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 2nd 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.
A place where I can vent my disgust at modern life
Thursday, 18 October 2012
Friday, 12 October 2012
Cuckoo
An actual quote I heard on BBC Breakfast this morning: “Of
course, there will be no Jimmy Savile trial...because he is dead...” Quality
investigative journalism right there. Speaking of the BBC, I actually have
something positive to write about the organisation today, and can sum it up in
one word: Cuckoo. Wait – I haven’t gone mad (yet). Cuckoo is the name of a new
BBC 3 sitcom...that’s actually funny! Gasp!
BBC sitcoms are usually something I avoid like the plague, simply because they are, in the main, about as funny as testicular cancer. Boring, tired old writing, predictable ‘jokes’ and a lead character played by either Lenny Henry, Nicholas Lyndhurst or Martin Clunes. Yawn. It’s ‘safe comedy’ written by middle aged, middle class blokes aimed at middle aged, middle class women (see, most of the ‘jokes’ are usually at the expense of the bungling father-figure in these sitcoms).
In a stunning break from the norm, Cuckoo tells the story of a middle class, 2.4 children family living in suburbia. Everything seems fine, until the daughter returns home from a pre-university gap year with a bloke she met whilst travelling. Thing is, this bloke is a new-age hippy type called Cuckoo and is totally at odds with everything the head of the household stands for. True, it sounds like the most formulaic dross you’ve ever heard, but it is saved by the outstanding comedy talents of both Greg Davies (the big guy who plays the teacher in The Inbetweeners, the Deputy Mayor from We Are Klang and general top-class stand up comedian); and the American comedian/actor/singer/songwriter Andy Samberg, who you may remember from that epic Lonely Island song I’m On A Boat. No? Here:
The premise is that Greg Davies’ father character thinks that Cuckoo is several leagues below the kind of guy his daughter should be shacked up with. Cuckoo doesn’t believe in working for a living, constantly spouts incomprehensible pseudo-philosophy and generally acts like a bit of an arse. He’s Swampy the eco-warrior crossed with every annoying wanker you’ve ever known. And the clashes between the two, with the rest of the family caught in the middle, are fantastic. The best episode thus far though, involves the accidental ingestion of ecstacy pills and the ensuing embarrassing ‘high dad’ shenanigans. Fucking brilliant. The first few episodes of Cuckoo are available on BBC iPlayer and I really recommend giving this series a watch.
Another new(ish) TV prog I’ve enjoyed recently is the new series of Red Dwarf. It’s been a long time coming, and isn’t made by the BBC (we have that old stalwart of the Top Gear repeat Dave to thank for this), and I’ve only seen episode 1...but I was pleasantly surprised and actually laughed out loud several times. It’s too early to say whether this will be as good as the older series (except the series 7, which was shite), but things are looking good going off first impressions.
BBC sitcoms are usually something I avoid like the plague, simply because they are, in the main, about as funny as testicular cancer. Boring, tired old writing, predictable ‘jokes’ and a lead character played by either Lenny Henry, Nicholas Lyndhurst or Martin Clunes. Yawn. It’s ‘safe comedy’ written by middle aged, middle class blokes aimed at middle aged, middle class women (see, most of the ‘jokes’ are usually at the expense of the bungling father-figure in these sitcoms).
In a stunning break from the norm, Cuckoo tells the story of a middle class, 2.4 children family living in suburbia. Everything seems fine, until the daughter returns home from a pre-university gap year with a bloke she met whilst travelling. Thing is, this bloke is a new-age hippy type called Cuckoo and is totally at odds with everything the head of the household stands for. True, it sounds like the most formulaic dross you’ve ever heard, but it is saved by the outstanding comedy talents of both Greg Davies (the big guy who plays the teacher in The Inbetweeners, the Deputy Mayor from We Are Klang and general top-class stand up comedian); and the American comedian/actor/singer/songwriter Andy Samberg, who you may remember from that epic Lonely Island song I’m On A Boat. No? Here:
The premise is that Greg Davies’ father character thinks that Cuckoo is several leagues below the kind of guy his daughter should be shacked up with. Cuckoo doesn’t believe in working for a living, constantly spouts incomprehensible pseudo-philosophy and generally acts like a bit of an arse. He’s Swampy the eco-warrior crossed with every annoying wanker you’ve ever known. And the clashes between the two, with the rest of the family caught in the middle, are fantastic. The best episode thus far though, involves the accidental ingestion of ecstacy pills and the ensuing embarrassing ‘high dad’ shenanigans. Fucking brilliant. The first few episodes of Cuckoo are available on BBC iPlayer and I really recommend giving this series a watch.
Another new(ish) TV prog I’ve enjoyed recently is the new series of Red Dwarf. It’s been a long time coming, and isn’t made by the BBC (we have that old stalwart of the Top Gear repeat Dave to thank for this), and I’ve only seen episode 1...but I was pleasantly surprised and actually laughed out loud several times. It’s too early to say whether this will be as good as the older series (except the series 7, which was shite), but things are looking good going off first impressions.
Thursday, 11 October 2012
Wake Up Call
Hmm. Trying really hard to think of something positive or mildly humorous to write
about, but it’s proving difficult. This probably because all I can actually
think about is sacking my job off, stashing all my meagre possessions in a self
storage cube and then fucking off travelling for a while. I should never have
bought that Lonely Planet guide to Thailand last week. Just looking at the
pictures of bustling cities and tropical island paradises has ignited within me
a desire to leave this cursed place far, far behind...at least for a few
months.
This desire probably wouldn’t be so bad if I wasn’t hundreds of miles away from most of my friends, girlfriend and family, and have virtually no social life whatsoever. At least if I was in Thailand or some other far flung exotic idyll, I’d have a whole new culture to explore, new things to see and be able to discover a whole new country. Which, I’m sure anyone reading this would admit, is way, way better than being stuck in a tiny, unfriendly, run-down ‘city’ in the west of England, where it does nothing but rain incessantly and nothing ever, ever happens. In case you wondered where I’m living at present, it’s a place called Gloucester. And I’ve grown to despise the place in the few months I’ve been here.
Understand that I only moved here to be closer to my job (as described in a previous post), and at first I found the place to be quite alright, if not spectacular. The ‘city centre’ has quite a few places of historical interest, including the oldest timber-framed medieval building in (I think) the world, an impressive cathedral, various ruined priories and blue plaques everywhere you look. There’s some serious history knocking about – even the street layout in the main shopping area is faithful to how it was back when the place was a Roman citadel. The thing is, Gloucester must be one of the most run-down places I’ve ever been to. Apart from the historical sites, there is very little else to recommend about Gloucester and I really regret moving here from a city as impressive as Bristol. Being a Mancunian and all, I have a certain image in my head of what city life should be like – having a social life, places to go, things to do...all things that since moving to this particular ‘city’ have all become glaringly absent from my existence.
You may have also noted the use of apostrophes when I describe Gloucester as a ‘city.’ That’s because it doesn’t really qualify for such a prestigious moniker in my opinion. You can see from one set of hills to the other with the entire settlement in the middle, and the only high-rise building is the fucking cathedral! There is nowhere that can be considered an ‘upmarket’ area – the whole place looks like it was built in the 1960s and then just left to rot alongside the ancient structures. There are whole swathes of wasteland all over the place, and everything just seems riddled with decay. Old railway sidings full of rusty carriages, old red-brick industrial units with shutters permanently down and boarded up pubs with crisp bags, empty beer cans and leaves blowing around in doorways. Even the ‘new’ places, such as the quays, are just full of empty retail units.
What I guess I’m trying to say is that Gloucester is not, by any stretch of the imagination, a ‘cosmopolitan’ city. There is no nightlife, no real social scene. I have tried to be social, going out to the few pubs...but who wants to meet people in pubs? The centre is absolutely full of chavs and tracksuit clad old men and people drinking cider at 2 in the afternoon. There are very few social activities to engage in here, other than drinking, so if you turn your back on that shit – you’re fucked. So you can probably see why I’m really desperate to get away from the place and return home where most of my friends and family are, and if it means giving up my job (which I have no real issue with, apart from the location of the building – i.e. Gloucester), then so be it. There will be other jobs. And there is Thailand. I just need to get the fuck out of this hole and start having a normal, healthy existence again. Watch this space.
This desire probably wouldn’t be so bad if I wasn’t hundreds of miles away from most of my friends, girlfriend and family, and have virtually no social life whatsoever. At least if I was in Thailand or some other far flung exotic idyll, I’d have a whole new culture to explore, new things to see and be able to discover a whole new country. Which, I’m sure anyone reading this would admit, is way, way better than being stuck in a tiny, unfriendly, run-down ‘city’ in the west of England, where it does nothing but rain incessantly and nothing ever, ever happens. In case you wondered where I’m living at present, it’s a place called Gloucester. And I’ve grown to despise the place in the few months I’ve been here.
Understand that I only moved here to be closer to my job (as described in a previous post), and at first I found the place to be quite alright, if not spectacular. The ‘city centre’ has quite a few places of historical interest, including the oldest timber-framed medieval building in (I think) the world, an impressive cathedral, various ruined priories and blue plaques everywhere you look. There’s some serious history knocking about – even the street layout in the main shopping area is faithful to how it was back when the place was a Roman citadel. The thing is, Gloucester must be one of the most run-down places I’ve ever been to. Apart from the historical sites, there is very little else to recommend about Gloucester and I really regret moving here from a city as impressive as Bristol. Being a Mancunian and all, I have a certain image in my head of what city life should be like – having a social life, places to go, things to do...all things that since moving to this particular ‘city’ have all become glaringly absent from my existence.
You may have also noted the use of apostrophes when I describe Gloucester as a ‘city.’ That’s because it doesn’t really qualify for such a prestigious moniker in my opinion. You can see from one set of hills to the other with the entire settlement in the middle, and the only high-rise building is the fucking cathedral! There is nowhere that can be considered an ‘upmarket’ area – the whole place looks like it was built in the 1960s and then just left to rot alongside the ancient structures. There are whole swathes of wasteland all over the place, and everything just seems riddled with decay. Old railway sidings full of rusty carriages, old red-brick industrial units with shutters permanently down and boarded up pubs with crisp bags, empty beer cans and leaves blowing around in doorways. Even the ‘new’ places, such as the quays, are just full of empty retail units.
What I guess I’m trying to say is that Gloucester is not, by any stretch of the imagination, a ‘cosmopolitan’ city. There is no nightlife, no real social scene. I have tried to be social, going out to the few pubs...but who wants to meet people in pubs? The centre is absolutely full of chavs and tracksuit clad old men and people drinking cider at 2 in the afternoon. There are very few social activities to engage in here, other than drinking, so if you turn your back on that shit – you’re fucked. So you can probably see why I’m really desperate to get away from the place and return home where most of my friends and family are, and if it means giving up my job (which I have no real issue with, apart from the location of the building – i.e. Gloucester), then so be it. There will be other jobs. And there is Thailand. I just need to get the fuck out of this hole and start having a normal, healthy existence again. Watch this space.
Tuesday, 9 October 2012
I Shit You Not
Ok, I wasn't going to do this. But fuck it. What's the internet for if not exposing how vile, disgusting, repulsive and abhorrent human beings really are? Here's the deal. I rent a room in a flat. The other guy who lives here is also the landlord - he owns the flat. I find living where I do fairly OK for the most part...except for one thing. The landlord (who shall remain anonymous...for now) has a problem. A problem the likes of which I have never, ever encountered. Even after six years in the fucking navy:
Yes, he leaves these kinds of stains on the toilet roll. How? I really don't care to find out, but I must admit that it's a totally new experience for me. I have never encountered this kind of thing, so I'm a bit unsure of how to react to it. In case you can't guess, those stains on the inside of the communal bogroll are shit. Human shit. From his arse. On the communal bogroll. What. The. Fuck.
It doesn't even end there. Oh no. I'm constantly having to wipe the toilet seat to get rid of the strange brown stains that seem to appear at random. And one time I found a clod of faeces the size of a pound coin stuck underneath the seat.
Look at what I have to deal with. LOOK AT IT.
Yes, he leaves these kinds of stains on the toilet roll. How? I really don't care to find out, but I must admit that it's a totally new experience for me. I have never encountered this kind of thing, so I'm a bit unsure of how to react to it. In case you can't guess, those stains on the inside of the communal bogroll are shit. Human shit. From his arse. On the communal bogroll. What. The. Fuck.
It doesn't even end there. Oh no. I'm constantly having to wipe the toilet seat to get rid of the strange brown stains that seem to appear at random. And one time I found a clod of faeces the size of a pound coin stuck underneath the seat.
Look at what I have to deal with. LOOK AT IT.
Taken 2: Far
 |
| Half a Guinness. Now. |
Right - now we've got that out of the way, I'll begin. Taken 2 is fucking wank compared to the first one. It's a step too far. The first movie was acceptable, even with it's slightly outlandish plot, because it pretty much just came out of nowhere. Taken just appeared and it was all leather jackets and bent Parisian cops and explosions...and just a guy trying to rescue his little girl. Taken 2 is pretty much the same...but it just feels a little bit old. They've taken (hehe!) the plot of the first movie, tweaked it slightly, and then shat out a half-arsed cash-in. Sure, there are fights, a few car chases and Liam Neeson skulking around in a leather jacket smashing people's faces in with iron bars...but it just feels so hackneyed. It's like the director thought "well, they liked this shit in the first one, so here's some more!" Well, prick - the first film at least retained a (admittedly very slight) grip on reality. It didn't involve the lobbing of grenades around one of the most heavily populated cities in Europe...with no repercussions. It didn't involve a chase scene that lasted 10 minutes and consisted of constantly repeated sound bites of Liam Neeson shouting "go...faster!" while his daughter squealed "I can't!" (she could - she's driving a fucking Mercedes). It didn't climax with Neeson pushing a bloke's head onto a coat hook. Taken 1 was an out and out revenge movie and for that I salute it. It doesn't pretend to be anything but. Taken 2 on the other hand has some pretentious crap about the father of the tortured child kidnapper from the first film (the guy rigged up to the mains by his knees) coming out of retirement to find and kill Neeson and his family. This is nonsensical on so many levels, but there we are.
I noted that several of the reviews I had read gave Taken 2 a pretty harsh time, but I put this down to the overly negative view most 'professional' reviewers have when it comes to anything that isn't shot in black and white with a Spanish soundtrack. Upon viewing it myself, I have to say that, even as an action film Taken 2 is below par. And the final scene? Don't get me started. Go and watch it yourself and tell me it's anywhere near as good as the first one. If you disagree, know this: I have a very particular set of skills.
Monday, 8 October 2012
Weekend Endevours
Went down to Bristol on Friday to collect my prize from the
Heart FM competition I won after last week’s half marathon. The prize was £1000
in shopping vouchers for anywhere in Bristol city centre, and they could be
split across five different stores. I did a little bit of research into which
shops I might want to get vouchers for, but as I’m an indecisive twat at the
best of times, I opted to get Cabot Circus vouchers. For those who don’t know,
Cabot Circus is a new(ish) shopping mall in Bristol that is kind of like the
Bristolian version of the Manchester Arndale, and is named after the famous
Italian explorer Giovanni ‘John’ Cabot. He set sail from Bristol in the 1400s
and is widely reputed to be one of the first Europeans to set foot on the
American mainland. How thrilled his spirit must be to have a shopping centre
named after him. So yeah, I got the vouchers as gift cards that could be used
in any of the shops in the Cabot Circus complex. Before I could go off in
search of 'stuff' though, I took part in a photo shoot for the local newspaper
(The Bristol Post) and also for the Heart FM website where I had to hold a load
of shopping bags stuffed with towels to simulate, er, shopping. Twas all very
amicable, and I would like to thank the staff from Heart for the prize...even
if the chance of any of them actually reading this dirge is miniscule. Off I
popped then, to Cabot Circus.
The first place I went to was H & M. I looked at the garishly hued men’s clothing department and quickly decided that I’d rather be tried as a 12th Century heretic than wear any of their clobber, although I did need some new socks so I picked up a pack of 12 and headed to the cash desk. I handed over my gift card and the girl behind the counter just stared blankly at it. She tried to process it as a normal debit card and it wouldn’t work, so she went off to speak to a manager. After about 5 minutes, she came back and declared that the shop didn’t accept Cabot Circus gift cards. A little confused, I left H & M and went into Next, which was next door, funnily enough. I tried to purchase a pair of jeans...only to be told that they didn’t accept gift cards. Onwards I went, to the Apple Store, where I found a rather nice iPod armband running thingy. Tried to buy it...couldn’t because the little mobile chip and pin things that the Apple ‘geniuses’ carry around with them don’t accept gift cards. 3 shops...3 times I’m told that my prize is useless. I almost fucking exploded with rage at the guy.
With that, I marched off to the customer information desk within Cabot Circus and told them that no matter where I went, none of the shops were accepting my gift card. The staff there were actually pretty helpful and explained that every store within the mall had signed up to the scheme and that they should all take the cards. With that, one of them went back to H & M with me, verbally bitch-slapped the staff behind the counter and made them ring the socks through (that were still on the counter where I’d left them 20 minutes earlier). Lo and behold, the card suddenly worked! I had some new socks! I thanked the woman who had accompanied me and she assured me that if I had any further problems using the gift card, that she’d be back to help. I had more problems with staff who didn’t know how to process the gift card, but they were generally overcome after several calls for management staff etc. In the end, I managed to get a few useful items including a new rucksack (for next year’s expedition to Thailand), a Lonely Planet guide to Thailand, a few T-Shirts and a few birthday presents for my niece. I didn’t spend the lot – how could anyone spend £1000 in a day?! I just got a few things I actually needed and bought a few presents for people. I still didn’t manage to get anything from the goddamned Apple Store though, as they insisted that their payment machines weren’t compatible with the gift card. Which kind of figures really – Apple and ‘incompatible with the mainstream’ go hand in hand. The thing that struck me was how many of the stores in Cabot Circus gave me crap and treated me like some kind of criminal just because I was using a gift card. They really need to sort that shit out as I’ve no doubt I’ll be the first or last shopper who comes into contact with untrained shop staff only to be told that particular stores don’t accept them...when in fact, they do.
Saturday I was kind of dreading slightly, as it heralded the first proper long-distance journey on the Suzuki Goose. As documented here, the previous times I have taken it onto the motorway, it’s died on me. Granted, both times it was down to either having the fuel tap on ‘reserve’ or simply having no fuel, but like one of Pavlov’s dogs, I had become accustomed to associating the M5 with the spluttering and eventual packing up of the bike’s engine. I needn’t have worried though, as Saturday’s early morning trip down to Dorset went without any hitches at all. In fact, it flew by with alarming rapidity, thanks to the extra 100cc I now have at my disposal. The only things that were slightly unwelcome were the extremely cold wind and the mildly uncomfortable riding position of the Goose – it’s not really the kind of bike you want to be doing 200 mile journeys on unless you’ve got a well-padded arse. I don’t, so I was walking like John Wayne on arrival at my destination. Apart from that though – no problems at all. The bike itself is fairly tatty (what can you expect from a 20 year old machine?), but when it’s got enough petrol in, it runs like a dream and goes like greased lightning. Here are a few pictures I took of the Goose over the weekend:
Saturday night involved a wedding party during which I discovered a taste for Gin and Tonic and Sunday was spent recovering from the G&T tsunami from the night before. Also saw the new Liam Neeson film Taken 2 on Saturday afternoon – next up: my rambling thoughts.
The first place I went to was H & M. I looked at the garishly hued men’s clothing department and quickly decided that I’d rather be tried as a 12th Century heretic than wear any of their clobber, although I did need some new socks so I picked up a pack of 12 and headed to the cash desk. I handed over my gift card and the girl behind the counter just stared blankly at it. She tried to process it as a normal debit card and it wouldn’t work, so she went off to speak to a manager. After about 5 minutes, she came back and declared that the shop didn’t accept Cabot Circus gift cards. A little confused, I left H & M and went into Next, which was next door, funnily enough. I tried to purchase a pair of jeans...only to be told that they didn’t accept gift cards. Onwards I went, to the Apple Store, where I found a rather nice iPod armband running thingy. Tried to buy it...couldn’t because the little mobile chip and pin things that the Apple ‘geniuses’ carry around with them don’t accept gift cards. 3 shops...3 times I’m told that my prize is useless. I almost fucking exploded with rage at the guy.
With that, I marched off to the customer information desk within Cabot Circus and told them that no matter where I went, none of the shops were accepting my gift card. The staff there were actually pretty helpful and explained that every store within the mall had signed up to the scheme and that they should all take the cards. With that, one of them went back to H & M with me, verbally bitch-slapped the staff behind the counter and made them ring the socks through (that were still on the counter where I’d left them 20 minutes earlier). Lo and behold, the card suddenly worked! I had some new socks! I thanked the woman who had accompanied me and she assured me that if I had any further problems using the gift card, that she’d be back to help. I had more problems with staff who didn’t know how to process the gift card, but they were generally overcome after several calls for management staff etc. In the end, I managed to get a few useful items including a new rucksack (for next year’s expedition to Thailand), a Lonely Planet guide to Thailand, a few T-Shirts and a few birthday presents for my niece. I didn’t spend the lot – how could anyone spend £1000 in a day?! I just got a few things I actually needed and bought a few presents for people. I still didn’t manage to get anything from the goddamned Apple Store though, as they insisted that their payment machines weren’t compatible with the gift card. Which kind of figures really – Apple and ‘incompatible with the mainstream’ go hand in hand. The thing that struck me was how many of the stores in Cabot Circus gave me crap and treated me like some kind of criminal just because I was using a gift card. They really need to sort that shit out as I’ve no doubt I’ll be the first or last shopper who comes into contact with untrained shop staff only to be told that particular stores don’t accept them...when in fact, they do.
Saturday I was kind of dreading slightly, as it heralded the first proper long-distance journey on the Suzuki Goose. As documented here, the previous times I have taken it onto the motorway, it’s died on me. Granted, both times it was down to either having the fuel tap on ‘reserve’ or simply having no fuel, but like one of Pavlov’s dogs, I had become accustomed to associating the M5 with the spluttering and eventual packing up of the bike’s engine. I needn’t have worried though, as Saturday’s early morning trip down to Dorset went without any hitches at all. In fact, it flew by with alarming rapidity, thanks to the extra 100cc I now have at my disposal. The only things that were slightly unwelcome were the extremely cold wind and the mildly uncomfortable riding position of the Goose – it’s not really the kind of bike you want to be doing 200 mile journeys on unless you’ve got a well-padded arse. I don’t, so I was walking like John Wayne on arrival at my destination. Apart from that though – no problems at all. The bike itself is fairly tatty (what can you expect from a 20 year old machine?), but when it’s got enough petrol in, it runs like a dream and goes like greased lightning. Here are a few pictures I took of the Goose over the weekend:
Saturday night involved a wedding party during which I discovered a taste for Gin and Tonic and Sunday was spent recovering from the G&T tsunami from the night before. Also saw the new Liam Neeson film Taken 2 on Saturday afternoon – next up: my rambling thoughts.
Thursday, 4 October 2012
Happenings
It’s been a week since my last post. Thought I should
update...so here I am. Competed in the Bristol Half Marathon on Sunday.
It went as well as expected, in that due to the amount of running I do
generally, it was a piece of piss. My time was around 1hr 28mins, which isn’t a
pb (that’s 1hr 26mins which I attained at Sturminster Newton a few months ago),
but to be honest, Bristol isn’t really the kind of ½ marathon you can
realistically expect to get a personal best time at, simply because of the massive
number of people taking part. There were about 14,000 competitors this year,
and even though I started in the first wave, the mass of people all trying to
run down relatively narrow roads lead to a lot of congestion. The crowd thins
out about halfway round the course as people begin to tire, but by then the
impact from the slow pace of the first half of the race has taken a good bite
out of your overall time. It was a good event though, and just as well run (no
pun intended) as last year, so maximum kudos to the organisers, the marshalls,
and the army cadets manning the water/energy gel stations. Not that I used them
– the last thing I wanted was water after suddenly needing a massive piss about
a quarter of the way into the race. I held it for the remainder of the course
and just made a beeline for the portable bogs after I crossed the finish line.
I think my overall placing was 417th, which when you consider that
there were over 14,000 runners taking part, isn’t a bad result.
After the race, I took a stroll around Bristol city centre
with my significant other. I do really like Bristol, actually. It’s not as big
as Manchester or Birmingham, but it still has a proper ‘big city’ atmosphere.
There are various districts with a distinct feel, there are loads of shops,
bars, impressive historical buildings...it’s just a great city to visit and I’m
a bit annoyed that I didn’t explore it more thoroughly when I lived there for a
few weeks at the beginning of this year. I say ‘a few weeks,’ but it was more
like two months, and during that time, I lived in possibly the grottiest house
share I have ever had. It was in a district called Brentry on the outskirts of
Bristol, right near the Cribbs Causeway M5 junction, so it was handy for
shopping and getting on the motorway...but pretty dire for everything else. The
house was this big old mansion type place that had been converted into flats, I
and I rented a tiny room on the ground floor. I knew it was only temporary, but
the meagre amount of time I spent there was pretty shit for two reasons – the house
itself, and the housemates.
The room, as I mentioned, was fucking tiny. There
was mold on the wall below a window that wouldn’t shut properly, so there was a
constant cold breeze blowing in to accompany the incessant noise of a dog
barking in a nearby garden. There was one toilet/bathroom that was shared by
the four of us, but it was a game of chance actually being able to get in there
seeing as one of the housemates insisted on taking hour-long baths (how fucking
inconsiderate), whilst another had her lesbian partner staying over almost
constantly. I had no problem with this, but it kind of grated when I wanted a
shower or needed to take a shit and couldn't because a person who wasn’t even paying rent was
using the toilet. indeed, I often had to use mother natures own water closet for a piss...but never dropped the kids off outside - that would've been a little too uncouth, even for a morally redundant urchin like me. On the subject of bodily functions, though, on one occasion there were drips of blood all over the
bathroom floor. I was a little confused by this...until I saw the tampon
packets in the bin and clicked. I almost gagged – and that happened on several occasions (the dripping of period blood all over the communal bathroom floor - not the gagging).
There was constant noise from the flat above (seriously, it sounded like they
were moving a safe around...every night of the week) and the kitchen was a mess
constantly, no matter how much I attempted to clean it. I even cleaned out the
disgusting fridge...only to find it filthy again a week later. So in sum, it
was a shit place to live, and the area itself was pretty crap – I had the
petrol stolen out of my newly acquired CBF 250 after about two weeks of
ownership. That isn’t to say I dislike Bristol – I fucking love the place.
Clifton in particular holds a place in my heart as it’s just a cool area...but
Brentry? No.
But back to the point – I was walking around Bristol city centre
and I spotted this red carpet with velvet barrier things around it, you know –
like what they have at film premieres and shit. I went up to the girl manning
it and she said it was a competition to win £50,000. All you had to do was
approach the safe at the end of the red carpet and put in a random 6 digit
number. Guess correct and walk away with the cash. I slowly punched in my date
of birth with baited breath...and was confronted with the message that my
combination was wrong. Dammit! On leaving the red carpet, another promoter
asked if I’d like to enter some other competition and thrust an entry card
under my nose. To be honest, I wasn’t even listening to her as I filled out the
form – I was paying more attention to my girlfriend’s attempt to open the safe
(which also ended in failure). I completed the card, and went on my way, not
even knowing what I’d just entered.
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