Dear all,
I am delighted to see that I still have the occasional visit, and I hope you've enjoyed my occasional musings.
What a let down: all those promises, so little delivered. While this blog is not dead yet, if you'd like to read work of a more business/financial bent may I suggest you mosy on over to www.tyketotycoon.blogspot.com.
This blog deals with my burgeoning awareness of the world of work, and is intended to track my stellar progress to billionaire businessman. Or more likely it will be a cautionary tale of entertaining failure. I hope you enjoy it either way.
All best,
Don
Tuesday, 15 December 2009
Monday, 23 March 2009
the human face of tourism
I should have listened to my own advice - a friend has published some of this blog in the college magazine. Remember Da Nu Rossetta Stone? Turns out it looks pretty racist when read on its own.
The last few days I've been in France on tour with my choir, singing in some grand old Cathedrals and eating some fine fine food. We stayed with host families, and mine went out their way for us, literally, driving us to and from rehearsals. Their children were lovely, we think - we were mutually incomprehensible. Yesterday the choir was treated to a diplomatic reception from the Mayoress of S -, for whom we were about to sing a mass. They handed out some tourist bumf including a priceless leaflet written in flamboyantly haphazard English. Titled 'Expressions: The Human Face of Tourism' it includes such corkers as,
The river is 'A real delight, for image hunters but also for fishermen'
The area 'knows haw to enhance the sky. Nature and man have drawn pictures with varied taste and colours'
You can look forward to 'the biggest conglomerate of troglodytes, gardens brimming with rare flavours, exuding golden and chalky reflections.'
And finally, your visit will be 'a journey sprinkled with water and history which will not let you forget that S - and its region has a multitude of marked hiking paths'
And if all that wasn't enough, I found a £ in the street yesterday.
The last few days I've been in France on tour with my choir, singing in some grand old Cathedrals and eating some fine fine food. We stayed with host families, and mine went out their way for us, literally, driving us to and from rehearsals. Their children were lovely, we think - we were mutually incomprehensible. Yesterday the choir was treated to a diplomatic reception from the Mayoress of S -, for whom we were about to sing a mass. They handed out some tourist bumf including a priceless leaflet written in flamboyantly haphazard English. Titled 'Expressions: The Human Face of Tourism' it includes such corkers as,
The river is 'A real delight, for image hunters but also for fishermen'
The area 'knows haw to enhance the sky. Nature and man have drawn pictures with varied taste and colours'
You can look forward to 'the biggest conglomerate of troglodytes, gardens brimming with rare flavours, exuding golden and chalky reflections.'
And finally, your visit will be 'a journey sprinkled with water and history which will not let you forget that S - and its region has a multitude of marked hiking paths'
And if all that wasn't enough, I found a £ in the street yesterday.
Sunday, 15 March 2009
radio ga ga
Yo yo yo yo! Yes he's back, back again, Buri's back, tell a friend. So the blogging's dropped off a little lately ... sorry. Although you're never supposed to appologise or explain - was that expression invented for the British? Someone drives their 4x4 up the pavement, ploughs through the garden and parks in your front room, so you applogise profusely and make a cup of tea.
But that didn't actually happen, so here's a handy newsreel. Remember M. the chef? We went to his old restaurant and waited two hours for a bruschetta and some cold pizza - good thing they've asked him back to sort things out. There's been going home, singing, going to plays, running around, and also work, but more on that later. It's time to pack up and go again, so there'll be less internet than usual. Time for an experiment: can I last a week without email, instant messaging, facebook, browsing?
But that didn't actually happen, so here's a handy newsreel. Remember M. the chef? We went to his old restaurant and waited two hours for a bruschetta and some cold pizza - good thing they've asked him back to sort things out. There's been going home, singing, going to plays, running around, and also work, but more on that later. It's time to pack up and go again, so there'll be less internet than usual. Time for an experiment: can I last a week without email, instant messaging, facebook, browsing?
Monday, 2 March 2009
the illusion of progress
There is a telescope perched on an extinct volcano in Hawaii which cost £24 million. It is the result of a series of incredible engineering feats, gathering light to its core with a huge reflector made of tessellated smaller mirrors which are cooled, shifted by thousandths of millimetres and polished by ionic sandblasters (these are so precise and gentle that they can autograph a hair)
Richard Hammond's Engineering Connections saw the presenter cooing over this testament to human ingenuity and demonstrating some of the technologies that went into it by setting fire to a dinghy and sensing one doctored tennis ball in five hundred. In hushed tones he concluded that this telescope was producing images from the very edge of the Universe, giving us insights into its formation between 13.61 and 13.85 billion years ago.
If I take my glasses off I can barely distinguish a friend at arm's length, but I can focus upon objects only an inch away from the tip of my nose. If it weren't for the invention of lenses there would be no big picture for me: no leaves on faraway trees, no stars, no birds. So, thank you science. But how could anyone could be so shortsighted to spend £24 million to see something so insignificant to humanity? Who cares when/how/if the Universe exploded from nothingness when that amount of money could restore the sight of 1.3 million people?
Sources: ORBIS, BBC iPlayer
Richard Hammond's Engineering Connections saw the presenter cooing over this testament to human ingenuity and demonstrating some of the technologies that went into it by setting fire to a dinghy and sensing one doctored tennis ball in five hundred. In hushed tones he concluded that this telescope was producing images from the very edge of the Universe, giving us insights into its formation between 13.61 and 13.85 billion years ago.
If I take my glasses off I can barely distinguish a friend at arm's length, but I can focus upon objects only an inch away from the tip of my nose. If it weren't for the invention of lenses there would be no big picture for me: no leaves on faraway trees, no stars, no birds. So, thank you science. But how could anyone could be so shortsighted to spend £24 million to see something so insignificant to humanity? Who cares when/how/if the Universe exploded from nothingness when that amount of money could restore the sight of 1.3 million people?
Sources: ORBIS, BBC iPlayer
Wednesday, 18 February 2009
come back here
Due to an unfortunate prior commitment to conscientious university attendance the management will be making strategic cutbacks to the content generation division of this weblog (henceforth 'blog') in the interest, going forward, of maintaining and leveraging high value in the long term.
While we are adamant that the challenging economic and educational conditions shall not require permanent job loss, certain key team members will be taking voluntary sabbaticals in order to refocus on their core competencies; namely, writing dissertations.
This is a temporary setback, but in around two weeks we commit to leverage new articles - delivered by a sane and refreshed staff - on such topics as 'New York, New York', 'Opera' and 'Oy lads, gerroff 'im an' chug this'.
With sincere thanks,
the management (by dictation)
While we are adamant that the challenging economic and educational conditions shall not require permanent job loss, certain key team members will be taking voluntary sabbaticals in order to refocus on their core competencies; namely, writing dissertations.
This is a temporary setback, but in around two weeks we commit to leverage new articles - delivered by a sane and refreshed staff - on such topics as 'New York, New York', 'Opera' and 'Oy lads, gerroff 'im an' chug this'.
With sincere thanks,
the management (by dictation)
Sunday, 15 February 2009
little low, little high
They say the best fiction stems from experience - though I hope creativity is allowed too - so it's nice when life unfolds like a storybook. This is one of those moments. It might not be extraordinary, but it was out of my ordinary.
A few days ago I was full of cold and tasteless, so plumped for a hugely fiery lunch of prawns with garlic, spring onions, two chillies, ginger and lemon. The ingredients were chopped and lying in Venn diagrams when M. walked into our kitchen. It's shared accommodation, and we're lucky enough to have cleaners for the communal areas. We said hello and M. started on the sink. Seeing my disorgazboard he said,
'Coriander would be nice'
'It's off, sadly.' I held up the recently binned bundle. A convivial pause as I put the pan on the heat. As I reached for the oil he pointed to some butter on the table. 'It will be nice with butter'
'I think I've only ever done it with oil'
'No, but put some oil with the butter, or it ...'
'... burns?'
'Exactly. You get it hot, cook the prawns a little, put in the rest, but don't for leave too long, or do you know?'
'They get tough.'
'Yes.' He had put down his sponge by now, his eyes riveted to the board. The pasta was bubbling over. He was concerned to hear that I'd added neither oil nor salt - '... they'll stick. You can't salt them unless in the pot. Do you have olive oil? Look.' Taking the pan from me he drained it into a colander and, drizzling oil over them from a height, shook them to glistening point.
'Should I start the prawns?'
'It's ready, hot. Go!' The prawns hissed and slid in the furious butter, and as I stepped back M. took the pan, threw in the aromatics and shaking his head at the proffered wooden spoon started to toss the lot. The plump prawns flipped and plunged together like a flaming pancake. 'Can you get the rosemary?' I was already out the door and running. Briefly vacillating between two or three sprigs I ran back and put them on the board to be chopped and crushed under his knife. M. poured the curry onto the pasta with a flourish, adding, 'You should buy better pasta. It is only a few more pennies. I could tell you three hundred pastas.'
I was unbearably curious, so he told his story. He is a recently retired chef who has worked at the town's two most prestigious Italian restaurants, as well as its unrivaled seafood establishment. He told of long nights slaving over 350 servings of pasta, days preparing ragu, and Salmon roast the Scottish way. His current job is less tiring, he says, although he did hint he might have been too frank at times. He tried the dish and approved, although he wouldn't have a bowl and 'the chillies are for your taste with the cold, but maybe less the next time'.
Leaving he thanked me for trusting him, as if I was the one doing him a favour. He's decided to go back to being a chef - and if I ever need a whole trout filleted, I'm to tell him.
Tuesday, 10 February 2009
edit, edit, edit
The best literary advice ever given to me was this:
'Don't publish'
Once it's printed, that's it. The words are your dumb ambassadors fled to be read and misread. I used to think I was pretty nifty at poetry, and so sent in an incomprehensible mishmash to the school magazine. The reaction: 'It was... good. What does it mean?' There's a good story by Kipling (who I've been spending an amount of time with lately) which has a tired old writer advising a boisterous amateur. The boy churns out reams of doggerel, 'seeing all that he intended to do so clearly that he esteemed it already done, and turned to me for applause'
Looking over what I wrote is excruciatingly cringeworthy, begging the question: will this blog cause me pain down the line? I've pretty much stopped writing poetry, but I have been editing. So with reservations here is an experiment in sonneteering written around five years ago; maybe six. And with it, the year-old rehash. Perhaps it will be interesting to see what's changed, including me.
Please excuse the anachronisms, bizarre word orders, herniating metre and the word 'methinks'.
p.s. this spellchecker doesn't recognize the word 'metre'. The world's broken.
***
I would that I still could begin to write,
without the stress to stress or beat in time,
why should I wrap my words in corset tight
or sacrifice my meaning to a rhyme?
I would reveal my mistress fair and true,
enveiled in myst’ry thick yet clear to see
for those who know us, for those lucky few
I need not hint nor with lewd phrase demean me.
Methinks my quest to write is yet in vain,
without any skill’d verse I, truth to tell,
do stumble, ungainly, mending again and again
trapped within a dull and senseless cell.
yet for all my groping for image and sound
she defies the best to write her down.
***
To put wrong right these words I'll write,
without the stress of stress or beaten time.
Why should I pull this age-old corset tight
or sacrifice my meaning to a rhyme?
I'll reveal my sweetheart fair and true,
behind a veil of words but clearly seen
by those who knew us, those patient few
who've met us both, and the veils between.
This form is her loss as her life was my gain,
this love too old to be roped to a page
to stumble, ungainly, again and again,
ripped clipped and tripped in a fourteen line cage.
They say 'love hurts' as they shrug and they turn.
So it did, so it does, and these dead words still burn.
***
'Don't publish'
Once it's printed, that's it. The words are your dumb ambassadors fled to be read and misread. I used to think I was pretty nifty at poetry, and so sent in an incomprehensible mishmash to the school magazine. The reaction: 'It was... good. What does it mean?' There's a good story by Kipling (who I've been spending an amount of time with lately) which has a tired old writer advising a boisterous amateur. The boy churns out reams of doggerel, 'seeing all that he intended to do so clearly that he esteemed it already done, and turned to me for applause'
Looking over what I wrote is excruciatingly cringeworthy, begging the question: will this blog cause me pain down the line? I've pretty much stopped writing poetry, but I have been editing. So with reservations here is an experiment in sonneteering written around five years ago; maybe six. And with it, the year-old rehash. Perhaps it will be interesting to see what's changed, including me.
Please excuse the anachronisms, bizarre word orders, herniating metre and the word 'methinks'.
p.s. this spellchecker doesn't recognize the word 'metre'. The world's broken.
***
I would that I still could begin to write,
without the stress to stress or beat in time,
why should I wrap my words in corset tight
or sacrifice my meaning to a rhyme?
I would reveal my mistress fair and true,
enveiled in myst’ry thick yet clear to see
for those who know us, for those lucky few
I need not hint nor with lewd phrase demean me.
Methinks my quest to write is yet in vain,
without any skill’d verse I, truth to tell,
do stumble, ungainly, mending again and again
trapped within a dull and senseless cell.
yet for all my groping for image and sound
she defies the best to write her down.
***
To put wrong right these words I'll write,
without the stress of stress or beaten time.
Why should I pull this age-old corset tight
or sacrifice my meaning to a rhyme?
I'll reveal my sweetheart fair and true,
behind a veil of words but clearly seen
by those who knew us, those patient few
who've met us both, and the veils between.
This form is her loss as her life was my gain,
this love too old to be roped to a page
to stumble, ungainly, again and again,
ripped clipped and tripped in a fourteen line cage.
They say 'love hurts' as they shrug and they turn.
So it did, so it does, and these dead words still burn.
***
Saturday, 7 February 2009
Why, why, why?
This morning I woke up fresh and energised. I rolled over luxuriously, found and put on my glasses limpidly, languidly clasped the alarm clock and brought it in range. On the one day where I have nothing to do, the day when I should catch up on lost sleep, I wake up at 8:15. After much grumbling sleep did return, and brought with it those random dozy dreams. A sample:
- There was five pounds on my desk (there isn't)
- A friend tried to find me, and then did.
- My mum offered to give me a lift to a party at 7. I forgot, and when I remembered (the loudest I've ever shouted a swear in a dream) she was still there, at 10. She still drove me. Was relieved.
- Two people I vaguely know were wandering drunkenly on a hill. I asked them if they were drunk. They were.
Always entertaining. Occasionally you get the odd nightmare in the mix - angry corpse in car, purple teddy with powers of paralysation - but it's a fair price to pay. Last night I went to a room party held by a friend I haven't seen in ages. Rather like this bullet point thingy, so here's some things I learned itemized for your convenience:
- Never drink Aldi's 'Bardolino' red wine. A friend described it as 'not fun to swallow'
- There is a writer who documented every movement he made in a day. Things like 'raised left arm'. Naturally, being postmodern, he did some rather personal things and wrote them down too. How frank, edgy, and coincidental.
- If you meet a charming, beautiful woman there is a good chance her beauty has already charmed someone else. Retreat like the gentleman you are.
On the last point. I noticed an American friend of mine flirting with a girl he knew had a boyfriend. His excuse: 'does she have a ring on her finger?'
Fair play?
This morning I woke up fresh and energised. I rolled over luxuriously, found and put on my glasses limpidly, languidly clasped the alarm clock and brought it in range. On the one day where I have nothing to do, the day when I should catch up on lost sleep, I wake up at 8:15. After much grumbling sleep did return, and brought with it those random dozy dreams. A sample:
- There was five pounds on my desk (there isn't)
- A friend tried to find me, and then did.
- My mum offered to give me a lift to a party at 7. I forgot, and when I remembered (the loudest I've ever shouted a swear in a dream) she was still there, at 10. She still drove me. Was relieved.
- Two people I vaguely know were wandering drunkenly on a hill. I asked them if they were drunk. They were.
Always entertaining. Occasionally you get the odd nightmare in the mix - angry corpse in car, purple teddy with powers of paralysation - but it's a fair price to pay. Last night I went to a room party held by a friend I haven't seen in ages. Rather like this bullet point thingy, so here's some things I learned itemized for your convenience:
- Never drink Aldi's 'Bardolino' red wine. A friend described it as 'not fun to swallow'
- There is a writer who documented every movement he made in a day. Things like 'raised left arm'. Naturally, being postmodern, he did some rather personal things and wrote them down too. How frank, edgy, and coincidental.
- If you meet a charming, beautiful woman there is a good chance her beauty has already charmed someone else. Retreat like the gentleman you are.
On the last point. I noticed an American friend of mine flirting with a girl he knew had a boyfriend. His excuse: 'does she have a ring on her finger?'
Fair play?
Thursday, 5 February 2009
photo noggin phenomenon
No research whatsoever has gone into this post, but it was probably on TV once so it must be true. There is a kind of psychic hokum where you put your hands on charged metal plates while your photo is taken. After some mumbo jumbo bunkum (presumably photoshop based) your picture is printed. You are surrounded by an aura of colour which presumably indicates that you are suggestible.
Let it be known that this is the first report of a phenomenon I shall coin 'photoblimpnogginism', a condition of which I am the only known sufferer. I suppose I'm an ordinary sort of vain: I expect other people to love me, and if they don't the fault's almost certainly with them. My hair is a little fluffy, so I tend to gunk it up. I like nice clothes but don't like ironing, so average out at presentably rumpled. At home there is a tall mirror opposite the stairs, which allows for convenient self-appraisal with built in handy alibi. All in all, I think I look fine. As in 'okay, alright, passable', rather than 'daay-mn, he is FINE!'
But something horrible happens when a camera is pointed my way. In the teensy split second while their finger is depressing the button and electrons are shunting round camera circuitry, my jaw hangs moronically loose, my eyes half close, phlegm dribbles towards where the second and third chins are blooming. Spots sprout, and I gain between three and four stone. If there was ever a good picture of me, I was probably sucking in my cheeks, or standing in some miracle of light and shade. The really sad thing would be if that photo-me is the one other people see.
The moral of the story? If you take a picture of me I will become less attractive but necessarily more modest. I'll leave you to weigh it up.
Let it be known that this is the first report of a phenomenon I shall coin 'photoblimpnogginism', a condition of which I am the only known sufferer. I suppose I'm an ordinary sort of vain: I expect other people to love me, and if they don't the fault's almost certainly with them. My hair is a little fluffy, so I tend to gunk it up. I like nice clothes but don't like ironing, so average out at presentably rumpled. At home there is a tall mirror opposite the stairs, which allows for convenient self-appraisal with built in handy alibi. All in all, I think I look fine. As in 'okay, alright, passable', rather than 'daay-mn, he is FINE!'
But something horrible happens when a camera is pointed my way. In the teensy split second while their finger is depressing the button and electrons are shunting round camera circuitry, my jaw hangs moronically loose, my eyes half close, phlegm dribbles towards where the second and third chins are blooming. Spots sprout, and I gain between three and four stone. If there was ever a good picture of me, I was probably sucking in my cheeks, or standing in some miracle of light and shade. The really sad thing would be if that photo-me is the one other people see.
The moral of the story? If you take a picture of me I will become less attractive but necessarily more modest. I'll leave you to weigh it up.
Tuesday, 3 February 2009
tardy and mardy
At the risk of seeming more than normally hormonal, today is a grumpy day. Found myself wanting to break things while tidying, and stamping on innocent steps. Not even my many coffees or my new wall map of the U.S.A. has lifted the fug. Trivia: do you know which spot in the U.S. is the intersection of four state borders? I want to go there and tap dance.
And another thing: the BBC lied to me. Yesterday they promised five days of snow, but in response to protest from commuters there will only be a light flurry on Thursday.
You may have seen the news about the Chinese Prime Minister being shoed while giving a speech. From where I'm sitting I could probably hit the same spot, if the roof went away. The security was great fun to watch. A friend and I had a mini protest - 'leave Tibet alone' - before the hardcore kafkan solidaritists showed up, but only a sniffer dog showed interest. Somebody was saying loudly how their snowball had a grenade in it. There were men on all the roofs, presumably with sniper rifles. They also had wussy harnesses, as if falling off a faculty building was their biggest risk. The University Security also pitched in, bless them. Imagine kung fu special forces with old men in navy uniforms trailing around after them.
In a beeb video one of the Chinese supporters was in floods about the visit. And somebody else threw a shoe. I wonder what the 'correct' stance is, if you could omnisciently take into account everything he's done for the country. Cry while lobbing? Throw some tissues? Pleasant wave? I don't understand politics.
And another thing: the BBC lied to me. Yesterday they promised five days of snow, but in response to protest from commuters there will only be a light flurry on Thursday.
You may have seen the news about the Chinese Prime Minister being shoed while giving a speech. From where I'm sitting I could probably hit the same spot, if the roof went away. The security was great fun to watch. A friend and I had a mini protest - 'leave Tibet alone' - before the hardcore kafkan solidaritists showed up, but only a sniffer dog showed interest. Somebody was saying loudly how their snowball had a grenade in it. There were men on all the roofs, presumably with sniper rifles. They also had wussy harnesses, as if falling off a faculty building was their biggest risk. The University Security also pitched in, bless them. Imagine kung fu special forces with old men in navy uniforms trailing around after them.
In a beeb video one of the Chinese supporters was in floods about the visit. And somebody else threw a shoe. I wonder what the 'correct' stance is, if you could omnisciently take into account everything he's done for the country. Cry while lobbing? Throw some tissues? Pleasant wave? I don't understand politics.
Wednesday, 21 January 2009
crisp
'Hi, how are you?'
'Yeah, good, how's it going?'
'Well thanks.'
'Good.'
A pretty ordinary exchange, codified and nearly meaningless. We've said it to people we don't know, people we don't like, people we know aren't well, and people who know we aren't well. But just now it was deeply satisfying. Before that I took a long-cut through the gardens along an un-mowed path. I stood on the edge of an artificial pond and watched the goldfish, hanging motionless in the flow of scummy bubbles from the inlet. At lunch my salad was speckled with nested drops of soy, lemon and oil. The two lowest strings of my guitar, plucked together, resonate on the edge of hearing with a deeper ghost note.
These things happen all the time, but today it seems sharper, closer, and - this sounds pretentious but for better or worse I'm not pretending - more meaningful. Nothing much has happened, there's still the usual to be done, but life is running more smoothly and at higher resolution.
A few years ago I was on a walk with my family, just talking and looking around. We tried to work out why it was so pleasurable. Our conclusion: because we had realized we were happy. We've so many needs to be satisfied daily, so perhaps the key is to be able to stop and recognize when everything is, well, alright.
'Yeah, good, how's it going?'
'Well thanks.'
'Good.'
A pretty ordinary exchange, codified and nearly meaningless. We've said it to people we don't know, people we don't like, people we know aren't well, and people who know we aren't well. But just now it was deeply satisfying. Before that I took a long-cut through the gardens along an un-mowed path. I stood on the edge of an artificial pond and watched the goldfish, hanging motionless in the flow of scummy bubbles from the inlet. At lunch my salad was speckled with nested drops of soy, lemon and oil. The two lowest strings of my guitar, plucked together, resonate on the edge of hearing with a deeper ghost note.
These things happen all the time, but today it seems sharper, closer, and - this sounds pretentious but for better or worse I'm not pretending - more meaningful. Nothing much has happened, there's still the usual to be done, but life is running more smoothly and at higher resolution.
A few years ago I was on a walk with my family, just talking and looking around. We tried to work out why it was so pleasurable. Our conclusion: because we had realized we were happy. We've so many needs to be satisfied daily, so perhaps the key is to be able to stop and recognize when everything is, well, alright.
Sunday, 18 January 2009
da nu roseta stone
Our knowledge of certain classical languages is due entirely to the Rosetta Stone, an ancient rock crib sheet which has the same passage translated into several languages. Here, perhaps for the first time, I will endeavor to provide the same service for certain oral dialects of the English language, which may otherwise be lost to us once their supporting cultures subside. I hope this will be both informative and entertaining.
London street:
Blood dju fink cos your up in my face I won't step to, dough? You get me? Brrap. Na man I will shank you, yeah, cos you ain't never giving props to me and my family, but cos we were like this yeah you getta walk. Today, dough, you get me? Pssh.
Mexican holmes:
Hey holmes you wanna stop dat? You know me, ey, you know my people, you don' wanna ride with me, cos I will go loco, I will go loco, and you don' wan' see me stepping, holmes. My moms, she's no happy, you need to show that woman some care, yeah? Carnalito we used to roll, so you live today. Today, ey?
London irish:
Now hold on dare a minute lad. I tink you'd better get yerself a drink or something, because, and I'll be honest with you, you're really starting to get on me tits. Don't make me take you outside cos mother of Mary I will and you saw what happened to the Flannigan lad. Now why'd you have to go and be so rude about me ma? You get off today, ye cheeky git, because of how's we used to be alright and that, but you'd better not try me if I've had a rough day, alright now? Jaysus.
London gentleman's club:
My dear fellow, please don't think for one moment that simply because you are deporting yourself in an insufferably aggressive manner you will be able to intimidate me - do you understand? Quite the opposite: I am perfectly prepared to defend myself by whatever means necessary, should the occasion arise, especially in the light of the disrespectful remarks you recently directed towards my relations. Yet I shall refrain from escalation as a mark of consideration towards our formerly cordial acquaintance. I can only hope that you will not be so bold as to test my reserve in future, by golly.
Sorry to any Mexicans, Irish, or Londoners reading this post.
London street:
Blood dju fink cos your up in my face I won't step to, dough? You get me? Brrap. Na man I will shank you, yeah, cos you ain't never giving props to me and my family, but cos we were like this yeah you getta walk. Today, dough, you get me? Pssh.
Mexican holmes:
Hey holmes you wanna stop dat? You know me, ey, you know my people, you don' wanna ride with me, cos I will go loco, I will go loco, and you don' wan' see me stepping, holmes. My moms, she's no happy, you need to show that woman some care, yeah? Carnalito we used to roll, so you live today. Today, ey?
London irish:
Now hold on dare a minute lad. I tink you'd better get yerself a drink or something, because, and I'll be honest with you, you're really starting to get on me tits. Don't make me take you outside cos mother of Mary I will and you saw what happened to the Flannigan lad. Now why'd you have to go and be so rude about me ma? You get off today, ye cheeky git, because of how's we used to be alright and that, but you'd better not try me if I've had a rough day, alright now? Jaysus.
London gentleman's club:
My dear fellow, please don't think for one moment that simply because you are deporting yourself in an insufferably aggressive manner you will be able to intimidate me - do you understand? Quite the opposite: I am perfectly prepared to defend myself by whatever means necessary, should the occasion arise, especially in the light of the disrespectful remarks you recently directed towards my relations. Yet I shall refrain from escalation as a mark of consideration towards our formerly cordial acquaintance. I can only hope that you will not be so bold as to test my reserve in future, by golly.
Sorry to any Mexicans, Irish, or Londoners reading this post.
Saturday, 17 January 2009
wake up Mr West
So I have a rehearsal at ten. Two alarms were set, there was no way I could miss it. But at twelve I was being shouted awake by my organ scholar - how had I managed to miss so much of it? Heart pounding I shot up in bed, looked at the clock. It was twenty to six. I woke up maybe seven more times until, thank God, the alarm went off just now.
Why do dreams have to be so tricksy? The worst so far, which I've had for years, is the girlfriend. When I was thirteen I had an epic dream about the best date ever, which culminated in us riding the top deck of a London bus, at the front, pretending to be flying. I didn't really have a girlfriend, but I missed her so much when I woke up that I nearly cried.
But feel free to try the superman thing.
Why do dreams have to be so tricksy? The worst so far, which I've had for years, is the girlfriend. When I was thirteen I had an epic dream about the best date ever, which culminated in us riding the top deck of a London bus, at the front, pretending to be flying. I didn't really have a girlfriend, but I missed her so much when I woke up that I nearly cried.
But feel free to try the superman thing.
Wednesday, 14 January 2009
appologies, a whinge, and some americans
Did I expend all my blogging energies over a few meager posts, having enticed you with promises of 'updates' and 'news'? No, still here, but my computer has bitten the dust. It has a very bright virus which is invisible to scanners and tries to take over my email every two seconds. It has a slightly dimmer friend, following it around like a short kid behind a bully, which screams 'You have a virus, let me clean it now!' I'm told that the program, once bought, installs several fake viruses on your system then proudly removes them. These clever resourceful bastards have pretty much earned my pc.
So, I'm back to the flack of university, with a borrowed computer and a caffeine habit that now costs 75p a day. For some reason, late nights, early mornings, dehydration, whatever, waking up is always painful (physically) and getting up requires nearly more willpower than I have. The work is looming as high as usual, all time is double booked, the food is either rubbish or prohibitively expensive, and watching tv has been upgraded from pleasurable to guiltily pleasurable.
But on my first day back I had the pleasure to sing with Tufts sQ!, who are a very talented a cappella group on tour from Tufts University, Boston. The recordings online aren't great, this should give you an idea. Banter was similarly high class, and most of the guys had learned their British accents from Jeremy Clarkson, so anything good was the best ... 'in the WORLD'.
Anyway, that's it for now, hopefully the water is working again or it's going to be another bad hair day.
So, I'm back to the flack of university, with a borrowed computer and a caffeine habit that now costs 75p a day. For some reason, late nights, early mornings, dehydration, whatever, waking up is always painful (physically) and getting up requires nearly more willpower than I have. The work is looming as high as usual, all time is double booked, the food is either rubbish or prohibitively expensive, and watching tv has been upgraded from pleasurable to guiltily pleasurable.
But on my first day back I had the pleasure to sing with Tufts sQ!, who are a very talented a cappella group on tour from Tufts University, Boston. The recordings online aren't great, this should give you an idea. Banter was similarly high class, and most of the guys had learned their British accents from Jeremy Clarkson, so anything good was the best ... 'in the WORLD'.
Anyway, that's it for now, hopefully the water is working again or it's going to be another bad hair day.
Thursday, 8 January 2009
klunk...
... goes the coffee mug on my desk. It is huge, and still half full of the good stuff. The froth keeps it hot, makes it seem less dense and damps the klunks as my still uncoordinated arm tries to lower the mug through the wood.
It's a funny situation I find myself in today. Time for me is like a weekly calendar in which appointments pleasurable and mundane are clearly pencilled in. Not so precisely as to make me punctual, that's what the computer's for, but I have a good grasp of what's to be looked forward to. This is the fuel I need for the dull days, or the hard days: something good around the corner. And when that's gone, something else. So the really trying times are not so much due to the present, but an eventless horizon.
What's curious is the horizon is looking pretty featureless at the moment: a couple of good gigs, return to uni, some interesting work, I think I've spotted the twist in my novel - but nothing to wish a day away for or to trouble my sleep. Nevertheless, instead of the usual uninspired blankness I have an undefinable hope, not rooted in anything I can think of. It's like the key of my life has been transposed up a fraction of a tone or some dilute pink dye's been slipped into my contact solution.
Speaking of which, off to the opticians. Hopefully I need a top up and distant trees will be crisp again.
It's a funny situation I find myself in today. Time for me is like a weekly calendar in which appointments pleasurable and mundane are clearly pencilled in. Not so precisely as to make me punctual, that's what the computer's for, but I have a good grasp of what's to be looked forward to. This is the fuel I need for the dull days, or the hard days: something good around the corner. And when that's gone, something else. So the really trying times are not so much due to the present, but an eventless horizon.
What's curious is the horizon is looking pretty featureless at the moment: a couple of good gigs, return to uni, some interesting work, I think I've spotted the twist in my novel - but nothing to wish a day away for or to trouble my sleep. Nevertheless, instead of the usual uninspired blankness I have an undefinable hope, not rooted in anything I can think of. It's like the key of my life has been transposed up a fraction of a tone or some dilute pink dye's been slipped into my contact solution.
Speaking of which, off to the opticians. Hopefully I need a top up and distant trees will be crisp again.
Wednesday, 7 January 2009
even facebook wants me to work
An ad just told me to stop procrastinating. God. Isn't that going to lose facebook a lot of money? So today is the day of work which will solve all my problems. A mere 3000 words should cover it, despite having no idea how to connect them. Right now is the happiest bit of a day like this: a big coffee, drunk slowly, and the earnest checking of the many ways people can contact me. They haven't, not even my abuser, which is sad as they are almost certainly the only person outside of my family to have read this. Perhaps I shouldn't have been rude.
I did some exercise yesterday, and through some miracle don't hurt today. It's for the usual health/vanity reasons, but I like to think I have it harder than other people. My bones are slim and not very dense, with no effect other than to make me look skinnier than I am. Wine bottles have a dome of glass at the bottom to make them seem more voluminous than they are - this is what I'm missing, metaphorically. But being ripped would put me at the epicentre of a lot of swooning, which would be inconvenient.
Right, here goes.
I did some exercise yesterday, and through some miracle don't hurt today. It's for the usual health/vanity reasons, but I like to think I have it harder than other people. My bones are slim and not very dense, with no effect other than to make me look skinnier than I am. Wine bottles have a dome of glass at the bottom to make them seem more voluminous than they are - this is what I'm missing, metaphorically. But being ripped would put me at the epicentre of a lot of swooning, which would be inconvenient.
Right, here goes.
Tuesday, 6 January 2009
my first feedback
Hello again dear reader. An email bingleboop has just informed me that I have my very first comment. Avid readers will have noticed it under my first post, but I reprint it for your convenience:
Anonymous:
you have dog s*** tastes.
It's flattering that this person feels so comfortable with me that they are able to be this honest. It reminds me a little of my favourite YouTube comment of all time, left on a cleverly staged spoof video of a paddling pool accident. A few people are incredulous, a few people are taken in by the cgi, but one genius comes up with: 'If you think this is real I hope a dog licks your b***s'
Amazing: people are happy to publish these opinions to the world, even under the cloak of anonymity. Okay, we don't know who you are, but you do - doesn't it make you a little less happy to be you? It would almost make sense if my tastes were controversial, but photography? Stand up? Okay, classical music is asking for it and a cappella isn't 'hip hop' or whatever you kids are listening to these days, but why does it bother you? I suppose the serious point here is that anonymity and lightening fast communication mean it is easier than ever to say whatever you want to whoever you want, and its both a boon and a curse. The advice used to be to sleep on a letter, but there's no button for that on MSN. The facelessness of it makes it easy to say things which would be regrettable in a letter, embarrassing over the phone and dangerous face to face.
In other news, I discovered that shopping isn't always ghastly and that glass is not a liquid - just an 'amorphous solid'. Old window panes are thicker at the bottom because they were bad at making glass, and putting them the other way up would've been silly.
Anonymous:
you have dog s*** tastes.
It's flattering that this person feels so comfortable with me that they are able to be this honest. It reminds me a little of my favourite YouTube comment of all time, left on a cleverly staged spoof video of a paddling pool accident. A few people are incredulous, a few people are taken in by the cgi, but one genius comes up with: 'If you think this is real I hope a dog licks your b***s'
Amazing: people are happy to publish these opinions to the world, even under the cloak of anonymity. Okay, we don't know who you are, but you do - doesn't it make you a little less happy to be you? It would almost make sense if my tastes were controversial, but photography? Stand up? Okay, classical music is asking for it and a cappella isn't 'hip hop' or whatever you kids are listening to these days, but why does it bother you? I suppose the serious point here is that anonymity and lightening fast communication mean it is easier than ever to say whatever you want to whoever you want, and its both a boon and a curse. The advice used to be to sleep on a letter, but there's no button for that on MSN. The facelessness of it makes it easy to say things which would be regrettable in a letter, embarrassing over the phone and dangerous face to face.
In other news, I discovered that shopping isn't always ghastly and that glass is not a liquid - just an 'amorphous solid'. Old window panes are thicker at the bottom because they were bad at making glass, and putting them the other way up would've been silly.
laugh and the world looks at you funny
I spent most of my formative years trying to be funny, and was very successful. Either the joke was funny, and people laughed (often indulgently, as if I had crafted the joke from pasta tubes and asked that it be stuck on the fridge) or it fell flat and they had the opportunity to respond with their own joke, such as miming the phone call 'taxi for Don' or by standing very still and making tumbleweed noises. Dogs howling, church bells ringing. This would go on for some time, and people would go away amused.
Perhaps I should have cared more for the difference between 'laughing at' and 'laughing with', but as far as I was concerned if there was laughter then the job was done. Perhaps with more discretion would have come the state of 'cool', in which people are admired and respected for doing very little. When I do very little I am told to get on with something, usually tidying.
The inspiration for this blog came from Stephen Fry's podcasts, which are even more witty and interesting than me. It's all good, but two particular thoughts seem appropriate for this post. First, he considers whether comedy should be considered the highest of the arts for its ability to unite regardless of class, gender, race, and so forth; its capacity to bring good cheer no matter how little the world affords; its potential to subtly (or crudly) lampoon that which should change. Second, he laments from personal experience how easy it is for a pubblished journalist, or by extension blogger, to believe that what they have to say matters and should be read by other people.
This is the reason you won't find much current affairs here: I know very little, have very little to add, and almost no power to change almost every issue brought to light in the news. Further, so little of what makes the news is representative or informative - informative in the sense that it is data which can be of use to us. For example, I live in a city where children have been reported to stab each other. What has not been reported is the million children going out and getting on with stab-free living and returning completely unscathed. I'm not saying that the victim's death is not a tragedy, but its prominence risks making victims of all of us. Quivering, over-informed, vacillating blobs of fear.
Here ends the diatribe. For your patience, here are two of my favourite stand-up quotes:
'I recently read an interview in Rolling Stone, where he advocated that people should not do drugs, KEITH RICHARDS said that we should not do drugs. Keith, we can't do any more drugs, BECAUSE YOU ALREADY DID THEM ALL! There's none left, we have to wait until you die so we can smoke your ashes, alright?' - Denis Leary
'I don't kill flies but I like to mess with their minds. I hold them above globes. They freak out and yell, 'Whoa, I'm way too high!'' - Bruce Baum
Perhaps I should have cared more for the difference between 'laughing at' and 'laughing with', but as far as I was concerned if there was laughter then the job was done. Perhaps with more discretion would have come the state of 'cool', in which people are admired and respected for doing very little. When I do very little I am told to get on with something, usually tidying.
The inspiration for this blog came from Stephen Fry's podcasts, which are even more witty and interesting than me. It's all good, but two particular thoughts seem appropriate for this post. First, he considers whether comedy should be considered the highest of the arts for its ability to unite regardless of class, gender, race, and so forth; its capacity to bring good cheer no matter how little the world affords; its potential to subtly (or crudly) lampoon that which should change. Second, he laments from personal experience how easy it is for a pubblished journalist, or by extension blogger, to believe that what they have to say matters and should be read by other people.
This is the reason you won't find much current affairs here: I know very little, have very little to add, and almost no power to change almost every issue brought to light in the news. Further, so little of what makes the news is representative or informative - informative in the sense that it is data which can be of use to us. For example, I live in a city where children have been reported to stab each other. What has not been reported is the million children going out and getting on with stab-free living and returning completely unscathed. I'm not saying that the victim's death is not a tragedy, but its prominence risks making victims of all of us. Quivering, over-informed, vacillating blobs of fear.
Here ends the diatribe. For your patience, here are two of my favourite stand-up quotes:
'I recently read an interview in Rolling Stone, where he advocated that people should not do drugs, KEITH RICHARDS said that we should not do drugs. Keith, we can't do any more drugs, BECAUSE YOU ALREADY DID THEM ALL! There's none left, we have to wait until you die so we can smoke your ashes, alright?' - Denis Leary
'I don't kill flies but I like to mess with their minds. I hold them above globes. They freak out and yell, 'Whoa, I'm way too high!'' - Bruce Baum
Monday, 5 January 2009
Hello, welcome, and goodbye.
'flim-flam, v
trans. a. To humbug, to beguile into (something). b. U.S. To cheat (a person) out of (money) ‘while he is making change for a bill, by distracting or confusing him, so that he pays out more than the proper sum’ (Stand. Dict.).[...]
Hence flim-flammer U.S. So flim-flammery.'
Hello and welcome to my blog, soon-to-be-home to my thoughts on anything I think you might find mildly diverting. Spurred by the encouragement of my family - 'Do not start a blog, you have better things to do' - I hope to hide from more edifying activities by offering a viewpoint on the things, people, places, music, films and books that make me happy. I promise not to cheat you out of money, and I ask that in return you won't steal my identity.
Perhaps one day writing will be my job, in which case you have the dubious privilege of being amongst my first readers. So your feedback is very welcome. Did I split an infinitive? Mis-quote a lyric, use an unnecessary hyphen? Hooray, educate me. But please don't be mean or filthy in a YouTube comment manner, or I'll give your email address to the kind foreign bankers.
To get things rolling, here is a e-Smorgasbord of my tastes:
A cappella and beatboxing,
Choral music,
Stand up comedy,
Photography
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