Photoburst

Friday evening’s ride into the heart of the wilderness (well, Dorset) was probably the most ventricle-threatening trip I’ve yet to have on a motorbike. I set off from work at 4pm and as soon as I got on the M5 the fog just started rolling in like something out of a zombie film. Either that, or an N64 racing game. And that, dear reader, is an oblique reference to said hardware’s inability to cope with scenery ‘pop-up,’ forcing racing game developers to mask trackside detail just ‘appearing’ in the middle-distance by blanketing everything in grey mist. See San Francisco Rush for further details. Once I hit Bristol (and that damned 50mph zone that has been there, seemingly, forever...even though no road works appear to be taking place), the fog was truly enveloping and it stayed that way all the way down to my exit at Taunton. It didn’t stop most of my fellow road users driving like fucking maniacs though – and people still act amazed when there’s a report of a major crash on our highways. Driving at 100mph+ on a fairly clear day is (probably) dicing with death...doing it when you can barely see the next vehicle’s back lights is just asking for the Grim Reaper to get out of his comfy chair and put his cloak on. I opted to spend most of the journey in the outside lane, letting the idiots race past into the fog with abandon knowing that even if a fireball did suddenly erupt in the distance and illuminate the grey dreariness, I’d have ample time to pull over onto the hard shoulder, stop the bike and guffaw heartily to myself. Callous? Yes.

Once I left the relatively well illuminated motorway, I was forced to use the badly maintained, narrow and downright scary back roads of Somerset and Dorset in order to reach my destination. I find these roads hair-raising at the best of times, what with their winding nature, framed with thick hedgerows and usually strewn with clods of mud from the frequent tractors that use them to get from field to field. I’m sure there’s something in the Highway Code about depositing mud on public roads, and how it’s illegal (and fucking dangerous)...but the bumpkins who are guilty of the action don’t really seem to give a toss. Throw in darkness, fog and an Audi driving right up behind you and the experience becomes extremely undesirable. It’s these kinds of trips that can either make you a better rider...or kill you. Obviously, by the way you’re reading these words, you can hopefully tell that I didn’t die that night (unless I’m dead and don’t actually realise, ala The Others...), but I didn’t enjoy the journey one iota. Hopefully, once sunnier times return the experiences of 2012’s pretty shocking weather will put me in good stead and make me an even safer motorcyclist. Unfortunately, no matter how good a rider I am, it won’t stop people in cars being fucking arseholes. I think I’ve spent enough time berating other non-motorcycling road-users in recent months though, so for now I’ll let the subject rest. Well, until some other prick almost kills me through arrogance and over-confidence in his/her own driving ability.

On Saturday I bit the bullet and bought something I’ve been coveting for quite some time. I’ve always been interested in photography and wanted to make it into a hobby but never really had the equipment to do so. I have my Lumix point and click digital camera, which is an amazing piece of equipment...but it isn’t really designed to take photos of the kind I want. It’s fine for taking snaps of friends on nights out, or of family occasions...but of stunning sunsets or majestic vistas? Well, no. The quality is sublime – what would you expect from a 16 megapixel compact? It’s just that depth of field is nonexistent and manual focus isn’t an option. As for the zoom...well it’s pretty pointless. The Lumix is a great camera for the intended purpose yes, but not really a ‘photographers’ camera. So I went to Curry’s and bought a Fujifilm HS30 EXR digital bridge camera. It cost a small fortune (just under £300), but by God does it take nice photos:

I’m by no means an expert when it comes to photography, but the numerous settings are so beginner friendly that even the biggest idiot can get the thing out of the box and start taking great photos immediately. If you are an expert though, there are enough settings that you can (more than likely) produce some simply stunning pictures. The main attraction of the HS30 for me was the manual zoom and focus rings around the zoom lens. Most cameras in this class have motorised zooms (where you press a button or switch to zoom in and out), but the HS30 lets you rotate the rings to do it. It does make you look very professional and also lends a look of a proper DSLR to the thing. The only drawback is when you’re filming video and the zoom is manual so unless you’ve got robotic wrists the zoom can be a little jerky. To be fair though, I didn’t buy it to make films (even though it does shoot in 1080 full HD and has several high-speed modes allowing for rather impressive slow motion recording). The number of shooting modes and special features is a little overwhelming at first, but one I got my head around the basic functions and how to just point, zoom and focus I was away. I took the camera out (well, my girlfriend drove me) into the hills of Dorset and we managed to get some pretty spectacular shots of the surrounding countryside and late afternoon sun. Most of the following were taken in the vicinity of Hardy’s Monument overlooking the seaside resort of Weymouth and the town of Dorchester:

Dorsetshire

Hardy's Monument

This was actually taken from a moving car...but it still looks good.

Logs

The English Channel (I think...)

Some Swans. Erm.

Hardy’s Monument was erected in honour of Vice-Admiral Hardy – the bloke who Admiral Nelson famously asked to be kissed by on his deathbed, and the setting is very picturesque with views (on a clear day) that go all the way along the south coast towards Lulworth Cove in one direction and Burton Bradstock and Golden Cap in the other, whilst the island of Portland looms directly ahead. It’s a really nice place to visit when the weather is good simply because of the vistas available...what isn't so good though is the situation with the monument and the surrounding land. There’s a fairly large gravel car park around the base of the monument that you used to be able to park in, and on nice days there was a little van selling proper ice cream and drinks...but for some reason the gimps who own the land have decided to close that car park (why??) so now you have to park either in a lay bye along the main (narrow as hell) road or in one of the makeshift car parks at the bottom of the hill and walk up. I believe it’s due to some form of disagreement between the private land-owner and the National Trust (who own the monument)...but all it’s really doing is putting visitors off.

Anyhow, that’s enough from me today. Over the next few days, weeks and months I shall be getting to grips with the new camera and posting the results here (I’m going to add a new section called...erm...photos), and I’d appreciate any comments either positive or negative. Negative! Geddit?! Haha...oh.

Wye Not?

Took the Goose out for a run today. It's been sat looking forlorn and unwanted for the past two weeks, and it hasn't so much as been turned over in that time as I've had no inclination whatsoever to get on it in this blistering cold. But the sun decided to show itself today, and even though it's still cold enough to make an Eskimo think twice about popping out to the shop, I fired her up and went for a ride. I intended to go into Wales and have a bit of a ride around the Brecon Beacons National Park, but on reflection it seemed like a bit of a mission...so I ended up terminating my trip in a little place called Ross-on-Wye. Never been there before, and I probably won't go again, but it's a nice enough little place. Look:

I bought a pork & apple pasty from a farmer's market and had a lavender-flavoured scone (sounds odd, I know, but it was quite nice) and then went home. The ride was actually quite enjoyable - no dick heads riding right up my arse and some excellent scenery. Plenty of bikers out giving each other nods too, which is good to see. Not really much else to report, other than there was a crash two cars behind me in the traffic jam heading back into Gloucester. Exciting stuff.

On the subject of the Goose, I'm having a new back brake disk and pads fitted on Thursday. I was chatting to the mechanic about it on the phone and I just happened to mention that I thought the bike could do with a tidy up, and he put me in touch with a bloke who does that sort of thing as a hobby. So on Monday this bloke is going to stop by and have a look at the Goose and tell me what he thinks it'll cost to have all the panels and tank resprayed. I'm a little bit excited about this (sad, I know), because by all accounts this bloke is a bit tasty with his respraying, and does all sorts of funky designs on scooters and Lambrettas. I'd be interested to see what he can do with my old Goose - just a spruce up is what I'm after, but if he can make it look awesome with Suzuki graphics and shit...well, that'd be...er...awesome. Just got to see what kind of price he quotes first. If it's reasonable, this particular Goose could be on the way to looking totally unique. The Suzuki Goose is a pretty rare bike as it is - one with bespoke graphics would be even rarer...meaning it'll be even more sought after. Which means profit when I eventually sell it. Interesting.

4am

As alluded to in recent posts, I rent a room in a house share. Actually, it's more a flat share. The landlord also lives here - he has the rest of the flat, I have my little room. We share the kitchen, but I generally don't have any presence in the rest of the place, and rightly so. I'm renting a room. When I go, there will be no evidence that I was ever here. I'm basically a shadow, an echo of every other poor bastard who couldn't afford his or her own place. And apart from the shit smears that get left on the bogroll and/or toilet seat every time he goes into the bathroom, I have no problem with the bloke. One thing I've only recently noticed though, is that he locks the door every time he goes in there. Even at, say, 4 in in the morning. Not that I lie there listening for the guy to go for a piss or (messy) shit at 4am...I just noticed it this week when I was lying awake at 4am. And now I've noticed it, I've noticed that it's every single time. Every. Single. Time. Why is that? Why? I go to drain the main vein and leave the fucking door open. It's not something that bothers me...yet my house mate feels he must lock the door at 4am. Does he think I'm going to spring out of my bed, naked and fully erect, and seduce him like some rampant Nosferatu while he's in the throes of spreading shit all over the Armitage Shanks like a tractor spreading muck down a deserted lane? The answer is, rather boringly, no. If I was to attack him, it'd be with something rather more offensive than my cock...just makes me wonder is all. Should I be offended by this tiny action - the clicking of a lock at 4am...or has the solitude of living in this swamp town finally made me go mad?

Just a thought(s). Interestingly:



Other thoughts: do I buy an upgrade to Windows 8? I just don't know. Nobody can tell me if I should. So-called computer 'experts' who work in computer 'shops' can't tell me. Experts who don't know, when asked, what Direct X is. I weep.

Lastly, I'm writing this on the night of the US election. I'm literally watching BBC News psychophants foam at the fucking mouth, live from just outside (or at least, up't road) from t'white thouse. Listen, I really couldn't care less who wins it but I'm going to guess Obama. Of the two, he's (probably) the least likely to press the red flashing button that reduces the whole planet to something that resembles a pebble, and I can only hope the yank public have the sense to re-elect the guy. Which makes me slightly hypocritical, after saying I couldn't care less...but no fucker reads this crap anyway, so I reckon I'm pretty safe. Heil Hitler. See? Case rested.

House Share of Leaves

Started reading House of Leaves last night. Well, started from were I got to in the Amazon preview before it inexplicably jumped forward about 9 chapters, rendering the whole point...well, pointless. God damn Amazon not giving free books away. Who do they think they are? I must say that it's a good read though, if a little unorthodox in the layout department. There are about three different narratives going on at once, two of which take place solely in the footnotes of this report about a guy who's house seems to be bigger on the inside than it is on the outside. It's pretty fucked up, and the page layouts are all over the place – sometimes the footnotes start mid-paragraph in one narative and then you have to read that (and the following pages) before going back to the original passage you were reading. Sounds pretty confusing, and it is to be fair, but if you're used to reading several books concurrently (which is also what I'm doing now, the other two being Shadow's Edge by Brent Weeks and The A303: Highway to the Sun by Tom Fort), then it's fairly easy to get your head around. I started reading at around 8pm last night and was still going well past midnight, so that kinda gives an indication of how easy it is to get carried away by this story (stories?).

The multiple narrative thing isn't the only slightly unusual aspect of  House of Leaves' design. The way the text is actually presented on some (most) of the pages is really weird - sometimes it's in red and struck through, other times there are just a few words on the page. Some of the pages have the text arranged in bizarre ways, like all lop-sided or just in one corner - I've honestly never read anything like it, and I'm guessing that as the layouts get more muddled the further you read, it must be some kind of mechanic used to illustrate madness or something? I don't know, but it looks freaking cool. Any fucker tries to read this badboy over my shoulder on the train and they'll probably vomit. Which is nice.

Apparently, there are two versions of the book - one in full colour, and one in greyscale. I've got the full colour version (complete with white crease down the black front cover - see the last post), and this is important (apparently) because the word 'house' always appears in blue type, as I've illustrated for your delight, dear reader; while other words appear in red, or red with a strikethrough. But the strikethrough is black. Which I can't illustrate because Blogger just don't do that fancy highfalutin shit. I don't know why yet (in the book, I mean), but I'm sure it'll be revealed. Or not. It's certainly trippy literature. Litripture. And just like that, I add another word to the English language. Maybe Lonely Planet would like to offer me a wad of cash for that one? Email me, guys.

I can see now, just flicking through the various chapters why this book could probably never be reproduced for Kindle (other e-readers are available) - I doubt it'd be able to handle the retarded (inspired) page layouts. Well, the normal black and white e-paper version couldn't, anyway. I mean, look at this shit:

is this a copyright infringement?!

That's not to say I'm not enjoying it - I wouldn't have been up till stupid o'clock this morning if I wasn't. I think it's a totally refreshing and completely unique book and I'm just stunned I'd never heard of it before last weekend. A true literary oddity, is House of Leaves. Or House of Leaves, as it should be typed.

Been torturing myself by looking at flats to rent in Manchester. It seems like such a stupid/petty dream to have, but I've never actually had my own place - I mean totally to myself. Since I left University, I've lived exclusively in either house shares or military accommodation. And these have meant that I have lived exclusively in a single room for the majority of my adult life (with the odd 2/4/16/32 man mess or dilapidated barrack thrown in). One room or locker with all my shit stuffed into it. 

So you can see why the very thought of having a kitchen or a separate living room fills me with the kind of excitement usually reserved for that point where you reach the zenith of a roller coaster's climb, teeter precariously for a microsecond and then plunge back earthward. Just the thought of having my stuff in separate rooms. A bookshelf. A fridge with stuff in it that I know won't go missing. Somewhere to put a desktop computer (it'll probably be a used Powermac G5 - oh yes). A desk. A couch! Fuck me, a couch. Personal space to do what I want, without someone else also being there. Without someone else leaving shit all over the toilet bowl, slamming doors at midnight, ploughing their boyfriend/girlfriend in the next room, just being there all the fucking time. My own place to have some relaxing time in, but also the freedom to invite people round whenever I want without the fear of a housemate or live-in landlord coming back and ruining it. Sigh. I'm babbling again. Some time soon(ish) though. And guess what? I'll be sharing it all here! Lucky reader(s?)!

Nooks & Trannies

My book finally arrived at Waterstones and they promptly called me when it was ready for collection. Sadly, it appears that it's been used as a rugby ball. These probably sound like the ramblings of a paranoid schizophrenic, but I'm guessing the fact that I complained about the delay has played some part in this. The cover is all bent (with a massive crease down the front of the book) and the spine and back cover are scuffed to hell. Yes, I'm a little annoyed that a company as large and reputable as Waterstones can allow this sort of thing, but then again maybe it just got like this in transit. Either way, Waterstones have lost a customer in me - when you spend £20 on a book (a fucking book!), you expect to get it on time and in an acceptable condition. By God, what has happened to customer service? I've seen books on car boot sales in better condition that this supposedly new copy of House of Leaves. Bah! At least it's here though - which is the main thing.

I shall be delving into it later on this evening and imparting my thoughts on this very blog in due course. On the subject of books and bookstores though, I noticed an advert on TV t'other day for the Barnes & Noble Nook. Does this mean B&N are finally launching in the UK? If they do, they won't have to try very hard to kick Waterstones' arse judging by my recent experience - all they'll have to do is not send orders to wrong parts of the country, and then deliver said orders in a condition vaguely approaching 'new.' Oh, and maybe employ staff that don't have massive tattoos of the Batman symbol on their forearms (with matching batarang earrings) or look like Hagrid stunt doubles. Seriously, I'm all for people being individuals and shit - but at least try to make yourself look presentable whilst being 'individual.' There are certain shops where it seems to be a prerequisite that you've got bright blue hair and a luminous nose ring in order to get a job there. Gamestation is one such place. Why? I'm a gamer. I'm probably the biggest games geek I know, but it doesn't make me want to walk around wearing a ripped tablecloth and have a gravestone tattooed on my neck.

HMV is another one. Actually - wait an fucking minute, there's a trend developing here (I think). Gamestation. HMV. Waterstones. All shops I've been in recently where at least one member of staff has had black lipstick on (and their sex didn't seem to matter). Curious. There's definitely some kind of link or correlation going on here...but I really can't deduce what it is. I suppose all of these stores sell electronics of some form...maybe that's it? I don't know, but it seems to be the de rigueur for somebody whose job it is to stand around offering (usually incorrect) music or games or book advice to middle aged people in beige trousers and brown NHS spectacles.

I seem to have gone off on quite an unexpected tangent there...but speaking of the Nook, it looks like quite a nice e-reader/tablet thingy. But seeing as I've already got both a Kindle and a BlackBerry Playbook (a device which also allows you to...er...e-read), I don't think I've got much need for one. Maybe I'll go and ask the steampunk goth working in Rumbelows for his/her advice.

I recently bought The Click Five's second album Modern Minds and Pastimes. If anyone in the UK knew who The Click Five were, I'd probably get kicked to death and then set alight, but thanks to their total lack of presence here, I'm good (for now). Basically, TCV (as they shall henceforth be referred to) are what would be produced if Rivers Cuomo ass-raped any one of McFly. They're a band who sing ever-so-catchy pseudo indie/pop and sing it fucking well. I've had their first album for ages (can't remember where I even got it from) and most of the tracks are pretty hummable, but then a few weeks ago I bought their third album off iTunes. My god - what a record. So on Monday night I paid another £7.99 for their second album...and it's easily as good. Want three albums of toe-tapping power pop? TCV should be your first port of call.

Other recent media-related good shit I've encountered: Seasick Steve (music), Moneyball (film), Warehouse 13 (TV series). Seek them all and thou shalt be rewarded.

Bondage

Had my second Bond-at-the-cinema experience last night. Yep, went to see Skyfall. The only other time I've been to see a Bond movie at the pictures was when I went to see Die Another Day, which was a pile of shit and incidentally Pierce Brosnan's last outing as everyone's favourite nymphomaniac espionagologist-amajig. Take from that what you will. There's probably nothing more to take from it than it was the end of his movie deal, but hey. So Skyfall, then. I have to admit that I've never been the biggest fan of these 'new' Bond films with Daniel Craig. Casino Royale (even with it's fucking awesome theme tune – cheers Chris Cornell) was a bit of a mess in my opinion and Quantum of Solace...well I didn't even bother watching it after a) I found Casino Royale such a laborious slog; and b) most people who saw it (including friends who are massive film geeks) told me it was really confusing. Skyfall then, is a welcome step back in the right direction for the franchise as far as I can tell.

The pre-credits sequence features one of the best chase scenes I've seen (even if does traipse across the very same Istanbul rooftop as Liam Neeson does in Taken 2), and is easily as memorable as GoldenEye's opening segment (y'know, where Bond rides a motorbike off a cliff after a falling, pilotless plane, defies terminal velocity to reach and climb inside it and then wrestles it back into the sky...as Tina Turner's epic theme tune kicks in. Fucking ejaculatory stuff right there). I also feel special mention must go to Adele's theme song here too. The one for Quantum of Solace (Jack White and Alicia Keys, if memory serves) was a hideous, out-of-touch mess, so kudos to the director/producers/whoever for getting someone who can actually sing and write music to pen the score for the second most important section of any Bond film.

The movie calms down somewhat after the intro but the storyline is unmistakably 'old school' Bond, with an unknown enemy wreaking havoc across London and Bond returning from oblivion (along with a cracking new cast playing familiar character roles) to kick ass. There are also some genuinely funny bits too (the chase through a rush-hour Underground station and train, for example, is brilliantly done and the humour is very subtle but was met with a crescendo of laughter from the audience), but this is matched with some 'how the fuck is Bond gonna get out of this' juxtaposition. It's a really good entry in the Bond series and a true return to the action/thriller genre that the franchise so desperatley needed in order to coax back punters who, like me, have probably seen most of the films, but aren't die hards. Oh, and my opinion of Craig's Bond has been altered by his performance here – the character is at times frail and references to his age are chucked in here and there, as well as his (obvious) reliance on drink and women.

It's hard to see how the next Bond film will top Skyfall, but it needs to in order to compete with all the other spy-based shit that's trying to usurp him as the master of the genre. We've already had the Bourne films and Mission Impossible series, and no doubt there'll be more of them to come, so hopefully we cinema-goers have a lot to look forward to. One thing's for sure though – whenever Daniel Craig passes on the mantle, his replacement will have some damn big shoes to fill.

I took my Suzuki Goose for a service on Friday. As I suspected, it actually needed a bit of work as it looks as though the previous owners (both here and in Japan(!)) had never actually had it looked at – just ridden and ridden it to oblivion. As such, the oil that the mechanic drained out of the engine looked like treacle and it needs a new back brake disk and possibly a new chain. It's still legal to ride, but that shit costs money. In my defence, I instructed the mechanic to order a new brake disk and ring me when it arrives so he can fit it. Has he called? Nope. So fuck him. I'll go to a more reputable place to see if they can beat his quote, which was a tad high, considering his workshop is primarily a place that deals with gardening equipment and lawnmowers. Still, the service he did carry out has resulted in a marked improvement in performance for the Goose. She seems to run that little bit smoother, with less backfiring at high revs in a low gear, and he also sorted the headlight out. So it's not all bad – he just needs to sort his customer service and pricing skills. And maybe buy a pack of breath mints.

In a totally unrelated matter, I stumbled across a rather intriguing book this weekend. Or rather, I stumbled across a reference to a rather intriguing book whilst reading something online. I took this reference to Wikipedia and from there a bit of an obsession has developed. Basically, I was reading something on Cracked.com and the author made a reference to a book called House of Leaves. I read up about this House of Leaves and found myself absorbing the whole Amazon 'look inside' preview. I knew that as soon as I'd read the synopsis (I won't even bother here – it's way too complicated...but look here for yourself and tell me it doesn't sound awesome) I had to have it. So I've been and ordered a copy from Waterstones. The girl behind the counter who took my order said it should be ready for collection at the local store by today at the latest, but because I'm in Gloucester (incidentally, the only branch in the West Midlands not to hold a copy of House of Leaves), I know for a fact that it won't be there when I go in at lunchtime. That's because Gloucester, in every way imaginable, is a shitty place to live and this is just one way of illustrating it. But I've already covered that at great length. Unfortunately, the arrival of House of Leaves in Waterstones (whenever that may be) means that my current book (the second in the Night Angel trilogy) will have to go on hiatus.

Oh, and happy Halloween. If there can be such a thing.

UPDATE 1

As predicted, I went to Waterstones at lunchtime to collect my book and they didn't have it. To add insult to injury, the 'customer service' guy didn't even know when it'd be delivered for collection! I was told on Monday that it'd be there today! There is no way it takes 3 days for a book to be sent from one Waterstones branch to another, especially when the one in the next town has a fucking copy! Just another reason I hate Gloucester with all my heart. I looked on the Waterstones website to see which local stores have copies of House of Leaves, and yep - you guessed it, every single branch in the entire county (and the surrounding counties) have 1 or more copies of the fucking thing sitting on shelves. Just not the one here, where I live, in this miserable shit hole. God I can't wait to leave this:

Gloucester 'city' centre, October 2012

UPDATE 2

Waterstones just called me. My copy of House of Leaves was sent to the Yeovil store instead of the Gloucester store. I guess its an easy mistake to make, seeing as the words Yeovil and Gloucester look so fucking similar.

This Is Just A Tribute

Chances are that if you'd gone into the armed forces careers office in Portsmouth between 2009 and 2010 (vagueness is my middle name), with an interest in either joining the navy or telling somebody that you are, in fact, related to the royal family and demand to be given a pilot's licence (this happened on one occasion. The bloke in question was told that regrettably, we didn't offer pilot's licenses to people who wandered in off the street smelling of urine and dressed like an explosion had gone off on a charity shop. Or anyone for that matter); that you would have been asked to take a seat across a desk from myself. Still with me? Ok. That's because I worked as a careers advisor for a brief period and it was my job to have first contact with potential recruits and to give them information about the different types of jobs that were available in the navy.

I also had to answer a whole host of ridiculous questions about ships and numbers of press-ups needed to be done in training, and whether you could get wifi in the middle of the Atlantic...and these were usually coming from worried parents who didn't want little Johnny running away to sea without first getting a good idea of what to expect. Anyway. Whilst I was in that job (it was about a year and a half), I worked with a Royal Marine who did the same job as me, but whom offered advice to young lads who wanted to join the marine corps. We had a really good laugh most of the time and used to chat about some really (well, pseudo) in-depth subjects, ranging from politics and films, to whether or not there are secret bases on the moon mining unobtanium. 

Sometimes the job was horrendously monotonous, and as the two lowest ranked people in the office we usually got tasked off with the shittiest jobs you can imagine by our superiors (including making the tea on almost constant rotation). Happily, me and this marine got on like a house on fire and would spend about 70% of the time in the office bitching and moaning and messing around and trying to make the job more enjoyable. One time we found a box of old plastic and paper flags (they had outdated navy/marines badges on them and would've been used at recruitment events and road shows of yore) and built a replica of the Eiffel Tower out of them in the middle of the office, much to the annoyance of the army Major who ran the place. He would constantly berate me for still buying Dreamcast games on eBay, even though he would read my Dreamcast Junkyard posts laughing his head off. Basically, the guy was a really good bloke to work with and he made it bearable spending every day in such a boring office, and hopefully I had the same effect on his working day too. 

Because I was pretty new to Portsmouth and he was actually from there (well, Havant – a town just up the road), he would invite me round to his parents' house at weekends for BBQs, play Modern Warfare etc, or we would just meet up for a few beers with his other non-military mates. So yeah – if I hadn't met this guy, my life in Portsmouth would probably have been pretty dull. I would count the guy as a friend. 

His name was Corporal David O'Connor, and the Ministry of Defence yesterday released the details that he had been killed, along with Corporal Channing Day, whilst on patrol in Helmand Province, Afghanistan. 

I hadn't spoken to Dave for ages, just exchanged a few random texts with him every now and then, and we eventually (and inevitably) drifted apart what with my departure from the services. What is very poignant though, is that the other day I was randomly looking at old photographs I've got on my computer and came across a few folders of pictures of us messing about on nights out in Portsmouth, and of him trying to get a mutual friend's pet snake to wrap itself around my head whilst I was passed out drunk on a couch. It's true that whenever somebody dies or is killed, that the press-releases from friends and family are unanimous in their praise for the victim, and I'm usually indifferent simply because I didn't know them. In this case, however, I can totally agree with the heartbreaking testimonies of how much of 'hoofing' bloke Dave was. 

Even though I only worked with him for a year and a half, and it was hardly in a warzone, I can see what kind of leader he must have been in theatre just by reading the tributes to him from his comrades at 40 Commando, and from my brief period as his oppo. 

Rest in peace mate.