Glow Your Own Way

Howdy. Been sorting out my big move back to the capital of the North over the last week hence the lack of updates. Took the Goose up the line on Friday morning and stashed it in my brother’s garage before getting the National Express back late last night. I set off at about 6.30am on Friday morning in an attempt to escape the biblical storm that was sweeping across the country and I almost made it – it was only in the last half hour of the journey that the rain finally caught up with me and soaked me to the bone. I know I’ve moaned about this many, many times over the last year – but Christ. Every single time I get on that fucking thing, the heavens open. All last week it was dry as a bone. Ridiculously cold, but dry. And then as soon as I decide to get on the bike and transport it, the rain starts. I’m not stupid enough to actually believe that some arcane rain god has it in for me, but it just always seems to be that no matter how nice the weather is, as soon as I get on my motorbike, it turns shitty.

Apart from the rainy (windy and dark) journey on Friday morning, the weekend was quite pleasant. Spent Friday night at my dad’s and Saturday night I went to a friend’s house party/Christmas do that eventually spilled out into a few pubs. It was in a place called Ramsbottom on the outskirts of Manchester and was a really good event, not least because the pubs around that area mostly seem to be proper ‘real ale’ pubs with good friendly atmospheres. I don’t really know Ramsbottom that well, but from the few times I’ve been there to visit this particular friend, I have quite a positive opinion of it. The place seems to be very ‘old fashioned,’ but not in a horrible, urban decay way – more in a ‘dry stone wall’ way, where a lot of the buildings are made of those grey odd-shaped bricks. There’s also a proper steam railway around there somewhere, so it gets a thumbs up from me. I fully intend to dress as Isambard Kingdom Brunel and ride that quaint fucker one day. 

I went to Minehead a few years ago and we went down to the station there to have a ride on the steam train, but the twat wasn’t running so we just went to the pub instead. So yeah, Saturday night was a bit of a blur involving lots of ale and party food. Earlier in the day I got lost on the ridiculous motorway network encircling Manchester and ended up somewhere near Liverpool when I was trying to get to Stockport (and predictably I also got piss wet through), but apart from that, it was a chilled weekend. 

I got the coach back from Chorlton Street in Manchester and discovered to my horror that it isn’t only Birmingham coach station that charges 30p for the pleasure of being able to have a piss or shit in their toilets. Personally, I think that this kind of thing is disgusting. Charging people to carry out essential bodily functions. I remember when I went to Hull a few months ago and was bursting for a piss, but the toilets in the train station were even more expensive than the two aforementioned coach stations! I can’t remember how much, but I’m pretty sure it was more than the already outrageous 30p levy at Brum and Manc. In case you were wondering, I didn’t use the bogs at Hull, I just emptied my effluent all over the main High Street instead – not that you could tell (this is a joke, by the way – I think Hull’s a pretty nice place, especially since they built that new shopping area). But anyway, enough of my boring life story. 

When I was in Manchester waiting for my coach, I stepped into a shop called Clas Ohlson, which to me at least, appears to be Ikea without the furniture. It’s full of all sorts of tat – from garden tools and kitchenware to electrical and computer accessories. I love it, and could spend ages wandering around just looking at stuff. One thing I did see was this: 

768 colour combinations apparently. Not sure about that.

It’s a lamp. Not just any lamp though - its called 'Glow' and it comes with a remote control that lets you change the fucking colour! How insanely cool is that?! 

Each button changes the colour, the ones on the right adjust the brightness

Standard 'orange' mode

Probably should've tidied up before taking these pictures

As soon as I saw it I had to have it, so I shelled out £30 for it and transported it back halfway across the country with me. What else? Oh yeah – I sold my old iPod on Gumtree as well as my laptop in order to fund my latest ‘big’ purchase – an iPod Classic 160GB. It’s silver and matches the new MacBook Pro I got last week. I’m becoming everything I ever hated buying all this Apple stuff, but you know what? I think I can see why people desire Apple stuff: it just fucking works. It comes out of the box, you turn it on...and it just works. As simple as that. I’ve had no issues whatsoever with the MacBook, and the iPod is just the same. None of those stupid Windows dialogue boxes popping up with error messages accompanied by that stupid alert noise. Nothing but silky smooth performance. Sure, the MacBook is only a week old so that’s what you’d expect, but the OS is so much better than anything gaudy old Windows 8 could ever be, what with its hideous neon squares and incompatibility issues. Urgh. I played around with a Windows 8 PC in Curry’s last week and I was pretty horrified by how clunky it felt compared to Mountain Lion...and that was after using the Mac for about 3 days. Am I an Apple convert? Well, I was always slightly into Apple macs anyway (my first job after Uni was selling and demoing Apple G5 Powermacs), and I did all the online exams to gain ‘Apple Product Professional’ status (those RAID exams were fun, let me tell you), so I don’t think it’s a question of being a convert. More a case of ‘I ditched Windows because Mountain Lion kicks ass.’ Or something like that. In other iPod news, I’ve managed to download a piece of software that converts DVDs into mp4 movies that can be played on the iPod – so now I can watch movies on the cross trainer in the gym. Which, frankly, is awesome. Right, that’s enough from me for the moment. Until next time.

Another Week in the North

Hello there. I spent the last week up in Manchester, hence the lack of posts. Sure, there are thousands upon thousands of internet cafes (probably), but it meant lugging my laptop into town on the bus and then finding somewhere that wasn't full to bursting with trendy trench-coat and luminous jean-wearing hipsters sipping mocha-choca-lattes. 

My mum’s house hasn't yet entered the digital age, so I've been in a bit of an internet dark age for the last 6 or seven days; but the main reason I went back up there was to attend a job interview. 

As I've documented several times over the last few weeks, my existence in the backwater township of Gloucester is hardly enjoyable, and so I've taken steps to relocate my ass back to where stuff actually happens and I don’t have to live in a flat with shit spread all over the inside (and occasionally the outside) of the toilet. As it turns out, I wasn't successful at the job interview but I was offered a small lifeline by the woman who interviewed me – there’s another post coming up in 4-6 weeks and they’d like to keep me in mind for it. Obviously I jumped at the chance and even though it’s not a guaranteed job offer, I'm going to throw caution to the wind, quit my current job and move home as soon as possible. It’ll probably mean crashing on my mum’s couch for a few weeks until I can get a place of my own sorted...but fuck it. What’s life about if not taking risks once in a while? Better to be on my mum’s couch (well, spare bed) than here in total isolation wrestling with boredom-induced alcoholism every night of the fucking week. 

I've already written an email to my manager offering my resignation...but judging from my previous attempts to quit, she’ll try to convince me otherwise and get me to stay. Not going to happen this time, not a chance. I just want to do my notice, hire a van and transport all my shit home (or rather, into storage). After that, I think I’ll go for a short holiday before Christmas. Cheers for the payout, Royal Navy! I was always planning on going backpacking in Thailand or somewhere when this job ended in April, but now my plans have changed I think I’ll spend a little less on a nice week away on my own somewhere instead. Europe maybe. Or possibly further afield. Don’t know yet. I just need to clear my head and then come back refreshed – get Christmas out of the way and then start getting my life and head back together without the constant feeling that I want to be somewhere else. 

My week in Manchester was also filled with lots of running (33 miles worth, in fact) and also lots of photography (several GBs worth). I've started a Flickr account and will be uploading the best of the shots I manage to squeeze out of the Fuji’s massive lens, so stay tuned for those you lucky people. Other highlights of the last week included Manchester’s Christmas market...but in all truth they were that busy that calling them a ‘highlight’ is a bit of a lie. I made the error of trying to meet a mate there on Saturday night and the sheer size of the crowds meant that we stayed for little more that 5 minutes before leaving. I shouldn’t have been surprised by the amount of people swarming about seeing as it was the payday weekend, but it was definitely the busiest I’ve ever seen the markets. I remember when I was living in Manchester before joining the navy – the Christmas markets were never like that – you literally couldn’t move in some places, such was the volume of people standing around trying to buy a glass of hot wine for a fiver or a chocolate-covered banana for some equally extortionate sum. Nevertheless, we found some decent pubs and had a good night, so it was alright in the end. 

Sunday I went to Smithfield market, which is basically the world’s biggest car boot sale...and just wandered around looking at stalls over-flowing with cheapo toys and hideous chav clothes. Didn’t buy anything (except a fucking amazing Cumberland sausage barm with mushrooms), but it was good to get out amongst the hustle and bustle of a proletariat market. But now I'm back in Gloucester. Not for long though. Not for long. Hopefully, I'll be outta here by mid December and can get on with trying to sort my life out. Exciting times ahead!

Oh, and you can check out my Flickr photo 'stream' here.

Icewind Dale

Sadly, this post isn't about an ancient PC role playing game, so if you came here after googling that title - I apologise. That's apologise, with an 's' - not a 'z.' Fuck off auto-correct. I went back up to Manchester at the weekend on the motorbike. I set off on Friday afternoon hoping to avoid the traffic on the motorway (it's always, always congested around Birmingham. Without fail. I bet it's congested right now, actually), but on the way to the M5 I discovered that my back tire was flat. It didn't look particularly 'down,' but when I was riding, the back end just felt 'funny.' Not Joe Pesci 'funny,' just a bit unstable. I stopped a few times and looked at it and pressed it with my thumb, and it looked and felt OK to my novice eyes/thumbs...but I called in to a garage before my junction and asked if a mechanic could have a quick look at it. Turns out it was completely void of any air whatsoever. Completely flat. He pumped it up with his little hand held squirty-gas thing (technical terminology, right there) and it went rock solid...and the ride quality improved dramatically. Leads me to wonder whether it's been flat the whole time I've had it, as truth be told, it's felt a little bit unstable the whole time. With the CBF, you could instantly see if you had a puncture because the tires were quite thin, but with this bike's big fat tires, it's hard to tell. Unless you get a bloke with a pressure gauge to check for you. So – note to relatively new motorcyclists: check your tires. If I hadn't just happened to pass that garage, I probably would've continued on to the motorway and then cranked the bike up to 70 – 80mph with a flat tire...and who knows how badly that little scenario could've ended.

The weekend passed with little incident – saw my myriad nephews and nieces and brother and sisters, saw some friends on Saturday night and then came back. The ride back was particularly horrible, though it had nothing to do with traffic jams or a flat tire – it was down to the fucking gale-force winds that threatened to blow me sideways off the road almost continuously. Seriously, the trees at the sides of the motorway were bending over with the force of the fucking wind and at one point just past Stafford, the back wheel actually shifted from under me and I thought I was dead. I managed to keep control and get the bike straight again, but fuck me – what is it with the damned weather this year? It feels like mother nature is throwing everything at me: January – February, when I first started riding, the weather was stupidly cold – to the point where I was wearing 3 pairs of gloves to keep feeling in my hands. March – September it rained almost constantly, with a little bit of wind and sleet thrown in for good measure, and now we've hit October, the wind seems to be wanting to get in on the act. The kind of wind I've only ever seen in news reports. And it's always blowing against me – never behind me, making the ride actually bearable. So, not only is riding a motorbike loud and cold and (to be honest) a little bit uncomfortable, now I've got to hold on for grim death because the wind doesn't want me to stay upright. Makes me wonder why I fucking bother to be honest. Oh, wait – petrol is still £1.40 a litre. That's why.

Went back to that shopping centre in Bristol this week to try to use some more of my vouchers. I'm probably in an enviable position in that there's not really anything I want or need. I've got a fuck load of gadgets, and enough clothes...so I bought a travel towel for my planned Thailand trip in early 2013, and an iTunes voucher. Never used an iTunes voucher before, but it's pretty straight forward really – you just scrape the silver strip off the back and input the code that's revealed. So what did I get from the store? Bit of a mixed bag really. Got the new Muse album, The 2^nd Law. And it's a bit cack. Several of the tunes are complete rip-offs of Queen songs, and the rest are, in the main, floaty high pitched dross with a few guitar riffs thrown in. There are one or two semi-decent tracks, but this is a world away from their last good album, Black Holes and Revelations. Their previous effort was underwhelming too... so might give Muse a miss from now on. The others I got were the new Motion City Soundtrack offering, Simple Plan's latest, an album from a band most people have never heard of but actually write some of the best punk/pop I've ever heard – The Click Five, and the latest album from Nas. I'm not a massive fan of the rap genre, but Nas' stuff is quite good in my opinion. Hence the purchase. So there you are. A few near-death experiences and some iTunes purchases. An action-packed weekend I'm sure you'll agree.

Assorted Images of Manchester

I waxed lyrical about Manchester in my last post, so I thought I'd upload some of the photos I took over the weekend, along with some from previous visits (the ones with a hint of sunshine in them!). Enjoy!

The Best of Times, The Worst of Times

Well, what a weekend that was. One of the best I’ve had in a while – but also, conversely one of the worst too. I’ll elaborate.

I went back home to the fair city of Manchester to attend a work seminar thing on Friday and due to the fact that I have family and friends there, I decided to make a weekend of it, couch surfing and seeing old pals. The seminar went well (apart from all the stuff that went a good few miles over my head), and afterwards I met up with a couple of mates for a few drinks in town. It wasn’t a late one, and I was back indoors by midnight, but the whole experience was turned slightly sour the next morning when I realised I’d lost my driving license. All of my other cards where there in my pocket...but the license was gone! How the fuck this happened, I still have no idea. I had no reason to get it out – indeed, I’m pretty sure I got none of my cards out throughout the entire evening...so how it managed to vanish into thin air is a complete fucking mystery. What makes it even worse is that I now have to dish out another twenty quid for a replacement photo card...that’ll take weeks to arrive. The main aggravation factor with this is that even though I’m almost 31, I still look (according to every shop owner/bar tender in the land) ‘under age,’ so buying alcohol is pretty much off the agenda until my new license arrives as it’s my only bit of accepted identification. I suppose I could carry my passport around with me...but that’s just weird. At least I’ll have an excuse to give my liver a rest I suppose.

People keep telling me to tell the police that I’ve lost it...but what’s the point? The police are fucking useless at the best of times and all they’ll do is write my details down on a post-it note that’ll waft off the desk and into a bin as soon as somebody opens a window to let the stench of stale coffee out of the office.

Saturday afternoon, I went back into Manchester for a more leisurely wander around the city. It’s been a while since I graced my home town and I always marvel at how quickly new buildings and developments spring up. I found myself walking around a whole new sector of the city centre that looks like something out of an Arthur C Clarke novella – it’s all glass towers and open boulevards...actually quite a nice place, if you like living in Gattaca. It was also, coincidentally, my mother’s birthday so I bought her a gift and then went to have a look around the National Football Museum. It‘s recently been installed in the Urbis centre (ripped from its former home at Preston North End’s stadium), and I must say that for a free attraction, it’s pretty damn impressive. The shape of the Urbis building (it’s like a giant wedge of cake) means that you’re constantly heaving your ass up stairways to get to the next part of the museum, but the sheer number of interesting football-related artefacts (old footballs, old kits, old tickets, old...stuff in general) is staggering. I suppose this is to be expected in the National Football Museum, but meh. What is also quite interesting is that it is housed in Manchester and not London...but that’s another story. After the museum, I moved on to the Arndale Centre, but not before spotting former Olympic athlete Linford Christie in the street. He was setting up some kind of sporting event for under-privileged kids and they’d sealed off the road to set up a running track, supposedly for running races. I didn’t stick around to see what went on, but Kudos to Linford for doing something like that. He’s a bit of a monster in reality, too – I honestly had no idea how tall the guy was. If he hadn’t been a sprinter, I’m pretty confident he could’ve played Cole Train in Gears of War 3 instead. Or something.

Saturday evening I went out for a meal with my old dear (as I said, it was her birthday), and also managed to meet up with my sisters and their respective partners, so all in all it was quite a good day.

Sunday morning was always reserved for the East Manchester 10K race that I entered a few weeks back. Unfortunately at the time I entered, I hadn’t factored in that I had no way of getting to the event, other than under my own steam as a) few people I know who drive would be up at 8am on a Sunday to give me a lift, and b) there is no direct public transport between where I was staying and the race start point. So I got my running gear on and ran the three miles to the park where it was being held. It didn’t help that I arrived way too early and then had to sit around for 45 minutes after collecting my race number, but when the race started, I was well up for it. It was only a 10k (my usual race distance is half marathon (13 miles)), but by God was it tough. I was in about 6th for most of the race as the ‘elite’ athletes all raced off ahead...but slowly I made my way up through the rankings (and almost got lost at one point due to the lack of signage in a wooded area), and ended up finishing the race in second place. Second fucking place! Out of about 120 other runners! I got a medal and a voucher for £20 from a local running shop (which I used to buy socks...) so I was happy with that...but the 3 mile run home was less welcome.

Sunday afternoon was spent again walking around the city centre, but this time I went exploring the older side of the city where the cobbled streets and old warehouses still loom menacingly. It’s really atmospheric in certain parts of Ancoats and the outer limits of the Northern Quarter – it’s all old fire escapes and grand old office buildings with impossibly decorative frontages hidden by decades of grime and soot. The little warrens of alleys hold so much industrial heritage and history it almost makes you sad that it’s all so hidden away and forgotten. Manchester is widely regarded as the birthplace of the industrial revolution, and was nicknamed ‘Cottonopolis’ back in the 19th century on account of the sheer number of cotton mills and chimneys blocking out the sun and filling the air with smog. To travel these narrow, cobbled back streets in 2012 and see how the buildings that represented the pinnacle of the industrial age have fallen into disrepair and decay is very sombre. Everything is so silent and eerie, but just a few streets away, there is bustling traffic, street music and thronging crowds of shoppers rush around. I think that’s the main thing – the quietness and the lack of people. Once upon a time, these alleys were full of people, imports and exports from the canals and the hubbub of business, trade and industry. Now...just silence and crisp bags blowing in the gutter. The towering glass buildings of the modern age in the middle distance only highlight the juxtaposition. What a strange sight they make – two complete contrasts of the ages. Hmm.


Manchester in the 19th Century, apparently. At least it's sunny.

Anyway, late Sunday I ducked out of the rain (didn’t I mention the rain?!) and into a little city centre pub to catch a bit of the Manchester City v Southampton game, before getting the train back south. I’m always a little bit sad when I have to leave Manchester, not just because it’s my home town, but because there’s nowhere quite like it in the UK. I’ve lived in so many different parts of England and visited so many more...and none of them has the same feeling, the same vibrancy, and the same welcoming atmosphere. Bristol comes close...but it can’t match Manchester for nightlife, entertainment, heritage, warmth and diversity. London does, obviously, but it’s also too big and impersonal. I think it may be that when I leave, I’m usually going back to somewhere I don’t really know anyone of have much of a social life – much like where I’m living now. It never seems to make sense that I’m leaving a place I love and feel at home, to return somewhere I’m relatively unhappy and a total outsider.

So you see – a weekend that was both awesome, and pretty shit at the same time. Awesome as I got to see family and friends, win a silver medal and bask in the might of the great Northern metropolis of Manchester; but pretty shit because ultimately I had to leave. I think I’ve made my mind up on the experiences of this past weekend alone though – after my current job placement ends in April, and after I’ve been travelling for a few months, when I return to the UK it’ll be to settle in Manchester.

Austerity Measures

Well here we are, only 10 days into the month of August and already I'm worrying about having no money. How? Well, it's down to my age old problem of going out on the piss and spending way, way too much money. It's something I do far too regularly for my own liking and it's got to fucking stop sooner rather than later. Here's the scenario: I go out on a Friday or Saturday night. I plan to spend a set amount, say £30, so I take it out of the cash machine before the evening begins. A few hours later and after several pints of lager or cider, I decide that I'm not drunk enough yet (I'm probably smashed already, I hasten to add) and then proceed back to the cash point and draw out another ridiculous sum of money. Cue more drinking, ridiculous behaviour and waking up in the morning with a massive hangover, feelings of regret and a gigantic hole in my bank balance. And this destructive cycle has happened not once or twice, but thrice this month so far. And I'm fucking sick of myself for it.

Granted, the nights out I've had have been pretty good, but this is besides the point. By the middle of the month, I don't want to be scabbling around in the dirt for enough money for some petrol, a loaf of bread or a day out. It's no way to live and after next month's trip to Paris (more later), it fucking ENDS.

The nights out? Well, the main one was a trip to Bristol that culminated in a stay in a backpacker's hostel. It was a really good night out to be fair and I always enjoy taking in the experience of an unfamiliar city, it's just that the excursion signalled the start of my week of unbridled spending. That was on the Friday. The Sunday saw me take a car trip up to Manchester and the petrol wasn't exactly cheap, and the following few days were a flurry of nights out, meals and trying to entertain myself while various friends and family members were at work. As a side note, I must stress that whenever I do go back home, I kind of feel obliged to go out with alarming regularity simply because I have various groups of friends that are totally unconnected and others who can never make agreed meetings due to working hours etc. I obviously feel honoured that people actually want to see me and make arrangements to do so...it's just that it all adds up price-wise. Which leads to my current and rather boring predicament.

Anyway, I'm back at work now and I fucking hate it, but what can one do? At least sitting here and writing this crap, worrying about what I've done and how I'm going to survive the rest of the month means I can't go out and blow the meagre sum I have left on ridiculous, wasteful and unessecary sheight. Urgh. Speaking of work though, I believe I only have around 5 months left in this truly hideous position before I am 'drafted' back into my actual, trained branch. I can't actually put into words how happy this makes me feel...but more about this (maybe) in a future post.

Anyway, must try to stay positive and learn from my mistakes. Although changing the habit of a lifetime will be tough. But tough it must be, or I'll never break this fucking horrendous cycle. I need to start saving, so that's what I'm gonna do instead of go out drinking and wasting money. You'll see. In exactly one year from this post, I'll tell you how much I've managed to save up. Mark my words.

Next week (Monday) I'm off to see the final show of Jimmy Carr's UK tour down in Weymouth with my lady. Actually really looking forward to it. I saw Frankie Boyle live in Bournemouth a few months back and he was brilliant so I'm expecting similar things from Carr. Well, he's pretty funny on TV so I'm guessing it'll be more of the same at his live show, right?! Knowing my luck though, Jimmy Carr will fall ill the day before the show and we'll have to endure an hour and a half of Lenny Henry instead as a back-up act. A man so unfunny he makes cancer look like Shooting Stars.

Random interlude: I had no idea Scott Mills, the Radio 1 DJ, is a big gay. I read it on this thing called the 'Pink List' on the Sunday Telegraph website when I logged on to the internet this morning. I thought it might have just meant he was a gay icon or some shit, but when I looked at his Wikipedia page, it confirmed that Mills came out in 2001 and now prefers the cock. He kept that quiet. Let me clarify that this in now way changes my opinion that the guy is the most tolerable of all the cunts who spout their shite on that godawful station, I just found it quite suprising. Probably won't listen to him anymore, like, but hey. And for those who can't tell - that was a JOKE. Not the gay bit...the not listening bit...erm...

Cough. Anyway.

Decided to smash though all of George Orwell's back catalogue after reading his classic 1985 last week. I've already read Animal Farm and bits of The Road to Wigan Pier, but that was years ago so I'm starting again. This time, however, I'm starting with Down and Out in Paris and London....something I'm likely to be next month if I don't try my damnedest to save some of the remnants of this month's wage to supplement my/our jaunt to the French capital at the beginning of September.

Excursions

Hello there. Been an odd couple of weeks for me, and I've been all over the place so not really had the time or the inclination to post any of my usual brand of shite on here. I'm back at work for the next two weeks though, so I should be spilling my mind onto the tinterwebs with alarming regularity over the next couple of (well, 14) days. So what's been occurring then?

Well, last week I ventured out of the south and headed back up to the Great Industrial North (tm) for a week of head-clearing, reflection and relaxation. Inevitably though, it just ended up being a bit of piss-up that lasted for 5 days. I had every intention of going up there to just chill out and get some good running and cycling done, but due to recent events my mood was slightly awry and this was perceived by most of my friends and family (Gawd bless 'em all) as "let's get him pissed to cheer him up." It kind of worked for the most part, and I had an enjoyable time (more later), but I still just couldn't help but go over the events in my personal life over and over and over...ad nausea. Which was shite.

However, apart from get monumentally bollocksed, I did partake in some decent activities. I went up to Jodrell Bank space telescope in Cheshire with my cousin after enquiring with a former housemate (who now works there) as to whether there was a visitor's centre. He enthusiastically informed me that there was a 'small' one there. So me and cousin ventured out to the place...only to discover that the 'small' visitor's centre (that also charged a £2 entry fee), was little more than a room with a few pictures and an extortionately expensive cafe. Unimpressive is the least offensive word that I can use to describe said vistor's centre. The telescope itself, however, is a real feat of engineering - the thing is fucking hur-uge, and it can rotate on a massive track-type job. It did actually move at one point, and it makes you think why it was moving and what the bods in charge were looking at/for. As a side note, I remember that when my former housemate (who was studying for a PhD in Astrophysics at the time) hooked up his bedroom PC to Jodrell Bank's through the internet, all that came up on the screen were rows upon rows of numbers etc. Not what I had in mind when I thought about telescopes...although it is a radio telescope so assuming that there'd be big pictures of nebulae and shit on the guy's computer screen does seem a little on the naive side when I actually think about it!

Also at Jodrell, there were these things called 'the whispering dishes,' which are these two big green...er...dishes facing each other and are spaced about 200 yards apart. If you stand in front of one and whisper into it, the person standing in front of the other one can hear your voice as clear as a bell. Fuck knows how it all works, but I would hazard a guess that it's got something to do with acoustics or something. Still, a brilliant little curiosity and unlike the crappy visitor's centre, they were free to marvel at.

After Jodrell Bank had offered up all (well, both of) it's wonders, I took a trip to Stockport to see a mate who I've not seen for about 2 years (which, as you've probably predicted, turned into a visit to the pub). This event was tinged with regret though, as it saw me break my year-long, self-imposed ban on the consumption of the donner kebab. Look - It was late, I was pissed and I hadn't eaten all day. I was attracted to the bright lights of the kebab outlet like a moth to a flame...and the rest is history. I have to say that after I'd consumed it, I felt disturbingly horrible. Greasy and disgusting, in fact. I toyed with the idea of trying to wretch the fucker up into some bushes, but there were a load of boy racers watching me from their hideously coloured and 'tuned' Vauxhall Corsas in a supermarket car park across the road.

The week also saw me take a train ride to Southport, which is a little seaside town just down the coast from Blackpool. It's quite a decent place, but you can tell that it's a shadow of it's former self (thanks Resident Evil for that quote - I use it more often than I should). There is a fun fair like the Pleasure Beach at Blackpool, but it's been closed for a while and there are umpteen closed down food stalls and arcades along the seafront. It's quite sad, really, as you can see that the whole place is slowly dying off - maybe it's down to the recession, or maybe just down to the fact that Blackpool is just up the road (you can see the tower and the Bog One roller coaster from the beach at Southport), but it's still quite eerie when you walk past the closed rides and empty pier. On the plus side, we did stop for a pint at the world's smallest pub (they've even got a plaque on the wall that was issued by the Guinness records people) and also got some proper fish and chips that was devoured with gusto on the sea front.

On Thursday, I finally got to speak to my sister and see her baby girl (my niece, obviously). She's a big old unit considering she's only 8-ish months old and I was scared shitless of dropping her, so declined the offer of carrying her. Added to this, she was probably wondering who the fuck I was and started to flap every time I got near her, but I eventually got the chance to have her sit on my lap...at which point she shat her nappy. Always nice. But yeah, seeing a real-life baby was cool. Which reminds me that my brother's baby is due in August, too. Mental. Gonna be an uncle for the second time in the space of a year!

So, it was fairly good week, and it was good to see so many people again who I've not seen for ages...and it only took me 4 hours to get back up there in the Proton (which is still going strong, for those who are interested). If only there hadn't been so much negative horse-shit going round in my head. Ah well. Maybe the shrink I'm off to see can suck it all out of my swede. If that doesn't work, I'm going to employ Mike Tyson to beat it out. Hmmm...!

Flat Caps & Whippets

Well hello. And how are we all? Good I hope. Excellent. Right, enough of the niceties - lets get down to the real reason you came here: ME! The past week or so has been quite eventful, if I'm honest. The early segment (i.e. Monday through Thursday) saw me take a train journey from the deep, dark South all the way up to the enlightened and glorious North. That is, my better half paid for me to take a train journey from Weymouth to Manchester. Not only that, but we stayed in one of Manchester's finest hotels, the 4-star Palace on Oxford Road. It's funny, because I used to pass the Palace pretty much every day when I lived and worked in Manchester. Every time I cycled my fucked-up old Saracen up Oxford Road's deadly bus lane/cycle-path, I'd pass the Palace Hotel and never once did it cross my mind that I'd one day actually be a guest there. Truly bizarre how things work out, ain't it. Of course, I owe the entire experience of staying in such a fine establishment to the lady in my life, but that's besides the point - I stayed at the mother-fucking PALACE! Booyah!

When you go into the main foyer there's this massive stain-glass dome forming the ceiling, which is pretty spectacular. The sliding doors that comprise the entrance portal to this wondrous void are less awe-inspiring - they seemed to open and close at random, leading to some interesting situations involving, well, being squashed between two sliding plates of glass. Elsewhere, the dining area and bar didn't fail to impress me: soft classical music, the aroma of quality coffee, the helpful and polite staff. Tis superb and is as opulent and luxurious as you'd expect a 4-Star hotel to be. Special mention must also go to the lift, which makes a bizarre beeping noise every time it arrives. Why? Is it announcing it's arrival to those people too ignorant to notice the doors opening? Who knows. But it beeps. Oddly.

Apart from being over-awed by the hotel, the rest of my/our time up there in the great industrial North was spent taking in the sights, sounds and (usually quite pungent) smells of the city. We went to Salford Quays (via the newly refurbished Metrolink - which is like the London Underground, but less crowded, over-ground, and without the constant feeling of impending apocalypse) to experience the blistering cold razor-wind and the Imperial War Museum North; we ventured into the Gothic splendour of the John Rylands Library; we were seated in a Slug & Lettuce gastro-pub but then left before ordering any scran because they wanted £15 for a fucking salad; and we even went to the Royal Exchange Theatre to watch a production of Shakespeare's A Comedy Of Errors.

I have to admit that I'm a bit of a novice when it comes to Shakespeare (although I have read Macbeth, Romeo & Juliet and...er...The Shakespeare Secret), but I really enjoyed the play, and totally understood it too - which was a bonus, considering how dense my swede is. We sampled other delights of the city (Joseph Holt Mild, a meat pie that required it's own foundations, the Arndale Centre, the Wheel of Manchester, the Printworks, all-you-can-eat Chinese, the Frog & Bucket Comedy Club and the Curry Mile included) during the visit, and I must admit that I was quite sad when Thursday rolled around and checkout time loomed...but all in all it was a bloody marvellous excursion and I enjoyed pretty much every second of it. Apart from the feral kids running around the Museum of Science & Industry and the fucking blistering cold, wind and rain that persisted throughout the duration of the stay. But cest la vie, eh? Many thanks, once again if you're reading this drivel, by the way. No, not you.

So yeah, got back to my oft-mentioned house share on Thursday evening and desperately tried to enjoy handing over my rent money, before going to bed. And then on Friday I jumped in the car and drove back up North to Gloucester to spend the Easter weekend with my uncle, various cousins and several gallons of alcoholic liquid. Which was nice. But alas, all good things must come to an end, and now I'm back at work writing this shit whilst a cretin polishes a weapon behind me. And that, my friends, is not a euphemism. Gotta take the rough with the smooth I guess. Now excuse me whilst I embark on Mary Shelly's Frankenstein...it's gonna be a long week.