to Dar es Salaam, it was a nine hour bus journey that I would not wish on my worst enemy. I did befriend two people though, one a kindly middle aged gentleman who was wearing a safari company t-shirt. I asked him if he worked as a safari guide. He told me no, he worked in a bank and the t-shirt was given to him by his friend who DID work as a safari guide. He seemed to be pretty intent on helping me, despite me not asking for any help. Maybe he would have been a good safari guide and was wasted in the bank. Who knows? The other person I befriended on the bus was a kindly middle aged woman. I was sat in my seat and she climbed on the bus and sat right down next to me. She was, shall we say 'big boned', and took up at least two thirds of the seat, crushing me against the window like that face in the car in Jacob's Ladder. Besides that she was lovely. After sitting down she announced 'Hello, I am magnificent!' I responded; 'Hi, I'm doing great as well!' It took me a little while to realise her name was Magnificent and she was not referring to her state of being. Anyway, these two made the journey a little more bearable and I was soon in Dar. I was also soon heading out of that fucking dump on a ferry bound for Zanzibar.

The best way to see Dar es Salaam, disappearing on the horizon....

Zanzibar was amazing, a really great little spot, friendly locals, cheap booze and pretty waitresses. Stone town was a good place to be based, but I soon grew tired of the hustle and bustle of the big smoke and wanted to break away to the country. I decided to head north to where the beaches are with an idea of spending some time sunning my corpulent body and having a proper relaxing time.

The grind of the daily commute was wearing me down...

I should have known better. The last time I had a 'beach holiday' was in America in 2004 and we stopped near Galveston at Fred's insistence to spend some time on the sea front. After two days of building sand castles I was bored out of my tiny mind and was desperately trying to chivvy the others on so we could continue the road trip. I arrived in north Zanzibar and booked into a beach resort. I instantly took a dislike to practically everyone else there, all being young, bronzed, slim and attractive. I plonked my old, farmer tanned, fat and ugly self on a sun lounger and spent the first day reading a Biggles book I found in the library at the resort. The occasional swim in the warm sea could do nothing to dampen my boredom. Then I spotted a scuba expedition that was being run by the hotel, I signed up for it. It was great, I really enjoyed the day looking at fish and breathing in about half of the Indian Ocean in the process. But then it was back to the resort.

It's got nothing on Whitby...

I packed up after three days and headed back to Stone Town, despite planning on staying at the resort for six days. The place I was staying in Stone Town, The Pyramid Hotel, had day trips on offer and I thought I might as well go on a couple. One was out to a spice farm where I was trussed up like a cunt without my consent:

I never asked for this...

I also met a nice Dutch couple on the bus to the spice farm, I saw them again the next day at breakfast and they asked me to exchange emails after I made a flippant comment about calling on them if I was ever in Holland. In a pure Larry David moment, I said no, I wasn't going to give them my email. I asked them what was the point? Are we really going to email each other about the time we all went to the spice farm together? No. It was a waste of my time. I carried on eating my 'continental' breakfast with a feeling of Davidian triumph. I also went on a 'swimming with dolphins' trip during my time in Stone Town. Now, for some people, swimming with dolphins is a dream come true, a chance of a life time. It has healing properties, so they say, dolphins can cure cancer just with their playful squeaking and twittering. A dolphin leaping through the waves has led to great advances in the treatment of AIDS. Unfortunately this is not the experience I had.

What I could have won

We (myself, a crazy middle aged French woman, a Korean couple and a Chinese couple (can you imagine the faux pas I made when I thought they'd all travelled together? Almost as bad as when I mistook the pre-mentioned Dutch couple for Germans...)) were taken by bus to some back water where we joined by a couple of girls from Leeds. They had been out on the lash the night before and were in no fit state to be standing up, never mind out on the ocean wave. And what a wave it was! The only time I have been on rougher seas was between the Westmann Islands and Iceland when the ferry was almost flipping over in the waves. This time we were on a tiny fishing boat clinging on for dear life.

We're going to need a bigger boat...

The waves buffeted us and we were thrown about like kittens in a washing machine. The two girls from Leeds were suffering the most, one was spewing the entire time we were on the boat. And we were on the boat for about an hour. God knows where all this vomit was coming from. Then dolphins were spotted off the starboard bow, the fishermen instructed everyone to ready themselves for the experience of a lifetime. That meant putting on a scuba mask and flippers and getting into the squall. Just before getting in the water, the French woman was thrown from her feet by a massive wave and smacked her head on a metal bar. Despite being obviously dazed she was still insistent on swimming with the dolphins. I declined the opportunity and decided it would be better to take my chances on the boat rather than dropping into the perfect storm. The ones that braved the water were thrown about and most of them nearly drowned. The chance of even seeing a dolphin in these conditions was minimal to nil, never mind swimming with one of the fuckers. Finally the fishermen decided we'd had enough water torture and headed back to the beach. So, as for my experience of swimming with dolphins, exhilarating was not the word...

'OK, time to start fishing the corpses out of the water'

Knightmare

2011-08-01T18:54:00.000+01:00

This weekend started off well, Kate bought me a teapot and cup (with a cat on it) for my birthday. I've been wanting a teapot for a while but it is usually the last thing I think of when I'm out shopping. I'm generally starving and too keen on packing up the trolley with things I can eat on the way home rather than planning for a full week of meals or porcelain items. Anyway, the teapot was also accompanied by a trip out to Silverwood to see some training trenches dug by the Barnsley Pals in the olden days when there was an important war on. That was good and I liked it.

Hello mum!

That wasn't the only war themed occurrence this weekend. Whilst working out at Bridlington I drove past Sledmere House everyday and saw that there was a living history event on this weekend and had decided to go a long time ago. Thing is, I wasn't keen on the idea of going alone, I mean reenactors are always better when you have someone else to laugh at them with. So I got on the Bat Phone and informed He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named that there was something astir. He checked it out and saw there were a bunch of fucking Romans riding about on horses and wet his pants over it. He duly turned up at my house about 6.30am on Sunday morning demanding tea (which I made with the new tea pot...) and blathering on and on about the fucking Romans.

Boooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooring

We hit Sledmere about midday and the dressing up fun had already begun. The Sealed Knot were doing a drill practise with pikes. Now, call me cynical, but I always thought a pike block would consist of about one thousand young and physically fit men. What we got was seven middle-aged fat men:

It's hardly the Battle of Edgehill, is it?

As we were sitting watching the drill display a chap sat down next to me dressed as a Parlimentarian (or a Royalist, I couldn't really tell, it's not my period, the English Civil War...) and lit up a fag. I asked him if the cigarette was a genuine seventeenth century one. It wasn't but it gave him cue to tell us all about himself for the next half an hour. I was quite interested in why a man of nearly fifty would suddenly decided to take up (fake) arms and join in the dressing up fun. I skirted around asking him when his wife had left him or if he was just going through some sort of mid-life crisis. He didn't need to tell me directly, the amount of money he'd spent on his gun told me he was single. He was a nice guy and at the end of the day it's a case of whatever floats your boat, so if he gets off on dressing up as a soldier from four hundred years ago then more power to him. All the while at the front the fatties did some nice baton twirling with the flags, even if the guy doing it looked like he spent the rest of his free time LARPing:

I bet your mother is so proud!

The Romans were up next and He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named was leaping about like a Romanian dancing bear and whooping like a banshee. They pranced about on the horses and showed off their various skills in how to bring down the Hun. We thought there would be a better spectacular if a bunch of Vandal reenactors charged on from stage left and sacked the Roman camp for four days solid. But sadly, they didn't show up. It got me thinking, getting a barbarian reenactment society together would be pretty cheap, all you need is a bunch of sticks for spears and some blue body paint. No expensive armour or clothes when you're skyclad!

How much did that lot cost?

Then it was time for the mums and dads to take the kids down to the front to stroke the Romans. He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named begged and begged for me to take him down to the front, I told him he wasn't allowed to go down there on his own, but his nagging was so incessant I had to accompany him. He was frightened by the horse's big faces, but managed to chat up Gimli the Dwarf about his dragon flag thing.

'So is it a real dragon?'

'No, you fucking oaf, it's made out of metal.'

Next up were the Knights in Battle. I was most looking forward to these, but they were very disappointing; it was just a bunch of nobs smacking each other with swords. Their commentator was rubbish as well. I couldn't tell who was winning or losing or even who was who due to her bad commentary. It also made me mad because she was dressed as a Nun.

WHAT'S GOING ON?

Enough was enough and we headed home to have a barbecue and finished off the weekend with a visit to the cinema to see Captain America. Here is a review ala Logan Josh:

Set during the time of the Boxer Rebellion, Captain America is a tale of teenage angst and desperation in the face of overwhelming odds. Chris Evans plays Dexter Mooches, a 17 year old child violin prodigy sent away from home for the first time to Magic School on the west coast of Sudan. At school Dexter is bullied mercilessly due to his short stature and receding forehead. His only friend is an invisible mouse called Midge Ure. Only Dexter can see this mouse, but he manages to convince one of the other boys, Marian Cleeble (Whoopie Goldberg, playing brilliantly against type) of its existence. The three set off on a journey to find the elixir of life when it is discovered that their ancient Professor (Hank Williams, uncredited) has only minutes left to live. The plucky trio confront several adversities on their journey. In one brilliant set piece, Dexter and Marian have to battle their way out of a siege armed only with colanders and a spatula. Spoiler alert! It is revealed part way through that Midge is not actually a mouse, but is a young woman after all (played by Mädchen Amick) and has been searching for a true heart to unlock the curse that she has been living under. Dexter's sense of duty and compassion are the key to breaking this voodoo. Although she is still invisible to every one except Dexter, they quickly fall in love and are married in the Spring. Having gained the elixir and saved the Professor the three heroes live happily ever after on a yacht trading rum between Caribbean islands. 0 out of 100!!! Make sue you miss this one!

Meh.

Cashing in

2011-07-25T17:50:00.000+01:00

This has been a busy weekend, on Saturday my parents called over to help me clear the back garden. I haven't touched the thing since I moved in in January and it had become a jungle, especially with all the recent rain and sun combination. There are as of yet undiscovered rain forest tribes crawling out of the dense foliage every so often, so I decided that it was time to trim it all back. My father is a landscape gardener so I knew it would be in good hands. It actually only took a couple of hours to do, but during that time we cut back the dense overgrowth to uncover several Inca cities and a Mayan temple in ruins. I rewarded their hard work by serving burnt meat from the barbecue and we finished the lavish meal with cake.

Wow, you can see the floor...

Whilst I was up to my elbows in shrubbery Craig called and told me he was mading good on his promise to call up as he and Alix missed my birthday BBQ last weekend. Alix's car had developed problems just outside of Nottingham and they had decided not to risk the journey up to York. This weekend, however, the car was working fine and they duly arrived, even before I'd got out of bed. Jesus, it's a Sunday, what time do you people think I get up at? I said rather than mooch around in York we should take advantage of the good weather and head out to the coast. So we did. The rest of York had the same idea it would seem by the traffic jams on the A64. Eventually battling through the traffic we made our way to Boggle Hole and I had a nostalgia trip. I haven't been this way for about seventeen years ever since we used to go on holiday there as kids. Every year for seventeen years we would descend on a tiny cottage on the edge of the wolds, close to Ravenscar and overlooking the sea. It had no running hot water, no inside toilet, very little electricity and it was so dark at night that you could quite clearly see the milky way. As a kid, I hated it, it was so isolated and there was nothing to do, except occasionally go to Scarborough to play on the arcades and lust after that copy of Richtofen's War which was for sale in a model shop that is now an Italian restaurant. Nowadays, I would fucking love it. The misanthropic isolation of the place really appeals to me these days. I'd buy the place, get a load of cats and a rifle and withdraw from society.

Is there anybody out there?

So we headed down to the beach at Boggle Hole and I was surprised by the change in the place. First off they local council had gotten rid of the rope bridge that crossed the chasm you had to pass over before hitting the beach. They'd replaced it with a fucking road. They'd even got rid of all the massive jagged rocks that marked the passage to the coast. The rocks with the skulls and bones of previous visitors scattered on them. At least that is how I remembered it. (that's a joke, but there honestly one time we went there and there was absolutely no one on the beach, completely deserted, apart from a pair of shoes with socks tucked into them resting on a rock. The shoes owner never appeared while we were on the beach. A possible suicide? But then why would you take your shoes off if you were going to top yourself?)

Britain's most beautiful suicide spot...

These days it just seems to be full of fat Geordie chavs with bulldogs and damp picnic sandwiches. At least that's the impression I got from Sunday's visit. We had a quick lunch at the youth hostel whilst discussing the fiscal state of America (We know how to party!). A trip out to the coast is not really complete without a quick look in on Robin Hood's Bay and this was no exception. Since Alix and Craig were now too late to get back to Nottingham for the evening they had planned, I brow beat them into heading up the coast. They were quite easily swayed as I had the car keys and it's a long walk back to York where Alix's car was parked. In the sprawling metropolis that is Robin Hood's Bay I made the two of them sit on the same spot that we used to sit on as a family and have our photo taken, year after year. I don't have any of those pictures to hand, but believe me, little has changed in all that time:

'SIT ON THE FUCKING WALL!!'

As we descended the steps into town Craig told me about Geocaching, the universal game of hide and seek. Apparently there was four Geocaches in the vicinity of RHB and my interest was piqued, so we set about looking for the first. It was located under the steps of the path heading to the cliff tops. We found the location with Craig's mobile phone GPS and Alix and I began scrabbling about under the wooden steps. As we had our heads buried under the boards, a walking couple came past and asked what we were up to. I told them I had dropped my keys. Then we 'fessed up and told them about Geocaching. They wished us luck in our search and it seemed to work as Alix immediately found the box! It was packed with kid's toys, a log book, other Geocacher's visiting cards and such. So Alix threw them all over the cliff and then smashed the box to pieces, so no one else would get a chance to find it.

No one else will ever find this!

On this high, we decided to try and find another one. On the way we stopped off at the Dinosaur 'Museum'. Well, with free entry, how could we refuse? It wasn't a museum. It was a book shop with some fossils on the wall. What a fucking rip off.

LIES!!

The second Geocache was located near the church on the hill. Craig's attempt at the Azimuth Brutale ended with us standing in a children's playground looking shady, so we had to go the sensible and long way by the roads. In the church we had answer a few puzzles to give us the coordinates for the next box. Literally, seconds after fathoming the riddle Craig's phone died and we were bereft of finding the cache. The sense of loss and bitterness was unparalleled. I am unashamed to admit I wept like a Frenchman for a full hour. I was inconsolable at this hubris. That bastard McKibbin had screwed me over for the last time. I got in the car and drove away from them both without looking back. I hope they are both dead.

Still missing, please contact the Police if you see them

Dinner Dirt

2011-07-21T21:44:00.000+01:00

Since allowing TV into my life, I have been lapping up its various treasures. Its lush and gossamer tube glow washes over me like the waves of a velvety ocean. I am comforted by its soft and plump bosom like pillows of the scheduling. Like a baby wrapped in swaddling, I drool and gurgle whilst prostrate on the sofa transfixed by the flickering images parading in front of me like marionettes in a puppet show. Wading through the various delights offered up I have found some programs that I actually enjoy watching. One of these is Dinner Date; ITV's answer to Come Dine With Me.

Come back CDWM, all is forgiven!!

At its core is a cooking show, but Dinner Date is soooooo much more than that. With the heavy burden that remains of the baggage created by Cilla Black, ITV seem unable to commission any show that doesn't involve some form of dating. Cilla's Blind Date was a massive hit for ITV and they always fall back on this
safety net when they need a competition to the other channels success stories. What about Take Me Out? That Saturday night dross where desperate single men were paraded like a piece of meat in front of thirty desperate, lonely and love hungry women. The vast amount of oestrogen was overwhelming even from the TV screen. ITV's obsession with hooking people up borders on a secretive breeding program where only photogenic (suntanned, bright white teeth and well groomed) couples are allowed to procreate in order to give TOWIE a cast well into the future when the present ones collapse under the weight of their fake tits or shrivel like prunes in their sunbeds.

You can and will be replaced by younger and better looking specimens from ITV's breeding ponds...

Well, this time ITV have upped the ante. They have taken the classic timelessness of CDWM and twisted it beyond all recognition in Dinner Date. It is like Jeff Goldblum after crawling out of the molecular transformer in The Fly, the bastard offspring of two forms of life. In this case, CDWM and Blind Date. The genetics of the two shows have been spliced together and we gasp in awe at the hideous beast that pulsates and thrashes around in front of us. We bray and clap as it tries to stand up on weak legs but collapses into a panting slavering heap time and again.

Get up, your public is waiting!!

Why is it so entertaining? Allow me to explain: A singleton is asked to choose three dates on the strength of five menus. This is the first elimination stage. Five hopefuls are instantly whittled down to three because the diner prefers rocket salad to haloumi brioche. Talk about separating the wheat from the chaff. Woe betide you if your menu isn't up to scratch. You have been judged on what food you think would make a good meal. How dare you think I might like braised steak, you filthy little oik, how could you even begin to think that Eton Mess is a perfectly normal dessert? The disgusting swill you are planning to serve me isn't fit for human consumption, try again, you fucking loser! Get back to masturbating yourself to sleep in tears on your piss stained mattress, you miserly cur.

In my hands I hold the power over life and death...

It would appear that all the people in the show have been recruited on the strength of their careers, they all appear to be soulless office types that work in advertising, accountancy, mergers and acquisitions or public relations (whatever the fuck that is...). They all appear to be perfectly groomed, plucked, tucked and fully loaded with make up. And that's just the men. The are vainglorious bastards, the kind of people I would crush with steamrollers as soon as I get in to power. I'd have them bound up and laid out in rows in football stadia, then slowly run industrial machinery across them, film it and show it on TV instead of the sports channels.

First up against the fucking wall...

I digress. The lucky diner then gets to meet each of the final three and have a dinner with them. This is where we get to see the interiors of the flats that the hosts live in. They are all the exact same flat pack, chrome and wood interiors that lack any depth of imagination or singularity. All of them are spotless, soulless places, just like their owners.

You could cut the atmosphere with a knife... But I'd rather cut my own throat...

Then the hosts are asked to rate the diner out of three, which doesn't leave much room for manoeuvre. It's either, 'I like them', 'I'm indifferent', or 'get them the fuck out of my house, they have already tried to chloroform me!' This voting has very little to do with the outcome of the show and the final blow is left to the diner. They choose, on the strength of the dinners offered up, who they would like to see again and go out for a meal in a restaurant. This is where the show delivers its fatal strike. All three hosts are instructed to get up in their finest clothes and await the knock at the door. Two of them are delivered a meal for one, which they get to enjoy whilst dressed in their best bib and tucker. The show ends following the winning couple to the date and getting a round up on the meal. But I would far prefer for the show to focus on the losers, filming them while they weep like babies dressed in a ball gown as they shovel down their Weight Watchers Spag Bol.

'What is love?'

So, anyway, I sent off my application.

Drug of the Nation

2011-07-18T20:42:00.004+01:00

It was my Birthday last week and my parents rocked up in York partially to take me out for a meal which never happened as we'd all eaten separately earlier in the day anyway (they had fish and chips. I had chorizo and bean soup. I know you are gasping for the details...). They were also up to deliver my birthday presents. One of which was a Sudoku toilet roll. The other was a TELLY!! Yes! My first Telly ever! It's massive. It sits in the corner of the room demanding attention. It cries out for my affections, and boy, do I give them. I can't stop watching it. There are paint smears on everything I own, the vapor rub is lying on a table of filth, Christmas cards to which I never reply, my eyeballs absorb only blue filtered light. I'm a TV casualty. I have watched everything from Come Dine With Me, Dinner Date (there will be a blog post on this at some point...), Coach Trip and even The Apprentice (I joined this late and only just caught the very last episode. It appeared to consist of a load of uptight badly made-up shit bags trying to peddle garbage to a prune in a suit , I'm glad I missed it). All the good shit. In fact, that was all there was that was worth watching over the weekend. Hopefully there will be something good on this week. I'll be using it mainly to watch DVDs

Not only did I get a telly, but I was also given a plastic Paratrooper and a Hurricane Styrofoam glider from Kirky, a mug with some Vikings on it from He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named (Tarquin Sheen had a shit fit when he found out details of his violent past were on display on this very blog and that they came up on a Google search. He threatened me with physical and psychological trauma and so from this point on I shall refer to him as He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named), a bag of Kola Bottles from Sam and a Justin Bieber sticker book by Moogdroog. The book came with six stickers, so in her ever inventiveness, she conscripted He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named to help make a few extra stickers to place in the album to start me off. Here they are for your perusal. I have no glue to stick them in the book, so I will have to use spunk.

Milky Milky

2011-07-13T18:30:00.000+01:00

I was sitting on the steps of the Minister last night waiting for Sam to show up for food and drinks (I got a frantic call off of her at about 8:10: Her 'I'm a bit lost, I can't find the Minister!' Me 'What do you mean? Just head towards it' Her 'I can't see it' Me 'It's the biggest fucking thing in York, you can see it from everywhere, it's the thing that looks like a big church [drawing laughter from a family sitting close by]' It seems she was in the only place in York that the Minister is invisible from, given that you can see the fucking thing from Bridlington, she'd broken a new world record). As I was waiting I was earwigging on one of the many Ghost Walks that operate through York, morning, noon and night. This one was being run by a young lad who was a bit self conscious in his top hat and cape (more people should wear capes. The Red Army did in World War Two and look where it got them!). He wasn't particularly funny or erudite. It got me thinking, just imagine if you were on holiday and had decided to take the wife on a ghost tour to spice things up a bit and it turned out to be a bit shit. What a waste of money that would be normally, but last night, I counted no less than three Ghost Tours all operating at the same time within spitting distance of one an other. Imagine if you'd fallen in with the crap one, but there, just in earshot were two others, where the audience were either guffawing with mirth or screaming blue murder through fear. Yours was a plodding, pedestrian retelling of the history of York through the medium of ghosts whilst the other punters were having the times of their lives. I'd be angry and upset about this turn of events and would probably spend the remainder of the tour feeling bitter towards my guide. He wouldn't have got a tip that night, I can tell you. In extreme cases you might even find yourself running between the different groups trying to ascertain which one was the best. There should be some kind of tour guide police, there to keep all the groups separate so this situation would never arise. I should be in charge of tourism in York. I'd also keep a check of the tour guides and if I thought they were crap at their jobs I'd have them publicly hanged in King's Square.

Hang some fucking sense into them

I was idling these thoughts when a rather shabbily dressed elderly gentleman, dragging a shopping trolley behind him, shuffled up in front of me. I took him for a gentleman of the road. He nodded at the Minister and said (in a Welsh accent) 'Have you been in there?' I told him I hadn't been in there for about three years. It's true. The last time I was in I went up the tower, suffered vertigo and have never been back since. He took this as an invite and sat himself down besides me. I didn't mind, I was alone and waiting and company passes the time. I did mind his smell though, he smelled of cows. Which, as it turns out was rather apt as he was an ex-cow farmer from Cardiff. We got chatting, he told me he'd been in the RAF for two years during his national service. My interest piqued I asked him if he was a pilot. He said no, medical and my interest waned. He told me he was up in York for the Great Yorkshire Show and was particularly interested in the cows, which was no surprise, given he'd spent all his life (bar two years) milking the fuckers. He told me some story about some chap he'd heard on the radio who's pig had won the best pig in the village title, I responded by saying it was a title to be proud of, no doubt. Just then another Ghost Tour turned up (the fourth one within fifteen minutes, Jesus, someone is making a lot of silly money at this game) and he started to show his true colours. As the punters filed past us he started belting out hymns at them as though to bless their sins away for listening to stories about ghosts. I just sat and laughed. It was just then that I got the above mentioned phone call and made my excuses to Mr David Williams (as was his name), and left to meet Sam. I would like to say that this encounter went some way to patching up my absolute hatred and revulsion of the Welsh, but it just served to indicate that I was right all along. Seriously though, he was a nice guy and I hope he enjoyed the cows.

Proper Beauty

I'm off to the pub quiz tonight, everyone is invited, except for you, 'cos you're a cunt. I'm taking Nathan's bass back for him (he lent it to me this weekend so I could do some recording. I only managed to get the drums laid down...). I have taught myself to play some of the funky bass lines from Seinfeld so I can do a bass run when we either get a question correct or Paul says something sassy.

Time, Gentlemen

2011-07-11T18:53:00.000+01:00

Friday night was the bi-millennial On-Site drinks do. About three years ago Kate had cast the Runes and they had indicated this date and as fortune would have it, the stars were also in alignment (for the first time in 10,500 years). So it was decided that we lowly few, we band of bastards, should gather on the field of conflict and drink as much as humanely possible. Getting the crew from On-Site together to drink is such a painful task that it only occurs rarely and even then the full compliment of twits is not realised. Berny needs to get a babysitter (for himself), Brucey is off dropping children all over town at various Rainbow Brownie meetings, Ryan is up to his nuts in guts, Kate has been told the wrong fucking time, Logan Josh is off at some non-existent 'gig'. It's just too hard for one person to handle from an organisational point of view. It's akin to handling the logistics of the Afrika Korps and their landings at Tripoli. We had a date, as decided by the Gods and held on to it for our lives, come what may. So it was with certain trepidation that I approached the Maltings wondering who would be in there, or who would even turn up at all.

You sure we got the right day?

I shouldn't have worried, approach to the Maltings netted us Kamil and Berny, lurking in the streets like Burke and Hare. Upon arrival, I immediately saw Sir Stanners setting about a ruffian with his swagger stick. After clubbing said hooligan to the floor, Stanners (half cut from three days binge drinking) greeted us (Myself, Lauren and Steve, making a guest appearance. That's Lauren and Steve making a guest appearance, not me. I'm not a guest, I'm an employee. Oh, never mind) and the rest of the cunts duly filed in. We drank, we swore, we drank some more and by and by Logan Josh appeared as if out of nowhere. The bouncers wouldn't let him in due to his appearance and we made plans to meet him at the Akhorne. In the Akhorne were various people I'd met at Josh's birthday party, albeit not in military uniform this time. I spent my time there braying at Barry's muscle shirt and talking to Mrs Josh about buying cats. Despite a protracted argument with Josh about the logistics of 'all coming back to mine' rather than 'all getting a fucking taxi into the middle of nowhere (Huntington), getting pastis forced down our throats and then having to get another fucking taxi back on ourselves back to mine', myself, Lauren and Steve crashed out at some ungodly hour, drunk as cunts. Meanwhile, Stanners followed some young doris back to hers waiting for the rohypnol to kick in. A good night was had by all.

Thank fuck that's over for another forty years...

I was also on Telly again the other night, only as a photo though. Blink and you'd miss it, but follow this link below and I appear in the first fifteen minutes. I wouldn't bother with the rest of the show. It's shit and I'm not in it.

HISTORY COLD CASE: THE YORK 113

Intermission

2011-07-09T11:38:00.001+01:00

I was chatting with Kamil last night and he said I should post more of Tarquin Sheen and my's textual relationships, so this is one that happened on Friday:

Me: Bite it you scum

Him: You make me sick. I mean literally sick. When I got your last text i sicked up all over myself.

Me: Good

Him: No it is not good. I was on a hot date with a babe. Some of the sick got on her too.

Me: Right. Now I know you're lying.

Him: All right it wasn't a date. And there was no babe. But i was sick all down myself.

Me: That was probably nothing to do with me anyway, just coincidence that i sent the text at the same time.

Him: Is there something i can do for you? Some of us have work to do.

Tea's Up

2011-07-07T18:32:00.002+01:00

A trio of octogenarian amateur archaeologists stumbled onto site the other day. It was my own fault, I'd told them they should come back and see how work was progressing when they tipped up on site last week and proceeded to almost walk under the wheels of a fully loaded Moxy. Archaeology is about people after all and therefore people have an interest in it, so I don't actually mind amateur archaeologists, even when they are telling me that the desk based assessment (DBA) that I am basing my knowledge of the site on is wrong. The DBA with its map regression and thorough search of the local Sites and Monuments Record for any known archaeological features and/or previous excavations. The DBA that is studied by the county archaeologist prior to any decision to go ahead and excavate a proposed development site. I don't even mind them telling me that their 'local knowledge' allows them to pinpoint exactly where the stash of buried Jewish gold left by the Nazis after World War One is, through a study of a copy of the 1398 vellum bound Ordnance Survey map that they discovered in the loft of the house once owned by Lord Screaming Sutcliffe of Rudston. They can even tell me that a study of the Ley Lines shown on said map draw a Star of David with a Crown atop that overlay the village of Fimber and this is the precise point the gold must be and we are digging in the wrong place. No that doesn't bother me at all. What does fucking bother me, is them turning up half way through my fucking tea break so I have to walk around showing them various holes we've dug and making up some bullshit story about how I know what the fuck is going on. They said they'd be back to see how we progress. I said make sure it's not between ten and ten thirty and one and one thirty, so I can enjoy a nice relaxing cup of fucking tea that I deserve for wading through tons and tons of chalk and clay compacted by four millennia of top soil.

I've got blisters on my fingers...

Tuesday was an interesting night. I met a girl I have not seen for five years. We had left off on what could be called acrimonious terms back in 2006 but I heard over the weekend she had come a little unstuck in her personal life and I thought reconciliation may be in order, coincidentally she was now living half an hour down the road. She needed friends and as we were once close, I thought I'd man up, swallow my pride and see if she wanted to meet up for a little bit of friendly support. I passed on my details through a mutual friend and it turns out she did. It also turns out little has changed, the man she once married is still an arsehole (as I always thought) and her Top Five Celebrity Shags are still the same. I had a great evening with her talking shit, catching up and generally putting a big tick in the 'Good Alex' tick box; God knows, I need a few more of those right now.

I shit you not, today I had a text conversation with Tarquin Sheen that went like this:

Me: Your turn (this is a reference to Battlefield Academy, a turn based computer game we were playing)

Him: Who is this? How did you get my number? If you contact me again I'm calling the police.

Me: it IS the police

Him: In that case the guy you want is called alex sotheran, he lives in york. He can tell you were the bodies are. I had nothing to do with it.

Me: Funny, he said the same of you.

Him: All i did was drive the car. I didn't even know what was in the bin bag. He said he'd cut me up if i didn't help him. I'm as much a victim as those girls.

Me: The ones we are investigating aren't girls. Would you care to tell us more?

Him: Shit. I'm not saying anything until I see my lawyer.

Me: You will. We'll beat it out of you.

Him: You can't do this. I know my rights. This is police brutality.

Me: What rights did you show your victims?

Him: THOSE WHORES HAD NO RIGHTS! THEY GOT WHAT WAS COMING TO THEM, THE FILTHY CUNTS!

Me: Erm. OK. Time out. This is not the police. I was just kidding. Jesus.

Him: Uh i knew that, i was joking too, i never killed anyone.

Me: We'll soon find out. I've forwarded this little conversation onto the police. It's up to them to find out the truth now.

I didn't hear another thing, so I'm guessing he's finally been rounded up.

Over the Top!

2011-07-04T21:34:00.001+01:00

I have had a busy couple of weekends recently and have fallen behind with updating this blog on that score, so here I shall try to remedy it. It may turn into a long post, if it does, I don't care. Suck it up, use your phone to call someone that fucking cares, etc. I have been up and down the country in the past fortnight, I have been as far north in England than any man has ever been and I have also been so far down south that I actually ended up in France. Now, if you settle down in your seats, I shall tell you how...

Sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up...

Knowing full well what crimes against humanity Tarquin Sheen is capable of I have dutifully avoided ever going to his house in Durham. I was duped, however, the other week when he invited myself, Moogdroog and Helen out for what he called 'a day of fun' at Lindisfarne. I assumed that the company of others would lessen the blow of horror that awaited in that dark corner of the country. I was wrong. His idea of fun was forcing me to drive for hours and hours even though I hadn't slept for four days. He kept me awake at the wheel by screaming at me through a megaphone every time I would start to drop off. Himself and his brother Nole, would punch me in the back of the head at every opportunity, usually when overtaking a large goods vehicle... Having been forced to drive to the edge of England (apparently Berwick is NOT in Scotland, no matter how many people I asked. Why they are flying Scottish flags all over the fucking place was never successfully explained, however...) and back down to Holy Island, he then frog marched the group over hill and dale to look at the Lime Kilns. He wouldn't even let us stop to admire the villager's jam collections. Moogdroog was concerned about this in particular; 'what if there was a jamergency' she was heard to say... We were death marched into the museum and had to wait whilst he read every single word on the museum displays. Since he can't actually read, this took quite some time. I amused myself by looking at the Viking stones on display:

Best thing in Lindsifarne

Back at Sheen's dungeon we were subjected to a two hour battering of the shite that is Game of Thrones before I was finally allowed to collapse into a fitful sleep on his cold damp cellar floor. The following morning Sheen and I went into Durham town, saying sad farewells to Helen at the cathedral. Tarquin gave me his own personal tour of the cathedral, which appeared to be split between the Catholic, Jewish and Greek Orthodox churches, if his explanations were to be believed. He also did it in a German accent for some unfathomable reason.

What a dump

This weekend just passed was the 1st of July and I hot footed it out of the country to France and the Somme, to the commemorations that were happening there. I have a passing interest in the Great War. I also have a passing interest in the aviation of the First World War. It came as a great delight and surprise that Peter Hart would be joining us for the trip. An eminent historian from the Imperial War Museum, Peter had written two books of which I was rather fond: Bloody April and Falling Aces, so it was with baited breath that wanted to meet him. What a fucking disappointment he was. All he did was swear at everyone, get drunk and belligerent and call everyone he knew 'a cunt'. I have never been more shocked in all my life. I never ever swear, especially in public, and to hear this man turn the very air blue gave me a funny turn. I will never look at his books in the same light again.

I used to like your books...

Weird things always happen when I go to France and this time was no different. We were sitting there relaxing, having a nice drink when a bunch of French farmers pulled up, eager to show us something once they found out there were archaeologists amongst our number. From out of the back of their car they pulled the fuselage tail section of a BF-109f. In immaculate condition...

Om nom nom...

They invited us to come and have a look at the other 'special stuff' they had in various barns across the countryside. Between them they'd built a museum that housed several aircraft engines they'd pulled out of the ground, all restored and displayed as only enthusiasts can...

Double om nom nom...

We were then took around various other farms to look at barn doors with Great War painting still intact, more rusted metal from various airplane crash sites, Great War graffiti on church walls and best of all a still working cannon from a BF-109 that had lain in the ground for seventy years!

DAKKA DAKKA DAKKA!!

Yes, being a nerd can sometimes have its advantages. To see more pictures from France, CLICK HERE. The rest of the weekend was made up of visiting the sunken lane at 7.30am on the 1st and paying our respects to the men who fought and died there. I also attended the Ulster Tower memorial service, where I got my photo taken with a real life Canadian Mountie and won a two Euro bet with Dr Kenyon, who egged me on to get my picture with her. Unfortunately I didn't win the five Euro bet which would have seen me wearing her hat...

The Mounties always get their man...

The afternoons and evenings were swamped with booze and I am still recovering two days later. Sorry, I've just realised none of this is actually funny. So I'll stop.

Pearls before Swine

2011-06-29T19:41:00.005+01:00

I received a letter from my mother. I opened it and saw a small post it note (it was one I brought back from Graceland, it has a picture of Elvis on it) attached to a newspaper article. I pulled the note out and read it. It said:

'This is the article I told you about. Do you know any of them? Mum x'

This is the article she meant. It was something about Heslington East, and yes I did know some of the people. The unfortunate thing was immediately after I read the post-it note I pulled the page out of the envelope and opened the newspaper sheet the wrong side up and was confronted with this article:

Hmmm...

Dead Skin Mask

2011-06-20T20:51:00.002+01:00

As promised I have uploaded some photos of last week's trip out to Bridlington.

OK, not Bridlington, but York. The RA were brought in to help reduce the pockets of resistance left in Tang Hall

The most exciting thing to happen all week: a Sea King went over site.

How site looked when I arrived...

Dave Rhodes rocks, but gently...

Carolyn, the finest stripper the East Coast has to offer...

Coming attractions...

HELP! HELP! I'M TRAPPED! CAN ANYONE HEAR ME?

Bridlington knows its audience

'I'll take the Daniel O'Donnell pepper pot (I've already got a salt shaker...) and the Meercat figurine, please..'

A fitting tribute to the Hero of Damascus, a sun dial...

...overlooked by a council flat.

When I first saw this, I thought it said 'Wayward Ho'. Promising so much. Then I reread it and wondered what the fuck they were trying to say?
'Go West! It's better than this shithole in the east!'

The bright shopping experiences of Bridlington, just like Milan

Wide European style boulevards packed with cafes serving coffee twenty four hours of the day...

A bustling and lively seafront awaits...

'What year is this? Who's the President?'

Bridlington battles racism

Shadows over Bridlington, Cthulhu is risen...

Children of the corn...

After a week of fucking the site

This weekend I bought a metric fuckload of meat and beer (costing exactly £66.60p!!) for a small gathering in order to celebrate Cap'n Blighty's return from the colonies. Since marrying Pocahontas he has been working as a missionary bringing the Good Word to the Oneida. The news of his arrival drew in Mithras from Middle Earth and Tarquin Sheen from the frozen wastes of Ultima Thule. Moogdroog's highly developed sense of smell sniffed the whiff of burnt meat on the wind and also turned up, banging on the door, demanding food.

With a lack of garden furniture Moogdroog forced me to move the settee out of the house into the garden whilst raining blows down on me. It later lashed it down and my settee is still damp.

Stop hitting me!

Tarquin demonstrated his style of self defence that seems to centre around stabbing everyone before they get you.

I'm gonna fucking cut you!

And as usual with all my friend's gatherings the evening progressed into a drunken orgy of violence and comics.

And I finally brought the evening to a head by demonstrating the Manowar power fist to Cap'n Blighty at 3.00am whilst playing Sons of Odin at full blast.

The following day, we ditched Cap'n Blighty and the rest of us headed out to Wharram Percy to find the deserted medieval village. We searched and searched all afternoon in the lashing rain but we couldn't see no fucking village. The only thing we saw was a bunch of lumps in the ground. There were a few information boards scattered around indicating where the ploughs and sackbuts were kept, but beyond that, there was no sign of a Medieval village at all. It was a right fucking rip off. Well, it would have been if we'd have had to pay to get in.

'Where's the fucking village?!'

I finished the weekend off watching Hidden Fortress again with Tarquin, we both failed to spot Darth Vader in it.

Which ones are the gay robots?

And finally, Captain Hindsight says 'The last post was NSFW, so don't look at it in a public space.'