Slippymark

Britain's Got Talent

2011-06-04T22:37:00.002+01:00

Another series of BGT comes to a close, and despite having watched none of it, I'd still like to throw my two penneth into the ring having been exposed to the circus vicariously through Twitter, enough so to make me tune in for the last 15 minutes to see who won.

There's been rumours flying around the interwebs that Ronan was "invited" to compete, after being spotted by Sony Music scouts singing at a function for ex Norwich goalkeeping legend Bryan Gunn two years ago, since when he has been groomed by Cowell et al. to be Britains answer to Justin Bieber.

Whether that's true or not is by the by. He looks the part, and despite not winning, will no doubt have a far more successful career than the winner, who takes home a fraction of the phone in revenue for tonight, and gets to sing at the Royal Variety Performance.

W00t

Ronan ~~already has~~ will get a record deal, and already has a legion of adoring fans ready to buy anything he releases. He'll be the real winner if you want to measure success in record sales, column inches exposure. How much money he'll actually receive is another matter entirely.

Whether he's gay or not, or a genuine talent or a hot housed precocious do it for Mummy child star is inconsequential. The little fuckers only twelve.

He may be ready for the attention he's going to get, or maybe Cowell will hide him away for a few months until the rumours die down, but either way, he probably needs to finish growing up before he throws himself at the mercy of the oh so fickle tabloid press.

Maybe I'm just a terrible snob for not liking reality talent shows, or too cynical to take any joy from what they stand for.

To some they are just harmless fun, not the exploitative juggernaut that I view them to be. If people want to make an arse of themselves on national TV, then fair enough, provided they understand the difference between the public are laughing at them, not with them.

And if the viewing public wants to spend their money on voting, good luck to them. The last series of X Factor made over £5 million from phones, and god knows how much more from advertising and sponsorship.

Cowell is a pro. I'm sure he'll do whatever he can to keep Ronan safe and on the straight and narrow, because a fucked up prodigy is no good as an investment.

Britain does have talent, and he's a flat headed high trouser wearing Svengali, and his talent is exploiting everyone he comes into contact with in order to make more money for himself.

Wheelie bad idea..

2010-08-25T13:36:00.003+01:00

Unless you've been sheltering from the rain in a wheelie bin you cannot have escaped the news this week.

Provided of course that the wheelie bin in which you sought refuge was not unintentionally invaded by Lola, a four year old tabby from Coventry.

Mary Bale (no relation to Mrsslippy) now looks as likely to be asked by her neighbours to feed the cat whilst on holiday as Gary Glitter would be asked to babysit.

As a cat owner and all round animal lover myself, I found what she did completely abhorrent. If someone was to dump Minnie or Busta in a bin, I would certainly seek to discover the culprit, and press charges.

What I wouldn't do is demand their head on a plate. After a good old fashioned witch hunt she has been named and shamed, and Internet forums are alive with the most medieval demands for how her sick actions must be punished.

Nothing like a bit of mob justice to show the uncivilised barbarians of society the wrongs of their ways. The irony is almost palpable.

It's just a shame the angry hordes can't get as worked up over some real crimes in society..

Apathy towards the plight of millions of flood victims in Pakistan.

News Corp, and its fascist flagship Fox News fanning the flames of racial hatred with it's misinformation and propaganda surrounding the 'Ground Zero Mosque' - which interestingly is neither at Ground Zero, nor a Mosque

Turning a blind eye to the Catholic Churches mutual wonky optics regarding allegations of persistent, endemic sexual abuse of minors, as we welcome Pope Benny to the UK in a couple of weeks time.

At least no cats were harmed in any of the above. Perhaps if they were, the public would care more.

Mary Bale will be punished for her crime.

I don't know the women, but she strikes me as someone clearly not right in the head. Lacking any empathy in the first place to do such a thing, and then lacking the insight into the fact that she had done anything wrong. She really claims to not understand what all the fuss was about.

Let the punishment fit the crime. She caused distress to a living creature, which could have died.

She did not set fire to a basket of kittens and use the embers to spit roast a puppy as part of some pagan ritual

Sadly animal abuse happens all the time, either by neglect, or direct action. Let's not make Mary Bale the poster girl for what is wrong with society just because she was caught on camera.

In a moment of madness she faces prosecution, losing her job, and her friends - and it serves her right. Any physical attacks on her, or her property makes us no better than her. An eye for an eye will make us all blind, and an arson for a kitty just wastes the Fire Services time.

She will find it hard to gain re-employment, and will be ostracised not only by her local community, but by the whole country. Shunned and ignored.

As one, we can send her to Coventry - but as previously stated, she already lives there.

And some would say that's punishment enough.

The Dulwich Defectives

2010-08-23T11:32:00.003+01:00

After a brief hiatus of about 4 months where I've been so bored of staring at computer screens all day at work that I just can't be arsed to do it in the evening, I have decided to put pen to paper, or more correctly carpals to keyboard to document a jaunt to London before my aging synapses auto archive it to my minds irreversible recycle bin.

Taking inspiration from the 130th Anniversary of HP Lovecrafts birth, the closest we could get to doing Detective work in Dunwich, was assembling a collection of freaks, geeks and gargoyles to Stoxies stomping ground of East Dulwich and just being wrong.

Prime mission for the day - cricket. Unfortunately due to the ECBs complete incompetence by starting a Test on a Wednesday, and some shocking batting by the home side it was all but over by Day 4 on the Saturday. However there was still the prospect of getting a few hours of entertainment, followed by plenty of booze time.

Myself and Ali trained it from Cambridge to meet Stoxie and Tim already assembled at The Hanover Arms for a prematch warm up drink - soon to be joined by Nick and Stevo and into The Oval to start racking up the pints whilst wondering if the last wicket stand could rack up more runs. A little sweepstake on how many balls England would face was short lived as Broad swiped recklessly at the 3rd ball of the day and as soon as play started, it was back to the pavilion to prepare for a Pakistan run chase.

They were quickly out the blocks, and the chase looked as one sided as Mo Farah legging it after Heather Mills, bludgeoning her with her spare leg as he goes.

As it became more and more apparent that it would be over as soon as it began, the only way to make the most out of the day was going to be to just keep getting the pints in and soaking up the atmosphere.

Seemed atmosphere wasn't the only thing we could soak up, as our section of the crowd became less interested in cricket, and more interested in drinking, and feeding the snake.

I'd never seen a snake at a sporting event before, but the execution was so sublime and simple I'm stunned to be a viper virgin. Simply collect up your empty pint pots in a stack, and feed it by passing it around the stand. Busy hands gather discarded plastic pots adding vertebrae at an exponential rate whilst its head waves ominously several feet above you. Eventually the snake reaches critical mass and it's body collapses, spewing it's innards of warm dregs of Fosters and Pedigree over all and sundry, only to be reborn from its broken body parts.

A phoenix from the flames, or a serpent from the spillages.

Some more incisive bowling from Jimmy and Swanny slowed things down enough to make for a slow painful death, but all over too late to find a local football ground, so instead back to Dulwich, Stoxies local, and Soccer Saturday on the big screen.

What followed was 8 hours of systematic abuse, bullying, and character assassination as each individuals physical and mental flaws were ruthlessly laid bare for the cheap amusement of the others - and it was great.

An extended episode of The Inbetweeners made real, but with 36-37 year olds who have somehow despite holding down responsible jobs and raising families are deep down no better that the 17 year old versions of ourselves sneaking into pubs compiling lists of dream women - some of which remain the same after 20 years despite the fact that some of the women are now world weathered hags, and heavily soiled goods.

Food came courtesy of Stoxies local Mongolian Barbecue joint, which went down just right, as did the drinks which were switched from ale to pitchers of margarita, or as coined by Stevo "Tasty Drink". An accurate description which worked well enough procuring refills in the restaurant, but slightly ambiguous when requested at the next bar, so onto bottled lager it was.

Next up - something we've never done before. We've dabbled in all sorts of nonsense on all day sessions with things getting particularly messy. The full stories of which can only be pieced together using combined flashbacks, and contents of cameras, phones, receipts in wallets, and an absence of all cash money.

What had we never done?

Six men, let loose in the big city with a weekend pass from six very trusting ladies?

Six men with a combined track record of some of the most debauched puerile shennanigans?

What's left to do?

An early night....

We went home before 11...

No late licenses, no clubs, no titty bars, no casinos, no roaming the streets naked looking for random trophies to transport home balanced on our heads.

Home - Match of the Day - all tucked up in separate beds by 12.

And if you believe that you'll believe anything.

For which I commend your trust - because sadly, it's true.

Crash of the Titans

2010-04-23T20:07:00.002+01:00

Although not a complete train wreck, there is no denying that the 2010 remake of the Classics classic 'Clash of the Titans' is certainly a multiple car pile up.

****SPOILER ALERT****

Louis Letterier has spoiled it.

I have a very fond recollection of Desmond Davis original, from Ray Harryhausens beautiful stop motion animation, to Vida Taylors beautiful bare arse as she and the young Perseus are washed up on a island at the start of the film.

Harry Hamlin may have been a bit wooden, but his constant look of bewilderment helps endear us to a mortal coming to terms with the fact that he might actually be a God.

Sam Worthington is just shit. In theory he has this 'everyman quality' which is why we have seen him come from nowhere to staring in Avatar, Terminator, and now this. He's cut from the same cloth as countryman Russell Crowe, but unfortunately it's the off cuts at the end of the roll.

From the outset the film veered strongly away from the original, in a plot that just made no sense at times.

In a summary of the 80's classic...

Beautiful Andromeda is engaged to demi-god and son of Godess Thetis, Calibos.
Calibos pisses of Zeus by hunting and killing all but one of his herd of flying horses, so he turns him into a hideous monster. With the wedding off, Thetis puts a curse on Andromeda that no man may marry her without solving a riddle - the answer to which is a ring on her disfigured sons hand.
Cue Harry Hamlin. He fancies a bit of Andromeda action, so connives to solve the riddle, and cuts off Calibos' hand.
Calibos now even more pissed off begs his mum to take revenge on Harry/Perseus. She can't because he's Zeus's son, so vows to destroy Andromedas home town instead, by unleashing the Kraken in 30 days unless Andromeda is sacrificed.
Stygian witches and a Medusa later, and the Kraken is dead, and Perseus and Andromeda live happily ever after.

Back to 2010 and it's all a bit different...

Perseus is now pissed off with Zeus's brother Hades for killing his family in a fishing accident.
Hades is pissed off with his brother because Zeus gets to wear ethereal shiny armour, and he has male pattern baldness and has to live in the dingy underworld.
Hades vows to destroy Andromedas home because she has a gobby mother, but we don't really care about her, and neither does Perseus, as he's spotted the much fitter Io, who bears more than a passing resemblance to the also fitter than Andromeda, Gemma Arterton.
Grumpy Perseus and a not so merry band of soldiers head off in search of a way to stop Hades pet sea monster.

Why he doesn't just tell them to go fuck themselves and shack up with Io, I'll never know.

But off they jolly well go, until their path is hampered by Calibos.

Only this time Calibos isn't the son of a Godess, he's King Acrisius - husband of Perseus's mother but not his Dad! Sneaky Zeus had got the Queen up the duff, and Acrisus in a fit of rage chucked his wife and son into the sea in a wooden box at the start of the film...

Via the same route of Stygian witches, Medusa, and a (black) Pegasus we still get to see Perseus defeat the Kraken, and save Andromeda but he doesn't care about her, and neither do we.

Instead we see him reunited with a (killed by Calibos in Act III), Io. Resurrected by Zeus as a 'thanks for bitch slapping my brother - I couldn't be arsed to do it myself', despite the fact that she was apparently immortal anyway....

All....very....wrong.

I want Burgess Merideth, Booboo the mechanical owl, and a Medusa that looks 10 times scarier as a stop motion plasticine monster than as an expensive CGI monstrosity.

I want a Mount Olympus populated by Knights and Dames of the acting world wearing their best togas, not an armoured Irish Zeus with his wrinkles inexplicably airbrushed out.

I don't want post production 3D that just doesn't work. It was no more 3D than a pop up children's book. A layer in the foreground, a layer in the middle distance, and then a back drop. 3D objects are exactly that, 3 dimensionnal. They are not just a couple of 2D objects placed a little distance away from each other.

In some parts it became overly distracting, particularly in close ups where people appeared to be stood in front of a second version of themselves. Peering over the top of the 3D glasses confirmed just that. All the acting (if you can call it that) is strictly 2D, with the CGI effects mashed in to try and give some depth.

Normally when I see a film like this I can take some solace in the fact that it's all just a bit of silly nonsense. Escapist tosh that it really doesn't matter if the plot leaks like the back four at Blundell Park, or the effects are a bit clunky - provided it's fun.

But sadly this is not. It takes itself far too fucking seriously and has all the charm of Piers Morgan, tanked up on WKD Blue, out on the pull in a Cleethorpes nightclub, with Richard Littlejohn as his wingman.

If you've not seen it yet, don't waste your money at the cinema - wait until it's on Sky and watch it as it was shot, in 2D - then yearn for the original, and just be glad they haven't done it to any your other favourites such as The Birds, Death Wish, Gremlins, Robocop, Westworld, Escape From New York, Flash Gordon, The Black Hole.....

...sorry...what's that?...They're ALL IN PRODUCTION AS WE SPEAK?

God in heaven help us.

Because the ones on Mount Olympus are all shit.

Facebook fatigue 2

2010-04-13T21:20:00.003+01:00

I've been a bit quiet lately. Mostly because I've been generally happy with the World, and also because I've been a little bit busy, and a little bit lazy, but today someone annoyed me off and pushed me into a grump that I have to get off my chest.

Not for the first time, I'm pissed off with Facebook, or more's the point, some Facebook users.

Nothing is guaranteed to annoy me more in the morning than logging in to find one of my 'friends' has posted something like

"Why do we send so much money to overseas charities when we have children in the UK going to bed hungry??? Charity should begin at home!!! I bet 90% of people aren't brave enough to copy this post onto their status!!!"

Yep.

Just like 90% of us aren't ~~brave~~ racist enough to goosestep our way down to the local BNP office wearing our best pointy white hood.

Not only is it pretty rare to see an underfed British child, there really is no reason for children in the UK to go to bed hungry. We have a welfare system that although not perfect, means that children should not starve. If they've got no dinner money, it's probably because they spent it on a shitty polyphonic N Dubz ringtone. If there's no food in the cupboard at home, check how much money Mum has spent on scratch cards and fags, or how much Dad has pissed up the wall.

And isn't it nearly always the same whiny wastes of space that write this shit. The same ones that moan that the council have messed up their benefits, or that they had to wait hours to see a GP., or that their council house isn't good enough.

Easy for me to say I suppose, I'm lucky enough to have a reasonably well paid job and my own home.

I was lucky enough to not bunk off school, and get a few A levels, to train as a nurse where I got a bursary, not a salary or a grant. £1,000 every three months for food and accommodation. Not a university student with a few hours of lectures a week. Full time study, mixed with full time work. Weekends were to either study and write assignments, or work Bank shifts to subsidise my income.

I was lucky enough to qualify saddled with debts, which after several years I managed to get under control enough to buy a house with Mrsslippy.

Our own home? No. It's the belongs to the bank, and will do for another 20 years until we pay off the enormous debt we are now in - it's called a mortgage.

Yeah - lucky.

And yet still I give my money to feed underprivileged children, house the homeless, treat the sick, and rightly so.

It's called taxation. Those of us who work for a living pay it. A chunk of my salary goes into National Insurance, a bit more into Income Tax, and another chunk to the council.

I've never had to claim unemployment benefit, child benefit, need complex hospital care. A few trips to the GP now and again, but I know full well that the prescription charges I pay would have covered the cost of the antibiotics 100 times over - that's what enables those on expensive drugs to pay the same charges.

And I'm happy to pay my tax. It means that those less fortunate than me through no fault of their own can receive food, shelter and medical treatment.

I believe that if a child is going hungry, then it's most likely down to neglectful parenting. These fuckers that demand more for kids at home are demanding more funding, which means more taxes - but then they would - they don't put into the national kitty in the first place, just take, take take from the bottomless money jar that the rest of us fill up.

If I donate to overseas charities, it can save lives.

Fact.

That same money was taken as tax, it wouldn't stop children going hungry - even if it did go directly into child benefit. Parents who don't want to care for their children won't. The only way to resolve that is tighter monitoring. More social workers. More interfering Nanny State that the whiners don't want. There have been tragic failings, but these have been down to mismanagement, not penny pinching.

So when they say that we should look after our own first are they really saying we should pay more taxes, and interfere more in family affairs, or that the rest of the world can fuck off as far as they are concerned?

I honestly think it's the latter. The 'acceptable face' of racism.

Well guess what? It's not acceptable.

A child dies of malaria every 30 seconds. That's probably 4 or 5 since you've been reading this. A mosquito net costs £5.

They can't buy them for themselves because they have no money. They haven't blown it on ringtones and scratchcards. They can't go to their Government and ask for one, because they have no money either. Not because they are lazy, but because the countries natural resources have been stripped away from them. They've been fleeced with ridiculous loans from the World Bank. Natural disasters and famines have decimated what quality they ever had. They rely on the kindness of strangers to get them back on their feet. Not to provide them with luxuries - just the basic needs to sustain life.

Is that really too much to ask?

If the government asks me to pay more tax, I will pay more. If there are people dying in the World I will help. I won't donate all my worldly goods, but I'll give what I can comfortably spare.

I know the people who post this sort of bigotry won't give anything - but don't you dare try to suggest that the rest of us shouldn't either.

I've started binning off people that post this bollocks. I used to keep them on out of morbid curiosity as to what Daily Fail sponsored shite they'll come out with next, but it's giving me bad ju-ju, so it's time to cut them loose.

If I've offended you, then so be it.

You offended me first. Take your casual racism, your farmville, your fish world, your pokes, gifts, bejewelled high score, and fuck off.

And another 3 children have died of malaria...

Run for your life!

2010-02-24T21:13:00.003Z

Since last April I've been foregoing the car or public transport to travel to work and back for a number of reasons

It's the only exercise I get now I have a desk job
It's the only fresh air I get
It's free
I know exactly what time I need to leave the house without being dependent on buses being on time/traffic etc
It's a nice way to just have some 'me' time. Stick in my headphones and I'm away for half an hour (or there abouts)

I have a few different routes, with the most straightforward taking exactly 33 minutes, the most circuitous over 50 mins. It all just depends on how active I'm feeling.

All in all there are dozens of different ways I could go, and variety being the spice of life, I like to mix it up a bit.

Recently I've been able to use my inner geek to really test out my routes with a little GPS gizmo on my phone that tracks every step of my route, then uploads stats on top speed, average speed, distance etc into Google Maps.

I now know that the shortest route to work is exactly 2 miles, and although it's not really up hill, there are enough ups and downs to climb 91 meters en route. See for yourself here

But as I've accumulated loads of data around what each route encompasses, I still need to make the decision of which one to take each day, and after nearly a year, that is getting boring.

Fortunately help was at hand.

My newest geeky game draws in two of my favourite things.

Techy gadgets, and Zombies.

I have an application on my phone that turns the GPS sensor and map utility, into a Zombie detector.

As I leave home/work, all I have to do is set my destination, and the level of Zombie infestation. Controlled Outbreak (quite a few), Early Local Infestation (lmore), Late Local Infestation (loads), or Total Pandemic (fucking everywhere)

Type of Zombie defines the speed. Night of the Living Dead (2mph), Resident Evil (5mph), or 28 Days Later (8mph).

As today would be my first foray into a Chinton plagued by the undead, I decided a Controlled Outbreak would be a nice gentle start, and being as my previous stat gathering has informed me that my average walking speed is around 3.8mph I didn't want anything either in my way, or following behind me that would cause me to run all the way.The classic 'Romero' Zombie would be my first adversary.

Simply tell the phone where I'm going, and next thing you know there are dozens of little green Zombie icons all over the Map. Some making roads completely impassable, some loitering around in gardens that if I was nippy enough, I could probably scoot past.

Get within about 50m of one, and his little icon goes red, and he makes a beeline for you, and Zombies, having no regard for personal property and privacy, will quite happily wade through a private garden and over fences to get to you.

I got about 10 minutes into my journey without attracting attention from any of them, but as I neared the school on the main road, a crowd of four that were loitering around the playground picked up my scent, and I had to break into a gentle jog to make sure I was clear of them as their virtual hands grasped through the school hedge.

The road ahead was blocked, and there was too much traffic to be sure of being able to lure those ahead of me all onto the same side of the road as me, and still be able to dash across the road to go around them, all without the ones from the school catching me from behind, so I took the next left into the housing estate. There were quite a few in there, but I felt they were distributed in a pattern I could avoid if I kept my wits about me.

The ones from the school eventually lost interest, but I soon had another on my tail, and another up ahead blocking a path through an alley that was too narrow to try to go round him, so I had to lure him out.I walked briskly towards him, and the moment he got my scent, I crossed to the opposite side of the road, and slowed right down. As predicted, the alley Zombie shuffled down his path, and towards the road, just as the one behind me crossed to follow.

Now I had to really slow down and think fast. I stopped to pretend to tie my shoe - eyes still on the screen monitoring the progress of the undead behind me....

I'd timed it just right. With one 5m directly ahead, the other the same distance behind, I leaped to me feet, sprinted across the road at a perfect right angle, and didn't stop running until I'd put a good 30m between me and them.

They still had my scent, but were lumbering so slowly that I knew they would never catch me. I picked up a couple more over the last stage of my journey, but made it to work unharmed - even if a few of them did follow me into the hospital.

Sorry!

Tomorrow I think I'll up the ante a bit with an 'Early Local Infestation', but I'm not upping the speed yet - I can't run all the way to work.

So if you see me zig zagging my way up the road - dawdling then sprinting - don't look at me like I'm mad.....

...... RUN FOR YOUR LIVES - THERE ARE ZOMBIES OUT THERE!!!!

Celebrity Divorce

2010-02-23T18:26:00.002Z

So after whoring their wedding to whatever tawdry magazine it was that stumped up the cash, Cheryl Cole has asked for privacy as her and Ashley go their separate ways. Something tells me you're not going to get it love...

But as have no interest in either which backing dancers arms you go running into*, or where Ashley sticks his cock next, here's a picture of a dog enjoying it's birthday instead.

* if said arms turn out to be Sarah Hardings, I may resume interest

Daily Fail

2010-02-20T08:43:00.002Z

I don't know why I do it to myself. I can normally avoid exposure, but having woken up far too early for what I would consider acceptable on a Saturday morning, I resolutely lay in bed, refusing to get up, instead passing away the minutes until my hunger gave in by trawling through the news on my phone.

There's a widgit that has all the national newspapers in one section. It's not really that much more than a selection of internet bookmarks, but it caches the results so it's quicker easier than general surfing.

As they all have different editorial policy, I'll often flick through several in case I've missed a story that only one paper is covering, but what I won't generally do is bother with The Daily ~~Fail~~ Mail, because I know it will piss me off in some way.

Today, boredom and desperation got the better of me, and I hit the link.

My eyes were drawn to a story titled "Revealed: Why all those disabled bays stay empty", and I had to read it.

Presumably some Daily Mail writer frequently gets irked because when the drive to Waitrose they can't park outside the front doors because those spaces are reserved for people with wheelchairs AND THERE'S NOT EVEN ANYONE PARKED IN THEM!!

What this calls for is some ~~shitty number crunching~~ top investigative journalism!

"Hundreds of thousands of prime parking spaces in Shopping Centres are unused because of a legal obligation to provide four times as many disabled bays than are actually needed", it cries out.

It transpires that a car park with 200 spaces or less is legally obliged to reserve 6% of these for Blue Badge holders - larger than 200 and it's 4%

What bothers the Daily Mail is that just 1.4% of the population is registered disabled.

"6% spaces divided by 1.4% disableds = 4!!!" says someone with a calculator app on their iphone.

Yes it does near as damn it, but as usual The Mail is generalising terribly, taking extremes (not the 4% for larger car parks), and ignoring simple common sense.

Let's keep the numbers nice and simple for you Daily Fail, with a carpark with 100 spaces. One space = 1%. Are you still with me?

Firstly, 1.4% of the population aren't going to need 1.4% of spaces in a car park with room for 100 cars. You can't park 0.4 of a car you fuckwits. They'll need 2 spaces. That's now only three times as many as you thought they needed.

Next, I'm going to make the assumption that you have made the assumption that disabled people are so unnattractive they couldn't possibly have a family or relationships. I'm afraid you're wrong (but I suppose you're used to it by now). 100 cars in the car park doesn't mean 100 people shopping, it means 100 households. Some alone, some with husbands, wives, lovers, children...

The figure you should really be looking at is how many households have someone who is disabled living in them. With average household sizes in the UK at around 2.4% (and having already told you that you can't have 0.4 of a person), I'm going to be generous to you and let you round it down to 2 people. But I will now insist on you doubling you're figure of 1.4% to 2.8%. Hell, lets just say you would need at least 3 spaces in a car park with 100 spaces.

Hmmm..now it's only twice as many as you thought. Or 25% less than you need in the larger carparks.

Nextly, let's look at scale deviation. Lets imagine it is the week before Christmas, and the carpark (with still your OMG SIX SPACES) is at 90% capacity. Two cars arrive, one with a Blue Badge, one without. One parks straight away, the other has to wait because 5.6 cars (there's that bit of a car again - shall we just call it 6?) are already using the disabled bays.

If there were only the average number of disabled shoppers they'd be fine! But that's the problem with averages. They're just an average. A number generated from when sometimes there are a few less, and sometimes there are a few more. Yes, it is twice as many as the 3 I told you that you'd need, but it's only 3 more cars

So they wait.

And for every 16 cars that leave a the car park, one of them will be from a disabled bay. Might be the next car, might not.....

We've all experienced the frustration of driving round a car park looking for a space, but imagine if as cars left you were constantly left still hanging because only 1 in 16 of the spots that were being created you could use, just because you were selfish enough to have foregone your mobility in order to blag some easy parking.

But not only have they got their numbers wrong, they've also failed to see the other glaringly obvious factors.

I can walk to the supermarket, and often do. I take the car for 'the big shop', but if I just need a few bits and pieces I am not forced to drive. Others are.

I can take the bus into town, again it tends to be a preference. Not because of the difficulty or cost in parking, but because the journey is so fucking tedious. Stop..start..stop..start..No thanks, I'll sit and look out the window with my ipod on and let some other mug sit in the traffic. Because I have the choice.

Park and Ride? No problem!

For me.

Time of day might also be a factor. If I was disabled and had any control over when I could fit shopping into my schedule, I'd be least likely to want to go when the aisles were heaving, and protected parking spaces might have been taken by some twat who was just 'popping in' for a ready meal (and a Daily Mail), so bays might appear to be less populated when the rest of the car park is busy.

If the Daily Mail really has a problem with a dozen or so protected spaces in large supermarket car parks, they want taking out and kneecapping. That'll let them use the spaces if they're so incapable of walking a little bit further after a hard day at the office hating immigrants, gays, the unemployed, Northerners.....

But it might interfere with their goosestepping.

And it's probably quite hard to get to the moral highground in a wheelchair - that is unless someone has put plenty of protected parking spaces up there.

Cunts.

Cyber Bullying

2010-02-15T21:36:00.002Z

I'm not proud of this, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to put my hands up and confess to cyber bullying.

Sort of...

Cyber bullying by proxy you'd probably call it. What I actually do is harbour, care for, feed and cuddle a cyber bully.

And it's not Mrsslippy....

It all started with Twitter, and the strange habit English people have of anthropomorphising their pets...

Comedian and Independent columnist Dom Joly is one such person. He owns a cat called Dr Pepper, who along with Joly has his own Twitter feed. Whereas Dom is a genial type of chap with a far too obsessive interest in Andy Murray, Dr Pepper claims to have Tourettes, and uses this as an excuse to vent obscenities at anyone who dares to leave a comment on his page.

This weekend Joly wrote an article on Dr Pepper in his Independent Column in which he revealed that the Doctor used to kill as many Robins as he could get his claws into, and mice. Never any other type of bird, just dozens and dozens of Robins.

When the time came, as so often does with big tomcats, the Doc had the op, and came back from the vets sans bollocks. Suddenly he was no longer interested in Robins - just the mice, so Dom decided - probably quite rightly that if a neutered Doc had lost the urge, the initial one must have been sexual.

His cat was a murdering sex pest. Who killed Cock Robin? Probably Dr Pepper after violating the body first, and then again afterwards.

This revelation caused many Twitterers to start poking fun at the Doc due to his newly revealed status as a jaffa, with most of these comments coming from fellow cats.

My thoughts were not about the lack of plum in his plumbing, but his interest in the reddy plumage of the little innocent Robin.

But I couldn't post this myself - it wouldn't be right and proper, so I quickly knocked up a profile for my own furry brute, Busta, who responded thus;

@domjolyscat you sick fuck. if you must fiddle with birds, at least go for big ones. partridges have nice red breasts if that's your thing

Within a few minutes there was a response..

@BustaTheBigBoy you look like one of those cats that people bag up and throw in a river with a brick attached-

A little chortle at getting a reply, and then I thought nothing more of it.

It was later on that evening that my phone alerted me that Busta had been receiving followers and messages from 'other cats' questioning his size, virility, and sexual orientation. Busta is gay, but he's not camp with it - he's more like the Ronnie Kray of the cat world.

A few messages back and forth, and Busta and his new acquaintances had established that there was a common enemy, and what we should be doing was planning an attack on Dr Pepper. Before I knew what I was doing I was looking though the Twitterati that he'd verbally abused, and messaging complete strangers cats on behalf of my cat to plan a coordinated attack on the foul mouthed 'celebrity' cat. At 8pm today any cats online were to bundle on @domjolyscat

Online bullying in it's worst form. I woke this morning feeling guilty about even considering it. Hurling abuse behind the smoke screen of an innocent animal. I couldn't go through with it.

So Busta must've done it himself.

Bundle on @domjolyscat !!! Gotcha ya Fat Fuck

He even got Minnie to join in.

Bundle on @domjolyscat ! Dr Pepper - Dr Rubbish, more like

Naughty Busta......

Avatar blues

2010-02-06T15:07:00.002Z

An impromptu annual leave day left Mrsslippy and I with some spare time to do that thing that we do so rarely, a trip to the flicks.

Both sceptical of the hype surrounding Avatar, it wouldn't normally have been my first choice, nor hers, but as it's supposed to be a 'game changer', it seemed only fair to give it a look see on the big screen whilst wearing daft glasses.

And my thoughts on it?

...meh...

It was ok...

If it hadn't been hyped quite so much, then I may have liked it more, and there's no denying that it was absolutely beautifully rendered. Everything did look real, and the 3D worked so much better than the shonky stuff of my childhood, but was still little more than a distracting gimmick at times.

It's probably due to the way our eyes work. In real life if you're looking at something in the foreground, things in the background are out of focus. You look over to them, and your focus pulls the image sharp. In a 2D film the director tells you where to focus. If the camera is on something in the foreground, all that background action will always remain a fuzzy blur.

What 3D cinema does is fool you into thinking you can actually focus on things that the director doesn't want you to. We get a close up of Sam Worthington, and my eyes dance round the screen looking at stuff that my brain is telling me is further away, but no matter how much I squint and stare, I cannot bring it into focus.

We'd been led to believe that this film would have been unmakeable until now, because the technology didn't exist to make it, and now that it does, the only thing that limits what we can do in films is our imagination.

Someone should tell Jim Cameron that, because that sadly was the thing that the film desperately lacked.

It was just Pochahontas/Dances with Wolves in space, and the redskins are now blue.

We were told that Jim had visualised a whole planet with a diverse ecosystem and hundreds of wondrous beasts.

What we got was a CGI rain forest with some very pretty luminescent plants, and a handful of beasts from the imagination of Cameron, with his imagination limited to such deep thoughts as "Imagine if a rhino fucked a hammerhead shark? How cool would that be?" or "What about a six legged horse with a face like an anteaters"

George Lucas (and his team of designers) have imagined and built a whole Star Wars universe in the films and spin off games. Anyone who's wasted far to much of their life wandering through the realms of Azeroth will have seen all sorts of landscapes and creatures. Even a child with ten minutes in the ceature genertaor in Spore could have come up with a few more interesting indigenous life forms. Glow in the dark plants and a handful of hybrids ain't nothing special Jimbo.

"And imagine those drop ships and heavy loaders that I imagined so well in Aliens," I imagine Jim said "Imagine if we used them again because they were so super cool?"

They were cool Jim, but we've seen them before. So why on Earth (or Pandora) have we advanced so far technologically that interstellar travel and conscious transplantation is possible, but in order to blow up a tree we have to have helicopters escorting a mahoosive bomber past floating mountains (not even gonna go there...) in order to push a couple of pallet loads of TNT out the back?

A simple story of boy meets tall blue girl, falls in love, embraces her values and come to realise that capitalism, environmental destruction and genocide are so not cool, but will still use a machine gun in the final Na'vi versus humans battle, because guns still are cool if you're a nine foot neon blue warrior.

And while I'm getting it off my chest Jim, why invent a whole language for your Na'vi, only to subtitle them with an off the shelf shitty typeface like Papyrus?Why not really take the piss and do it in Comic Sans? $500 million to make and you couldn't even be bothered to pay for someone to design a font for you?

But it's not all moan, moan, moan. It's just ..meh...

I loved the look of the film, and would probably have loved it more in 2D where my brain and eyes knew what they were doing. I loved the direction. CGI really let Jim put the camera and follow the action from anywhere he wanted, and he is a great director. I loved Zoe Saldanas turn as Neytiri. It's her subtly mo capped performance that breathes life into the character and makes her so real.

And I hated the one dimensional human characters. Walking cliche's the lot of them. I hated Jims clunky dialogue, and the *spoiler alert* way that Sigourney Weavers death pretty much gave away the ending of the film before the battle even started. The animals saving the day, the oh so amusingly titled 'unobtanium', 3D photos embedded in a 3D film, the touchy feely spiritual bollocks that's about as subtle as Jim carving 'Stop destroying the planet man!' into your chest with a rusty compass - all shit.

On the whole a good bit of escapist nonsense. Nice eye candy, and an easy way to kill a few hours. But not a game changer.

If it's true that we finally have the technology to make anything we imagine look real, we need to make that technology available to film makers that have that imagination in the first place. Step forward Neil Blomkamp. District 9 cost only $30 million to make, and is an incredible film, but will no doubt be over looked for the over bloated Avatar come Oscar season. I'd love to see a 3D fookin prawn.

At least the glasses are reusable. If I pop them on now and look at the cat, it's like I could almost reach out and touch him. Amazing technology.

Modern Vampires Suck

2010-01-23T11:30:00.004Z

There was a time when I would have been happy to proclaim my love of the Vampire genre, both in book and film, but the blood that I was fond of gorging on has been tainted by a disease that theatens to once and for all kill off the undead.

The shitty Twilight saga has made a mockery of the nightcrawler, turning him from a savage hunting machine into a mopey teenager and wank fantasy for teenage girls, and perhaps even more worryingly, their middle aged mothers too.

The legend of the Vampire has existed in almost all cultures since the beginning of time, and he's never been a particularly pleasant fellow.

The most famous fictional Vampire is (or at least was before Edward Cullen), Dracula. And although he wasn't he first, Bram Stoker researched European mythology for several years to pull together a template for what I would consider a Vampire to be.

A cold, distant stranger who kills indiscriminately. Coming at night to feed while you sleep, or attacking in a throat ripping frenzy. He has no friends, no lovers. Any acquaintances are merely kept alive long enough to assist with his needs, and his only need is blood, and lots of it.

A monster.

The first iconic film adaptation was the wonderfully atmospheric 'Nosferatu', followed by likes of Universal Studios Bela Lugosi flicks of the 30's. Bela was so mad in the end he insisted in being buried in his cape, believing he really was a Vampire.

The 70's brought us the sometimes campy Hammer movies, but as debonair and suave as Christopher Lee was, he had such a menacing presence that you knew that in a flash his eyes would go red, the teeth would be out, and he could rip your throat out.

It was also in the 70's that the rot started to set in.

Step forward Anne Rice.

Her Vampire Chronicles books took the aristocratic monster of Dracula, and turned him into a tortured soul. We started to see Vampires with emotions rather than just primal urges. They were artists, authors, actors. They were social creatures rather than lonely hunters. They didn't need to drink blood every night, and some wouldn't drink human blood at all, instead making do with animal.

And women loved it. Tall, dark, powerful men who would bite at your neck, but then pull away and crack open a bottle of dog instead. The world of the Vampire was moving from horror to romance...

And now we have Twilight.

Not read the book. Not going to. But in the name of research, and checking that I'm not prejudging harshly, I have seen the first film.

And it sucks. Animals.

Edward Cullen and his merry band of pretty, but tortured souls mooch around the local High School DURING THE DAY, and drink animal blood.

Vampires that don't burst into flames in sunlight, but sparkle like the fairies they are.

I may have not been concentrating, but if Edward is 104 years old, why is he spending his time hanging around a school? He doesn't have to, and ok, Bella is supposed 17, so therefore 'legal', but the freak's 104!

Not quite a paedo, but still seriously fucked up.

And if it is ok, because he's perennially 17 himself, then it what world is it socially acceptable for menopausal women to scream and frig themselves silly every time they see him? Yes, yes, I know middle aged men do it with 17 year old girls, but at least they do it discretely at home on their own, not in a packed cinema.

And now the floodgates have opened. Every other book in the Adult Fiction or Horror section is about romantic vampires.

And where will it stop? Having taken Vampires, are we to see Zombie films where the lead has chiseled features, and has passed over his appetite for human offal with a little bit of fois gras and chicken liver pate on toast?

There is time to change! If you find yourself, or know of anyone who is drifting towards the Shampire genre, re-educate yourself now with these modern classics.

Salems Lot

Not that modern, but marks the point in the 70's where the timeline was broken. Stephen Kings book is genuinely creepy, and the film has some real stand out scenes on what childhood vampires should really look/act like.

30 Days of Night

The book itself is a VERY graphic, beautifully drawn graphic novel.

The Vampires here are ancient, vicious beasts.

One of the coven has the smart idea that the little Alaskan town of Barrow is so far north that come winter, the sun sets and doesn't rise again for 30 days.

The town, cut off from all communication wit the outside world suffer a siege mentality of horrific proportions. In other Vampire films the victims hide and check their watches, waiting for sunrise. These poor fuckers are checking their Calendars.

The films not bad either, and has 'Angel' from Home and Away in it...

Let the Right One In

A little gem from Sweden. Proof that you can add a little romance and feeling into a Vampire story without removing any of the true essence of what a Vampire really is. No spoilers. Seek it out and watch it tonight, You won't regret it.

There are more, but these should get you back on the right track before the bloodline is tainted forever.

Accept no substitutes, when watching Vampire films, insist on on a visual transfusion of the rhesus A +ve stuff.

And if I catch you wearing a 'Team Edward' T-shirt, I'll rip your throat out myself.

Nightmare of a friend

2010-01-13T20:39:00.002Z

This is the tale of the nightmare of a friend.

It's not mine. Oh no! This is not one of those 'I've got a friend who....' stories that people tell when they're really talking about themselves., This is most definitely not about me, and despite the fact that this friend has put this out to a group of us on Facebook, just in case he doesn't want it to be completely public, let's call him 'Quentin'.

Earlier this week, 'Quentin' sent this email out to a group of male friends via Facebook.

"Let me tell you all about my terrible nightmare I had. I was rudely awakened at 5am yesterday by some horrific and extremely vivid images.

Let me explain. We (the boys) were all on a drinking sesh on some kind of balcony overlooking a park (bit like Eton Park I suppose).

We all then looked over the balcony to see a naked bloke lying down on the grass with none other than Ali (also naked) squating over him having gay arse sex. It was at this point that I woke up so I don't know what else he was doing?

Now, I am livid that I had this dream for two reasons.

1, I have seen Ali taking it up the bot and enjoying it.

2, After telling (Quentins wife) this story, she called me gay for having the dream?!?!? How is that the case when it was clear that it was Ali getting smashed up the bot?!?!

I would be keen to hear your thoughts?!?!"

I've not anonymised Ali. It's not his fault he was dreamt about, and it also clears him up from being the actual dreamer.

So what do you do when you get an email like that from a old friend?

I'm no expert on dream interpretation, and I'm not about to start sticking "Dream + friend + gay sex" into Google, as I very much doubt I'll get an explanation, but would probably get some very graphic demonstrations of what dear 'Quentin' was storing deep in his subconscious.

Suggestions from those of us that responded included;

"I am confused. From your description of your desired fantasy you have Ali squatting over someone having gay arse sex.

Therefore Ali is clearly the bot-smasher rather than the smashee. And we all know it is better to give than to take.

To summarize - you am gay."

Or-

"O......K....well I've got some things to be getting on with thanks for sharing that with us......I think?"

And-

"I have three suggestions;

a) You want to watch Ali in a wrong sex act

b) You want Ali to bum you

c) You want to sodomise him yourself..

.. and all three while we are all forced to watch you.

I concur with teh honourable Stevo.

You are a friend of Dorothy. She is your very bestest friend.

Gayer." from me.

'Quentin' responded thus;

"I can't believe you are taking sides against me?!?! I am comfortable and happy with my sexuality and I only wish you could have seen Ali's happy face, then you would realise that it is in fact Amis who is the gayer and not I."

So who's right?

Is happily married father of four Ali the bum bandit, and it is only through 'Quentins' special dream powers that we know this?

Or perhaps 'Quentin' is a little bit more in touch with his feminine side than he'd care to admit to .

Anyone care to add their thoughts on the matter?

Snow? Balls!

2010-01-11T19:46:00.002Z

The couple of inches of snow that has caused so much chaos and disruption has finally melted, and we can go back to some semblance of normality.

No more wasters unable to get to work because of the particularly isolated drift that landed outside their front door.

No more panic buying at the supermarket.

No more news that is just basically weather, followed by the weather, then more news about the weather.

It's a sad fact that as a country we are woefully unable to cope with a little bit of snow, but even more sad that we can't be bothered to even try.

No sooner had the first flakes settled there were angry faces on the television, Twitter and Facebook as the masses demanded to know where their personal snow plough was to clear the road in front of their house? Why had the council not stockpiled a billion tons of grit? Why weren't they clearing the paths NOW so they could walk to their car safely? Who was going to pay for the extra heating bills?

As shit as Gordon Brown is, even he can't be blamed for the weather, and I know that if he gives you extra benefits they won't go on your heating bills anyway, it'll go on petrol for your chavvy kids mini motorbike that they still seem to be able to drive on the roads and paths even if you can't get off your arse.

It always seem that the people who are most vocal about the councils lack of readiness and response are the ones that pay fuck all towards it anyway.As inconvenient as it is to walk a few miles in the snow to get to work, I'd rather do that than see my council tax double to provide a fleet of gritters and ploughs that get used once every 10 years.

I know there isn't isn't enough manpower to clear all the paths - that's why we did the bit out of our front ourselves.

I saw a woman clearing her drive whilst I walked home the other evening. It looked as if she'd de-iced her car that morning by pouring warm water on it, as you could see a thick sheet of ice that ran down the drive, across the path and pooled on the road. The bit of dropped kerb that broke up the grassy verge leading to her drive was already cleared, and she was now working on the drive itself, but the actual path itself was still like sheet glass.

"Missed a bit" I said cheerily as I teetered on the black ice of her creation.

"Nah, that's the fucking councils bit" the selfish witch responded flatly. "It's their job to clear the paths innit?"

Nothing like a bit of festive whiteness to raise the community sprit eh?

In fairness she was probably a bit tired and stressed out by not being able to watch Loose Women in peace due to having all six of her (brought up by the taxpayer) mongrel brood at home all day.

Perhaps if the older ones weren't so busy seeing how far you can skid on a mini moto in the snow they could have cleared the paths on the whole street, enabling mum to push the double buggy to the Post Office for lottery tickets rather than make black ice on the path in order to get her car out.

Then we wouldn't need the council to come and spread grit everywhere at the slightest whiff of white.

If they've got any grit left at the end of this cold snap I've got a far better suggestion where they should be spreading it. I've got some nice sharp gravel if It'll help.

Six useless kids is more than enough for any ignorant slapper.

Raging against the machine

2009-12-16T08:53:00.002Z

It can't have escaped anyones attention, that apparently next week it will be Christmas, and in becoming of a festive tradition, the race for the 'Christmas Number 2' is on.

The race for the Number 1 spot has become such a formality that no bookie will offer anything but the very shortest odds on the X Factor winner being the winner, so the also rans chase for the number 2 spot.

But could this year be different? A campaign on that started on Facebook, and has spread through Twitter and Reddit has been suggesting that all right minded music fans buy a copy of Rage Against the Machine's "Killing in the Name Of" this week, in an attempt to bump the evil Simon Cowell off his throne.

On the surface, it seems like a bloody good idea. How dare some smug sanctimonious cock ruin Christmas by touting vacuous empty tunes at the vacuous empty headed masses just because the know that just like sheep, they'll flock out and buy them?

After all, isn't that supposed to be Cliff Richards job?

For years the charts have been 'fixed', and even more so at Christmas my music execs, canny advertising, and heavy radio play that drives songs to be Top of the Pops - but does it matter?

What we didn't used to see was all the manipulation that it takes to do that, but now everything is on display - especially in those trousers Cowell.

Does it really affect anyone in a negative way if some shite gets to number one for Christmas? And who am I to say it is shite? If it gives some 9 year old pleasure to receive 3 minutes of mind spunk, who am I to tell them that really they should be investigating The Falls back catalogue, or maybe trying some of Thom Yorkes solo stuff?

If it gets them into listening to music, surely that's a good thing, and will give them some embarrassing 'first record' stories to tell their muso friends when older - and if not - where's the harm? I've got a friend who only owns 7 cd's. I don't understand how this can be possible, but I think no less of him for it.

I don't own a single golf club, but apparently it is just as pleasurable a pastime as listening to music - as is being number one. It just has no bearing on me.

I suppose the difference with music and golf is, golf can't be manipulated - but what about books?

For years any book mentioned on Richard and Judy, or Oprah has been pretty much guaranteed to be a best seller, but do you get militant readers up and down the country insisting we all buy Ricky Gervais' "Flanimals" just to keep Delia Smiths perennial Christmas cook book down?

No.

The Christmas number 1 single, is yesterdays news. A festive popularity contest and nothing more. In years gone by with just the Top of the Pops Christmas special and a handful of radio stations it mattered more to the consumer, because that was all you would hear for days. Now we have 14 billion radio and tv stations, so if you don't like what's being played on one, you can probably find something you do like on another. Or just make your own festive playlist on itunes, spotify, or a good old fashioned mixtape.

So if you want to spoil Simons fun, go buy a copy of Killing in the Name Of. Despite my ramblings above, I have done. Not necessarily fro the X factor thing, but because it made me realise that I didn't own a copy, and it is a truly great song. And I'm just curious is any radio station will play it (heavily bleeped) if it does succeed. So on those counts buy it.

If you really don't want to, that's fine - as RATM's front man Zack de la Rocha will testify many, many times...

"Fuck you I won't do what you tell me"

Large packet of skins please

2009-12-04T19:46:00.002Z

Last week, whilst not shitting through the eye of a needle, I was also making a vague attempt at turning 37 with a degree of dignity.

Not easily done when you can't move more than a couple of rooms away from the nearest toilet. but by the afternoon I was feeling sufficiently improved to chance a trip out the house.

The original plan of cinema, Chinese, then booze went out the window, replaced with a trip to Tesco to secure provisions for one of my birthday presents.

Ladies and gentleman, I am now the proud owner of a mincer/sausage maker.

Whilst through my youth I may have spent part of my birthday searching for all manner of different 'skins', the only variety I was after now would not be rolled around or down anything, but stuffed with minced pork, and a bit of 'special stuff'.

I was rather surprised that no local butchers were prepared to sell me any - perhaps assuming that I would be doing them out of business. Fuckwits. What did they think I was going to fill them with? And where would I be most likely to find the requisite meat?

Not giving up, I found a nice website that sells all things sausage, and procured enough skin to make 60 meters of bangers.

As it wouldn't arrive until the following day, I started my great sausage experiment by making the next best thing - sausage rolls.

Four different blends later left me thinking that sage can be a bit overpowering, cranberries would be nicer if cooked and cooled before adding to the mix, you really shouldn't scrimp on salt, and a sausage lacking in brains, bollocks and bulking agents is far superior to the shit you get from supermarkets.

The weekend saw my first attempt proper at sausages in skins, and I was very pleased with the honey and mustard variety, but more mustard powder next time me thinks.

Today I have moved one step nearer to the Christmas sausage. This year my esteemed siblings and I are giving mother a break from Christmas dinner by all doing a course. As Mrsslippy and I will be staying over, it seemed only right and fair we volunteered to do the main, rather than having some other poor soul have to come round at 7 in the morning to start the turkey off.

So in the Christmas Banger Mark II (Mark I went in sausage rolls) we have

200g belly of pork
400g shoulder of pork
4 large tablespoons cranberry sauce (cranberries simmered in sugar water until coats the back of a spoon/sets when chilled
2 teaspoons sea salt
1 1/2 teaspoons freshly pummeled black pepper
zest and juice from 1 orange
75g fresh breadcrumbs

I've made them 2 different lengths so I can test which is better when wrapped in bacon.

Now they just have to rest overnight before they can be cooked.

Sausage sandwiches for breakfast.

And lunch..

And dinner..

Until I've filled and eaten the remaining 57 meters of skin that's sat on the kitchen worktop waving at me.

Fuck I love sausages.

The Shits

2009-11-23T17:46:00.003Z

I'm not very well today.

It all started with not feeling very well yesterday, but then I wasn't supposed to feel well yesterday.

I went out on Saturday for early birthday drinks, which started at 4pm with Gingerfeck, with Mrsslippy and the rest arriving later, what with them having to have worked..

So I was fully expecting to feel headachey, with an unsettled stomach - or just plain hungover if you want to call it that.

But it didn't feel like a classic hangover, and rather than feeling better as the day progressed, I just felt worse. My suspicions were aroused that there might be something else going on when I noticed that as we watched TopGear, Mrsslippy (who wears a jumper in the summer), was happily sat on the bed in just a post bath towel, I (who break into a sweat at the merest glimpse of sunlight), was curled up under the duvet shivering.

Out came the thermometer, and as suspected, I wasn't cold, I had a temperature of 39 degrees.

Today, I still feel like shit, and more annoyingly, I feel like shitting all the time. It's probably not the dreaded swine flu, but there is a definite ambiance of farmyard in the toilet.

It's bad, but I've had worse.

I've seen more than my fair share of shit back when I was nursing. It never ceased to surprise me with either the volume or force that a patient could evacuate their bowels. My personal favourite was a gentleman in a standing aid, who had such sudden and explosive diarrhoea as he was being stood up that he blew down his pyjamas, and proceeded to create a toxic puddle so wide that we had to put plastic bags on our feet in order to wade through the effluence and rescue him from the mechanical contraption.

I've told tale here before of a nasty episode of the shits whilst on holiday, but messy as that was, it's still not the worst case of blowing mud...

Several years ago, while I was still living and working at the Hospital, I picked up a nasty little winter diarrhoea an vomiting bug. After a day of lying in bed feeling sorry for myself, only interrupted by frequent trips to the toilet, I decided I would feel better if I had a bath.

Indeed, after a nice long soak I was feeling a little better, and started to climb out. It was at that point that I heard the taps being run on full blast.

Only I could see the taps.

And they were off.

So where was the noise coming fro......OH SWEET JESUS!!!!

Looking down I could be a rapidly expanding brown puddle around where my one leg still in the bath was balanced. Whenever a patient had explained away their feacal incontinence in the past with "I didn't know I was doing it nurse", I was always slightly sceptical.

"You must've known" I would think. "You can't possibly shit yourself without knowing".

But apparently you can.

I had no idea it was coming out of me. It seemed my sphincter had failed, and the only thing that was keeping the contents of my bowels in my bowels was the pressure of one arse cheek against the other.

The very act of spreading my legs to step out the bath had broken the seal, and a gallon of effluence had very suddenly, and without sensation emptied itself into the bath.

I rather embarrassingly rinsed it out and showered off, then dipped into the bathroom next door for a repeat exercise in an unsullied tub, and this time promising myself to take greater care when stepping out.

So as bad as I feel now, I know it could be worse, and that I will get better. I'm just glad that the only time in adulthood that I've shat myself I was naked, on my own, and standing underneath a shower head.

And on that note, I'm off to the toilet again. Cleaning a bath out is a lot easier than cleaning a mattress....

Noisy Drunken Sex

2009-11-17T20:22:00.002Z

I was recently reminded of an occasion where I was involved in some noisy drunken sex.

I say involved, but I wasn't so much a participant, as in instigator and observer.

Several years ago I shared a house on the outskirts of beautiful Cambridge with some not so beautiful friends. As with all rented accommodation, every room that you could fit a bed in was technically a bedroom, so as to maximise income for the landlord.

I was lucky enough to have a downstairs bedroom, backing onto the garden. I say lucky, because it was nearest to the kitchen - a far greater priority than bathroom proximity - and it was graced with patio doors.

This meant that on a summers morning I could simply roll onto the floor, kick open the doors, and sunbathe in the low morning sun. As the day passed, I could drag my armchair out, and still be able to see my tv, which I'd hooked up to the Sky in the living room with 30 feet of under carpet wiring for a pre Sky Multi-room world.

And best of all, come the evening, I had the largest en suite in the world, because the world was my en suite.

No drunken wandering about the house for me in the middle of the night, just stand up and turn right. I would generally wander down the lawn a bit, but if it was pissing it down, then I was pissing where I stood.

One balmy summers evening, I'd spent a very fruitful ~~few hours~~ day getting well and truly lathered at social club where I worked. The walk home passed a little Kebab van that was always parked a few doors down from me, so feeling the need to settle my swilling stomach, and because I'd been so busy boozing, I'd forgotten to have dinner, a large donor was procured, and practically swallowed whole.

An hour later and I'm tucked up in bed, and everything starts to swim....

Fortunately, the en suite was as ever, unoccupied, and ready to face the full brunt of whatever I could throw at it, and boy did I throw.

Flame grilled lamb with assorted salad, wrapped in lightly toasted flat bread, all in a Broadside jus was served up on the patio. Taking care to try to remember that it was there if I needed to use the en suite facilities again, I left the doors open, and collapsed back on by bed.

I'm not sure how long after that it started, as I had started to drop off, but I was suddenly aware of noises outside. Panting and grunting, getting louder and louder, from somewhere in the darkness. I peered round the curtain from my prone position, but could see nothing in the darkness.

Now standing, I scanned the garden. The noise seemed to be coming from everywhere but I could see nothing. I braced myself to step out into the void, taking care to step over what I'd recently voided, but when I looked down - it was gone!!

And then I saw the first of many pricks.

In the shadow of the doorstep were two hedgehogs, their messy footprints led back to my messy foodstuffs, which it appeared had now been largely consumed.

Like a couple of cheap chavs, wankered on someone else's booze, and stuffed on a discarded donor, they had thrown caution and abandon to the wind, and were going at it like there was no tomorrow in the nearest doorway. Mine. And by God were they loud.

So next time you hear the classic joke 'How do hedgehogs make love?', before you leap in with the obvious 'very carefully', check first whether they are pissed or not.

Because if they are, I can guarantee there's not a lot of care, or affection shown. Just a lot of grunting, and a complete disregard for who's watching, or gratitude for the free night out.

I'm not dead

2009-11-15T13:58:00.006Z

It's all been a bit quiet from me recently. Fear not, I'm not dead, just been a little bit undead.

Mrsslippy and I have been away again to another WiFi notspot - this time the depths of rural Norfolk, with the reason being a weekend break with friends, which me and 'teh Mrs' extended into a full week.

Katieluv found us a lovely old building that was more than ample for the dozen of us that were there for the weekend, and mahoosive when it was just the two of us.

A 3 hour 75 mile drive on a cold damp Friday evening, which was repeated as a 3 hour round trip on Saturday morning when I realised I'd forgotten my manbag containing my ipod, without which would mean that not only would there been no playlist for the main event of the weekend, a spooky Halloween party, but we'd also be forced to watch just terrestrial TV for the rest of the week, rather than hooking up the poddage to the TV to watch Frisky Dingo.

Theme for Halloween was 'things that scare you'.

Being as the only things I believe I am irrationally scared of are balloons and heights (and it's not too irrational to worry about falling to your death), and I though both were rather impractical costumes, I went for the next best thing.

Contact lenses.

I hate them.

Fortunately I don't need glasses, so had never tried them, but the sight of Mrsslippy poking things in her eyes makes my stomach churn.

So when I found that I could buy them online, it didn't take me long to decided that I would be a zombie.

Bringing up the courage to put them in took slightly longer.........

Choosing a night where Mrsslippy was at work gave me all the time in the world to dither and blink and drop and cringe as I tried to do the most wrong thing in the world - poke myself in the eye with a bit of plastic stuck to the end of my finger.

And that was the easy bit. After 30 mins of blinking it off my finger every time it came to within an inch of my eye they were in. Then I had to get them out. I've never seen Mrsslippy doing it by leaning forward and slapping the back of her head, but having realised that the alternative I faced was going to have to actually pinch my eyeball, it had to be worth a try.

Didn't work - and another 20 minutes later they were out. I could do it.

Next preparation for Halloween was a 'flavoured vodka'. I was aware that people had previously dissolved cola cubes, jelly babies and such like in bottles for such occasions, but had never read anywhere in the rules that said they had to be sweets.

Because I'm a savoury type of guy.

So what could I put in my vodka?

What's really tasty and different?

What's my favourite food?

Of course.....

Bacon.

Bacon Vodka.

Could it be done?

Well according to the internet, it can.

I found a blog with instructions , and even a company that sells the stuff in America. So it can be made, and it can be drunk.

I fried my bacon and crammed it into a kilner jar and covered it with vodka. Within a couple of hours the fat had set on the top, and the vodka looked like heavily infected urine with chunks of dead flesh in it.

Nice.

Three weeks later, I passed it through a sieve, and it now just looked like fatty pus-ridden piss. Not disheartened yet, I carried on with the instructions, and put it in the freezer so all the fat would clump together, and I could poor it through a coffee filter to make a relatively clear liquid.

To filters later I had it. Slightly yellow in colour, but no bits, no sediment, and a very unsettling smell.

We had 10 different bottles to sample. It was going to be a messy night.

To be honest, mine wasn't too well received. In fairness, both the blog and the manufacturer of the Bakon Vodka never suggested that you drank it neat, but that it went very well in a Bloody Mary. On it's own, it was Bloody Awful.

Best vodka of the night went to Lizzie with her Mars Bar vodka, which was an absolute joy to drink, although I also enjoyed Garys liquorice, and Mrsslippys After Eight.

Best costume of the night went to Mrsslippy for her scarecrow.

The full photoset is currently slideshowing on this page, or can be here or here in hi-res.

But the most terrifying thing of the weekend?

The contents of Gingerfecks digestive tract. Poor fucker retired to his bed within minutes of arriving on Saturday morning having been bad both ends, and didn't reappear until Sunday morning.

Pure evil - probably picked up from his sisters kids that were over visiting.

Children - now they are fucking scary....

p.s. - I still have some vodka left.Any takers?

An Ill Wind

2009-10-25T21:03:00.002Z

My general grumpiness at things I've seen this week is many fold, but despite the obvious chance to poor scorn at Nick Griffin and all things BNP, it has already been covered to death in every newspaper, blog or TV show.

It would be too easy, like shooting fish in a barrel, or to use a more appropriate metaphor, shooting mutated bug eyed toads an a bath of their own shit.

Nor will I moan about the posties. The media will happily tell you that they're striking about 'pay and conditions' - but have they told you what the issues with pay and conditions are?

Nope.

I don't get a lot of post that I get over excited about if it's delayed. If I order something online it's generally because I can't be arsed to go to town and buy it in a real shop. If I needed it straight away, I'd get off my arse. I buy it online, it comes when it comes. If it still hasn't arrived in a week, it's probably the vendor, not the postman. The only thing that comes though my door on a regular basis is junk mail, which is about as welcome as the postie shoving his cock through the letterbox. Fortunately he has the choice not to do the latter, and probably hates carrying and shoving shit through everyone's door just as much as we hate receiving it. Check Roy Mayall's blog for the posties side to the strike. Up the workers!

No, this week I am pissed off about being blamed for global warming.

You must have seen the advert. The 'ACT on CO2' one with that bloke who used to be Nigel in Eastenders, then a doctor in Casualty or Holby or something, reading ~~an overly cute child actress~~ his daughter a bedtime story about how the adults have ruined everything.

As the story goes, 'CO2 is released into the atmosphere when the grown ups use energy'.

Now it's many years since I did science at school, so excuse me while I stuff another lump of coal into the laptop so I can open another tab and check Wikepedia...

...ah yes..as I thought. CO2 is produced by burning fossil fuels and vegetable matter. So maybe they have a point, and a coal powered laptop is not the most ecologically sound option, which is why I don't have one. In fact nothing in Slippy Towers is coal powered -with the exception of the coal fire - which really only goes on at Christmas.

Everything else uses good old fashioned electricity out the wall sockets. I know that fossil fuels are used to create that electricity, but that wasn't me. They don't stoke up the boilers every time I turn on the kettle. If I leave a light on , I am wasting energy, but it's energy that I have no control over how it is created. If I don't leave things on standby, and only boil enough water to fill the cafetiere (yeah - so I don't drink instant - I am a coffee snob), it will mean we all use less energy, but it doesn't mean the Energy companies aren't still going to burn that coal. It'll just take them a little bit longer to get through it all, and the government gets more time to prevaricate about alternate sources.

They could make it from any number of renewable sources, but still choose to burn fossil fuels, charge us though the nose for the electricity, then ask us not to use quite so much of it because we're destroying the environment.

And I'm also well aware that a lot of electrical appliances kick out a lot of excess heat - 90% of the energy used by an old style light bulb was converted into heat, not light. So now the nights are drawing in, and the evenings getting colder, on go the energy saving light bulbs - but it's still a bit chilly in the house, so on goes the central heating a little earlier than last year. And where does the energy come for that?

Oh yeah....

"Will it have a happy ending?" asks the girl in the advert.

"Yes" says Slippymark. "I'll be able to wear flip flops in the winter, and be able to walk to the coast rather than a two hour drive."

Not that I want that to happen. I quite like the North Norfolk coast, and don't think it should be relocated to South Cambridge.

But my electrical habits are not a contributing factor to CO2 production, it is the people who generate that energy.

My biggest contribution to Global Warming is my own personal methane production. Methane is 21 more times powerful a greenhouse gas than CO2, and I produce it in vast quanities. The government shouldn't be pointing the finger, it should be pulling mine.

So if the Government is serious about cutting greenhouse gases, it must pledge to invest more in renewable energy, and just stop burning the remaining reserves of fossil fuels used for energy generation.

If it does that, I will pledge to take a closer look at my diet, and try not to fart quite as much - if only to stop one of my favourite breweries being lost to the sea forever.

My favourite waste of time

2009-10-20T19:50:00.002+01:00

I am a creature of habit, and those habits are becoming more time consuming.

I've long since given up the far too time devouring World of Warcraft, and the equally disruptive, and wasteful habit of sitting around in a boozer most evenings, puffing away on tabs.

At least the latter two were not mutually restrictive, and with even the alleged mans inability to multi task, I could do both, and talk shite at the same time. I could even drink, smoke and play WOW together, but now that of the 3, all that I succumb to is the occasional glass of wine or G&T, I should have loads of time on my hands, but it would seem this is not the case..

I get up with the best of intentions to start work at a respectable time, but by the time I have made a cup of coffee and turned on the laptop to 'catch up on the news', all of a sudden its 2 hours later and I am still sat on the sofa wrapped in a towel, bath gone cold, and I won't be in the office before 10.30 again.

Because catching up on the news has become so fucking labour intensive, because there is just so damned much of the stuff that I need to read.

The news used to just mean logging onto BBC online and clicking through the World, UK, Health, Science, Entertainment and Sport sections. All done in 20 minutes.

Now I have to open multiple tabs for all the news I can't live without.

First comes Facebook. A notorious time waste, but relatively quick to get through. Amongst the usual bollocks of peoples updates on Farmville, Mafia Wars and such like, there just may be some news of significance from a real friend - not just someone who knows me, but I couldn't really care for, and yet was to polite to turn down the friend request.

As fast as new applications are added, I turn those fuckers off. I don't want to know what you just scored on Boggle, or that you just got a new virtual cow. I want see pictures of friends new children, and hear how they're coping with parenthood when in my mind they're still the boys from school who couldn't even take care of themselves. Five minutes is all I need for Facebook, then its its onto Twitter...

I've covered Twitter before. I now 'follow' 150 people. For all the media would have you believe, we are not part of Stephen Frys private army of nerds. It's a collective consciousness for passing on idle thoughts, or spreading news before the 'real' news gets hold of it. Passing links to stories that may never have got exposure otherwise. One prime example is the vile reporting of Steven Gatelys death in the Daily Mail. A paper that most right minded people would not normally even wipe their arse with was suddenly hit with 'an orchestrated campaign' to vilify one of it's reporters.

This from a paper that bayed for the blood of Jonathon Ross and Russell Brand, whipping it's readers into a frenzy over something they had never heard, but should none the less be outraged. What Twitter did was more like Chinese Whispers. Someone read the article online, was offended, and 'tweeted' a "fuck me - have you read this" with a link to the article. People following this person read it, thought "fuck me - the woman's clearly mad", and retweeted it, meaning all the people that followed them saw it too. Within the hour, probably everyone on Twitter had recieved the link, and so many had tried to register a complaint with the PCC, that it brought their website down.

That's not an orchestrated hate campaign - that's the public thinking for themselves, and thinking that Jan Moir is nothing but an ill educated homophobic cunt.

Not every day on Twitter is full of controversy, but amongst the ramblings, amusing links to videos and photos, there's also the breaking news that the networks can't or won't show you. I was following the chase for 'Balloon Boy' an hour before the BBC or Sky News had it as a story, and Trifigura would probably not have got the attention it did without the Twitterati passing it on. It can take a good 20 minutes to catch up on all the updates from overnight, before moving onto Google Reader.

Google Reader is a Web based aggregator of RSS and Atom feed. That is it takes the websites that you look at often, and whenever they are updated, it pulls them into one place to read.

See those little orange buttons at the bottom right of this page under 'Subscribe'? That's an RSS feed. If you have Google account, it means that if you click on that, every time I post a new blog, it goes to your Google reader page, along with any other websites that you subscribe to.

My problem is, I think I may subscribe to too many. Not all of the websites are updated daily. Charlie Brookers Guardian column is once a week, but Scaryducks excellent blog is most days. Star Wars, Fail blog, and Dinosaurs and Robots may post a couple of stories a day. Den of Geek and Boing Boing may post several stories. All in all I currently subscribe to over 60 RSS feeds, with can mean over a hundred links, stories, Youtube videos, weird photos and blogs to trawl through every morning.

I don't have time, but I have to do it. I can't miss the latest information on anything. And it's also come to my attention that some stories get duplicated, and there's no way of really knowing what is newest and hottest. So then I have to go to Reddit.

Reddit is a social news website. Here fellow Redditers post links to stories, photo's etc, and they are rated by users as to how interesting/cool/cute/fluffy/weird they are. It's real time updating shows what the World is looking at. If it's new I have to see it.

This mornings Reddit story is this afternoons Boing Boing, and tonights Twitter, and then next weeks Facebook link. In a month someone who'se only undestanding of the internet is their work email will send it to you, no matter how much in breach of your workplaces diversity and respect rules it is.

And when I get home from work - late because I didn't rock in until nearly 11 o'clock - the cycle begins again.

Where am I going with this?

Why does it matter?

It's because yesterday I remembered a book I read in my teens by E.M Forster.

Not 'Howards End' or 'A Passage to India', nor 'A Room with a View'. I don't yearn for a tech free society with under butlers and tea wallahs.

100 years ago this month (spooky timing), Forster published a short story called 'The Machine Stopped', which I read in a sci-fi anthology.

Set in a dystopian future (is there any other sort?)where humans can no longer live on the surface of the earth, it couldn't be more different than his more famous works.

People live in isolation, communicating via a global communication device called 'The Machine', which caters for all their social and spiritual needs. People communicate through a video conferencing/messaging system, where their sole existence is the seeking and passing of new ideas.

A society who never go outside, never see other people. Just sitting around, plugged into some global conscious, passing the same rubbish back and forth having long forgotten what real life is all about.

The ~~internet~~ machine breaks down, and suddenly nobody knows what to do with themselves.

Forster should have stuck to stuffy melodramas. His sci-fi is bollocks, and could never happen. It may have been written in 1909, but it's just preposterous.

Anywho, maybe I'll just pop out for a bit and stretch my legs. Get some fresh air. Talk to some real people.

Just as soon as I've checked Twitter.

Riddle me this

2009-10-15T23:19:00.003+01:00

I've just finished reading, or rather listening to, Dan Browns latest offering.

I've read his other four books, and despite recent criticism that his writing is actually 'a bit shit', I thought I should probably give this one a butchers. I went down the audio book route as it helps pass the time walking to work, although by doing this, I was well aware that I was going to be turning a four hour read into a sixteen hour listen.

He certainly does have a distinctive style, and has had a great degree of success, so I think I've worked out the magic formula for writing like Dan Brown.

------Contains Spoilers---If you intend on reading The Lost Symbol, go no further----

Take a bunch of hokey science, and hide it within the fact that the book opens with the statement 'all the technology, buildings, ceremonies are real etc....

Have your hero make witty references to his own books, where you are clearly referencing your own previous works.

Instill a sense of urgency by keeping the chapters so short, and always ending on a cliff hanger, so the reader keeps saying 'Just one more...'. Even though you know in your heart of hearts that this is really more likely to just piss them off

Start each chapter like an entry from Wikepedia, proving that it is 'all real'. Readers will not mind that the book scans like a shitty encyclopedia.

Bring in the usual stereotypes of a simpering romantic interest, a lunatic villain, an old friend in peril,and a foreign law officer that you don't know if you can trust

Orchestrate a ridiculous master plan that is dependent on several people co-operating, or not co-operating (because it is actually a clever double bluff and that's what you want them to do)

Organised religions and groups are a great target, as you can make up loads of stuff that they either won't dignify with a defense, or if they do, you can use the old 'no smoke without fire' approach. Catholics (or the Church as a whole), the CIA, the Masons are all clearly mad and dangerous, therefore good for a go.

Keep referring to modern technology just to prove what a cutting edge, techno thriller it is. Do not be afraid to crowbar something into the last few pages that hadn't been invented when you started writing the book,such as Twitter, although being as that is commonplace now, maybe Google Wave, and just hope it takes off.

Ignore Google. For example, if you think you're looking for the address '8 Franklin Square', but there is no such address, the top result of an 8x8 Magic Square designed by top Mason Ben Franklin, it's probably not worth mentioning. Particularly if you are trying to solve a puzzle of an 8x8 grid of symbols on the square base of a magic pyramid

String out 'puzzles' so the reader can play along at home. Even if a characters life is at risk, it's fun to waste several pages while the hero drops cryptic hints to the sister of the friend in peril so she can work out the solution for herself.

Spread out the action over multiple sites, so your hero has to rush around being chased by helicopters with the power to send electrical pulses that can knock out telecoms towers to stop emails being sent.

Have the hero 'die' two thirds into the book, such as by drowning him, only to later reveal that he drowned in a perflourocarbon chamber - liquid that you can breath, just like in the film 'The Abyss', and more 'real science' from the pages of Wikipedia.

If your 3 heroes have been drowned, had limbs chopped off, or drained of their blood by a madman (who may or may not be a thought dead family member, but is now very much dead), don't waste time with CIA debriefings, or medical treatment. Have them chortle to themselves about what a strange evening it's been, and talk some weird psychobabble about the biggest secret of all, is the power of the mind - it's just we've all forgotten how to use it.

Think of the film rights. Having a book climax with 60 pages to go gives away that it's not quite the ending, but in a cinema it'll be too dark for people to see their watches, and they'll all be really shocked when they realise there's still more to come.

So did I like it? I'm not telling, but if you look very carefully I've hidden a code of my own on this very page. Can you find it?

See, Dan Brown's got nothing on me.

Boyzgone

2009-10-12T20:10:00.003+01:00

Another celebrity death and the vultures are circling.

On the afternoon of 10th October 2009, Boyzone member Stephen Gately was found dead at his home in Majorca at the age of 33.

I was never a Boyzone fan, and when Stephen was allowed to help Ronans weirdly affected vocalisations, he just came across as nasal and tuneless to me, but that's not going to alter the way I feel about his death.

I care, but I don't care.

I care in the sense that I needed to find out. He was in the public eye, so It's only right we should be informed if he's passed away, particularly as it was so sudden and unexpected.

I don't care to be updated as the headline news on every channel and newspaper. Ghoulish reporters hanging around airports waiting for the rest of the band to arrive so they can elbow their way into their grief so we can all have a gawp. Looking for any tell tale signs that anyone is not surprised.

That maybe there was some dark secret that we didn't know about, and it's not really a surprise to those who knew him.

But those who did know him (and there are loads on Twitter) all say he was a sweet, charming man, who didn't do drugs, and was no party animal. He was in a happy loving relationship with his long term partner. The police say there are no signs of foul play, yet still, the vultures circle closer and closer....

'He'd spent the evening at a gay club with a Bulgarian man' the media scum inform us, allowing us to fill in the blanks that it was probably some bizarre gay sex game gone wrong.

If they'd just reported that he'd spent the evening in a club with his partner and a friend, it would have been far less scandalous, but equally true. He was found in his pyjamas, not naked wearing a gimp mask.

We really don't need hourly updates as to whether Boyzones private jet has landed yet, or list in The Daily Telegraph of - and I kid you not - '10 other mysterious celebrity deaths'.

What we need to do is give his family and friends the time and privacy to grieve for a young man tragically taken before his time.

The remit of the news should be to inform us of important world events, not pray on the private misery of others because it sells papers and advertising space. If I wanted regular updates, I can get them on line from any number of websites. The 'News' should be just that. News. Not voyeurism.

There will continue to be speculation until the post mortum is carried out and results splashed over every media outlet. Irrespective of what it shows, I don't think we need to know any anymore than it was just too early.

For anyone who would argue that there's no smoke without fire, and people don't 'just die' at 33, it's a sad fact that sometimes they do, just not always people that the fucking media can make a buck out of.

R.I.P. Stephen Gately. 17 March 1976 - 10 October 2009

What would you do?

2009-10-05T19:53:00.003+01:00

What would you do with free texts for life?

Start a revolution?
Organise a massive pillow fight?
Do a conga?
Have massive fights for days?
Or is it just too mind boggling...

It's mind boggling for me why anyone would even want or need free texts for life (for only £10 a month....), yet this is what T-Mobile are offering an another of their piss poor irritating adverts.

And the suggestions above are what the ~~shitty jobbing actors~~ real people interviewed thought they would do.

Now why on earth would limitless free texts make you want to start a revolution? Maybe the twat in question already has a revolution planned, but lacks the means to co-ordinate it without exceeding his monthly tariff. Now with his massive free allocation for only £10 a month he can text his plans to everyone ~~in the world~~ on his SIM card, which could be either 200 or 500 potential people depending on his phone, but more realistically the 20 people he actually knows the number for, which once you discount his Mum, Takeaway restaurants and Taxi firms, is just three people. All in 160 characters or less..

'OI M8 I HAVE GR8 PLAN 4 REVOLUSHUN. MEET ME @ PUB @8. BRING LOADS OF GUNS&STUFF.L8R. PS ASK YOUR SIS TO CUM COS SHE IS WELL FIT LOLZ!!!'

It's probably why the peasants revolt failed in 1381. No mobile phones. 'RICHARD OF WALLINGFORD IS A LYING CNUT. WAT TYLER HAS NOT BEEN KNIGHTED, THEY'VE CUT HIS EFFING HEAD OFF. STORM STEPNEY!!!!'

But now all the fucking peasants have got mobile phones, so surely it's just a matter of time?

Or not.

Because I believe texting is a dying fad. A waste of time and money. How often have you got half way through typing something out only to think 'Fuck me, it would be easier to just ring them?'. 'I can't fit everything I want to put on the text any way, and depending on the response, I'll only have to text them back. This could turn a 20 second conversation into a 20 minute one, just trying to establish if a friend is coming to the pub, if so, then which pub, and when..'

Texts are restrictive in length, clog up your phone, and once you delete them to make space, they're gone for ever.

If I need to send a message that can be read (directions, shopping lists, plans for invading France etc..), I'll send an email. All modern phones come with email capability. Sending an email is free, and you can read it on your phone, or any PC. What's more, you never run out of storage space, as it's backed up for life in 'The Cloud'. And you can fill your message planning global domination with links to useful websites on how best to co-ordinate your attacks, and your clothes.

I already have a bundle of texts on my phone contact, and I never get anywhere close to using them, because I nearly always ring, or email.

But if I had free texts for life (for £10/month), what would I do with them?

Probably text T-Mobile every day to call them cunts with the shittiest adverts in the world.

What would you do?

Pull your trousers up

2009-10-01T22:15:00.002+01:00

Walking through town yesterday evening Mrsslippy and I had the misfortune of being stuck behind some arsehole who was intent on showing it to us.

He probably thought he looked really cool, but to the 36 year old me, he just looked like a twat.

Having lost a bit of weight recently, I have found myself constantly having to hitch some trousers up. It's fucking annoying, so a belt is called for at all times.

I'm not ashamed of my pants. In fact I've got some great pants that I'd love to show everyone, but could really not be doing spending my entire time preventing them from dropping to my knees by carefully pulling them up, but only by a couple of centimeters so everyone can still see the ferocious Hulk defending my arse crack.

All this whilst walking with some affected tilt of the head, roll of the shoulders, and semi Jamaican patoire that just doesn't sound right from a whitey from Cambridge. It just screams out 'I AM A PRETENTIOUS CUNT' even louder.

I assume twats that wear their jeans like this want to emulate the gangsta style of American rappers, and are vaguely aware that it's history lies in the prison system.

'Yeah' there clothes say. 'I'm dangerous. I've done time, that's why my trousers hang half way down my arse'.

'I've spent time in the big house, and to let my fellow big housemates know that I was up for some big fun, I'd dress like this'.

'Yep, my ringpiece is an open door for anyone who wants to..........oh now just hang on a minute. Is this really what I want to say with my attire?'

Apparently so. There is the alternative camp that says the low slung trousers mean your belt was taken away in prison to stop you killing your self, but the first camp is ...well...,just more camp. Either way, if I can see your pants, it either means you're suicidal, or the local bicycle.

How can we stop arseholes from not covering their arseholes?

Two ways as far as I can tell;

Firstly, you could creep up behind them, shiv them, then violently violate them anally under the assertion that you believed they were sexually available, and therefore gagging for it.

Secondly - and probably more fun, is with chocolate Matchmakers. Any flavour will do, but if you can get hold of the new blackcurrant ones,they will probably work best. When you see a twat with trousers halfway down his buttocks, clean white Calvin Kleins on display, simply take a Matchmaker from the box and slide it down the cleft, between pant and trow, leaving a couple of inches protruding. They should be narrow enough to slip in un-noticed, and within a matter of moments the pristine stick will have transmogrified into a streak of brown sludge.

I have yet to test the melting properties of the blackcurrant ones, but am hopeful that the little crystalline fragments will create some kind of deep red stain amongst the fresh skiddy that would make it oh so more alluring on the eye.

Feel free to try with a finger of fudge, or a Twix, but I don't think the biscuit or caramel will disperse with any degree of speed or satisfaction. A Wispa might melt pretty quickly and efficiently, but could be a bit chunky to slip in without being noticed.

Or if you really want, I suppose you could go for both options, and just anally rape them with a Snickers.

Just make sure its a big one.

Out geeked

2009-09-27T09:53:00.002+01:00

I've been out geeked by Mrsslippy.

During the summer, upon seeing Gingerfeck and I using Latitude to work out that we were sat opposite each other in a beer garden, she decided it was time to upgrade her own phone into something a bit more technical.

I use a smartphone running Windows mobile, as I needed to be able to synchronise it with my Outlook diary at work. Due to added geekery, it will now also talk to Google Calender, which talks to my Outlook at home, which in turn talks to my ipod, so entering an appointment on any one of them will result in it turning up everywhere, so no excuses for missing anything (other than birthdays which have not been put in any of them - oops - sorry Mum).

Mrsslippy doesn't need to sync with Outlook, as she keeps her electronic diary in Google, so didn't need a Windows phone.

Blackberrys are a bit too business function led, so not one of those.

iPhones may look cool, and have loads of 'apps', but (unless you, dear reader, own one) can make you look like a bit of a pretentious cock, which Mrsslippy is not.

So upon my ~~insistence~~ advice she got an HTC Magic, the reasons being;

My phone, although running Windows, was made by HTC, and works well
Operates on Google Android, so integrates seamlessly with her email, diary, maps etc..
Has thousands of 'apps' available from Android Market, many of which are free.
It's not an iPhone

After an initial period of frustration at not instantly knowing how to use all the functions on it despite not having even read the quickstart guide, let alone the full manual, she seems to growing increasingly fond of the ability to play Bejewelled, check Twitter and Facebook, and see where she is on a map. She can even use it for Spotify - millions of songs instantly streamed to your phone....

Her greatest application find recently is My Tracks. Not only does this GPS software track your current position along the same lines as Latitude, it also stores all the data which can then be uploaded to Google.

So last week while we were wandering around Cornwall, Mrsslippys phone was following our every move, and analysing it....

So on Monday 14th September we left Little Tolmennor Barn at 09:49 am to walk to Penzance, via St Michaels Mount.

The walk to St Michaels took 7 hours 4 mins, but we were only moving for 5 hours 9 mins, having stopped to have sandwiches on the way, and a cream tea in Marazion.

Our average moving speed was 2.3 mph, and despite the highest point we reached being only 194m, due to the ups and downs of the route we ascended a total of 611m, covering a distance of 11.9 miles.

After waiting an hour for the tide to go out so we could walk along the normally submerged pathway back off the mount, we carried on the 3.5 miles to Penzance at an average speed of 2.5 mph, where upon we collapsed into the first pub we could find to fill up on beer and dinner.

We got a taxi back to the cottage.

You can see the route we took here and here, with all the statistical details popping up if you click on the red marker at the ends of the routes. You can even view it in Google Earth, and tilt the camera angle to see all the uppy and downy bits. It really is quite bizarre looking at the red line it's traced and remembering stopping to sit on rocks that you can see on a satellite photo.

Mrsslippy is now using it all the time, and can easily tell you the distance and average speed of anywhere we go, by foot, car or train.

And I can tell you with out the assistance of any electronic assistance that Mrsslippy walked a grand total of 50 meters yesterday. Five times to the kitchen, and four to the bathroom. Bloody geeks and gadgets eh?

Who needs 'em

May Contain Nuts

2009-08-30T22:34:00.003+01:00

I just ate a very tasty lemon mousse from Tesco.

Whilst chowing down, I noticed the 'Allergy advice' label on the side.

It came as no surprise that it contained milk, and that it was quite proud of the fact that it contained no nuts....or sort of...

Because although it says that the recipe is nut free, it cannot guarantee that the ingredients do not contain nuts, which seems a bit fucking random.

I'm not very good at following recipes myself. If I'm making a curry, I see a recipe as more of a guide, so if I want to chuck in some cashews, I will. What I don't want is some numb nuts providing their own ingredients if they're making something that really shouldn't contain them.

Where would it end? Can we expect to find sausages in our Frosties? "Yeah, they're not in the recipe dude, but I think I may have left some in the ingredients..." I sincerely hope not.

Perhaps most disturbing on the label, is underneath the 'Ingredients' disclaimer, where it says 'Factory - Product made in nut free area, but nuts used elsewhere'.

So the whole reason there may be nuts in the mousse, is because there are nuts elsewhere in the factory.

I assume they have a toilet somewhere in the factory, so drawing on the same logic, there is also statistically the same chance that there is some human shit in my mousse.

And a few pubes.

I realise the reason they do it is to 'protect' people with nut allergies by informing them of the infinitesimally small chance that there may be some in the food, hereby preventing them from suing if the have a reaction, or just not being able to eat anything because every single product in the world now contains a warning that there may be some nut residue in it.

Fortunately, I'm not allergic to nut products, but would have a pretty fucking serious reaction if I found out that I was consuming the product of someones nuts if they decided to have a crafty wank in the toilets on their break.

So lets just see a bit of common sense. Firstly, we don't need nut warnings on bags of nuts. Its pretty fucking clear that they may contain nuts.

And let's not have warnings on stuff that has as much chance of containing nuts as it does light bulbs, toilet paper, and the contents of the stationary cupboard, just because they are used elsewhere in the factory

The mousse I just ate had as much chance of containing nuts as it did containing shit, and I'm sure it contained neither.

My shit on the other hand probably contains mousse and nuts - just in case you were planning on eating it, because I'm not planning on labeling it....

Advert Hell

2009-08-29T15:06:00.003+01:00

Maybe I'm just the wrong demographic, but if I'm watching a TV show, then I'd like to think that advertisers would be savvy enough to think that there is something synonymous with their product and the show, that I would be interested in their tatt, and even more so by the clever way they've pitched them at me.

But I increasingly find myself not only being bemused at the wierd stuff that is being pimped at me - why would anyone watching The Big Bang Theory be in the market for an over 50's cruise? - but also angry at the visual effluent that is being shat into my eyes.

My top offenders in worst adverts on TV at the moment are...

Glade - Poo at Pauls

Just what is it that makes Pauls toilet so fucking special? It can't be just the fresh smell. If this petulant little brat was in anyway self concious about his shitting habits, he wouldn't be so insistent as to where he parked his breakfast. Maybe we should ask Pauls Dad? Or maybe we shouldn't.....

Go Compare - Fat bloke sings

Clearly jealous that Compare the Market have a cult following for their little meerkat, they've tried to jump on the bandwagon. Only with nothing in their name to make use of, some fuckwit at the ad agency has suggested getting some fat bloke to just sing it over and over again. The joke? He's a tenor, which sounds a bit like tenner. And what has that got to do with the product? Fuck all. He just looks like a cheap Mr Creosote rip off. There's a Facebook fangroup for him, only I suspect it was made up and populated by employees of the company to try to make it look cool. It does not. FAIL.

T-Mobile - All of them

I don't think it's possible to make a mobile phone advert that I will like, and you can guarentee if I see any that contain some type of mass gathering of arseholes singing in unison, it will make me do a little bit of sick in my mouth. Phones are useful things. You can call your mates to see if they're down the pub, bring up a map to find your way there, and Google the answer to whatever useless bit of trivia you end up arguing over. They will not bring about World Peace or end poverty. Particuarly not at the rates that some of them charge for services. Ads that show groups of hip young things tearing around having fun, phones in hands should be replaced with groups sat around in silence, staring blankly at their little screens while they try to work out for to Bluetooth a shit version of Black Eyed Peas already shit song to each other.

Tampax Pearl

Gaudy Posh wannabe lounges around, all dressed in white, until Mother Nature turns up with the gift in a 'red box'.

Ha fucking ha....was that even intentional?

And why pearl? When I thingk of pearls my mind turns to oysters, not bearded clams. Or maybe pearl necklaces. Interesting fact - despite what you might think a pearl necklace is you're probably wrong. It does not refer to a glittery chain of goo around a womens throat, but playing the pink oboe. The pearls in question are the pearly whites of the giver of the gift, around the neck of a cock. Any blokes reading - if you're ever asked if you've given someone a pearl necklace - you might want to reconsider your answer.

Peugeot 308

An advert so awful that I couldn't even remember the car it was sellling. I had to Google 'shit smug car advert', and what do you know, it was hit number 6. It's supposed to be Drive sexy, but the only thing I feel driven to do is smash his smug face in. We'll take that kid from the Glade advert and have him poo all over the cunts noir car.

There are many, many more that get my goatbut these are the worst culprits.

Which adverts annoy you, and why?

Business skills

2009-08-23T12:47:00.005+01:00

Mrs Slippy has gone to the V Festival, so while the cat is away, the mice will play.

Or will they? Mice don't really 'play' do they? In the absence of cats, they generally eat everything in the cupboard, and shit everywhere.

Squeak squeak...

And whilst not eating and shitting, I am mostly watching the cricket, with Twitter and Facebook streaming in two separate windows on the laptop, and another one open onto which I am typing.

I've also taken some time out to ensure that I will be able to watch the Premiership on the computer if England haven't finished the job by 4 o'clock. I may even bring the portable tv into the living room too so I can watch the Grand Prix as well.

Who says men can't multi-task?

It is probably the business skills of multi-tasking, prioriting, and forward planning that have made me the success I am today.

Never were these skilled called more into play than back in 1998, when I was still a young man, finding my way in the World, and taking sometime out from my hectic business life to enjoy a couple of weeks holiday in Spain with some old school friends.

Nothing like a group of eight young professionals sharing a villa on the Costa del Sol to relieve the strains of day to day life in the UK. The cat wasn't away, but the mice were.

Maybe open a bottle of wine in the evening, and listen to the gentle lapping of the waves on the shore, or find a local bar and enjoy one or two local beers while making friends with the locals.

Chilled and relaxed.

One evening the others wanted to go and visit the local 'Discotheque'. I wasn't really feeling up to it myself. Probably just a bit of a combination of too much sun, and a rich Mediterranean diet, but my guts were gone to hell.

Not wanting to let the others down, I fought the cramping pains and agreed to join them. It was the last night, and so we'd probably earned a few drinks.

The club was only small. It wasn't a big resort, so it really was just the locals place to go and enjoy a night out, not some mega club. We were the only English there, and the bar staff seemed pretty pleased to have us there, with lots of very large, very free drinks.

It soon became apparent that my guts were not going to hold out. Nobody in their right mind enjoys taking a shit in someone else's toilet (except that freaky kid on the TV who wants to 'do a poo at Pauls', which I'm sure must be urban slang for something altogether sinister), but sometimes needs must.

As I said, a small club, so only a small toilet. Fortunately I hadn't started relaxing too much as I burst into los servicios. I knew that despite the urgency of the matter in hand, if I didn't want matter in my hands, I couldn't afford to drop focus until I knew it was safe to drop the kids off.

I was right to do that. A quick visual check told me there was only one cubical, and there was no paper in it. No hand towels next to the sink either meant back to he bar. I'd clocked a pile of napkins at the end of it - those would do.

As I walked round, my hand slipped up and grabbed the small pile without breaking stride, nor attracting attention.

Back in the cubicle I was hit by problem number 2 with my problem number 2.

There was no lock on the door, and it was so badly hung, it wouldn't stay shut on it's own.

And it was about 5 feet away from the seat....

Try it yourself. Sit down and see how far forwards you can reach. Unless you are;

a) an orang-utan
b) Andrew Marr
c) Dave Beasant

then I can pretty much guarantee that door is swinging open on you.

So we have priority decision time number one. Privacy, or accuracy?

If you can lean forwards enough that you can apply some pressure on the door, with your arse pointing in the general direction of the toilet (and trousers removed for added safety), then surely that is the better option than sitting and shitting, door wide open looking cold and clammy as every Juan, Luis y Fernando walks in?

I thought so.

As it turned out, removing my trousers was not required, as it was not the ground beneath me that was the high risk area. Nope, I had completely misjudged the level of pressure which had built up in my guts, and rather that 'falling short' in the gap between myself and the seat, I completely overshot with hot, liquid filth.

As I was leaning over so far, I was practically horizontal, and the wall behind the toilet now looked like someone had been at it with an industrial muck spreader.

I looked down at the small pile of drinks napkins in my hand, back at the 2 foot circle of evil on the wall (that was fast growing as gravity pulled it down to the ground), and peeped through a gap in the door to check I was still alone in there.

I was.

Priority decision number 2. I had a small pile of napkins and needed to clean;

a) My arse
b) The wall

A quick bit of 'quantity surveying' left me quite sure that I did not have enough napkins to clean both. Even if I made a rush job of my arse, the wall would need some serious attention. The longer I took thinking or cleaning, the greater the risk that someone would walk in on me.

The decision was simple. Why clean two jobs badly when you can clean one job well?

I cleaned myself with napkins to spare, but any attempt to start on the wall would have been futile. Best to just drop the lot and run before someone saw me.

So run I did, and I'm pretty sure I got away with it.

And it was there that I learned my most important ~~dirty~~ business skill. You don't always have to clean up your own shit, you just need to make sure nobody saw you do it, and none of it's stuck to you.

Now back to the Cricket/Football/Grand Prix/raiding the cupboard.

After I've had another shit.

Farcical Football

2009-08-19T21:46:00.002+01:00

Canary (noun) definitions-
1) - Small yellow bird sent down mines to test the quality of the air before the big boys get going. Any sign of danger, gets in a flap, curls up and dies.
2) - Small yellow team sent down divisions to test the quality of the football. Any signs of danger, gets in a flap, pisses in goals, and curls up and dies.

Depending on what flavour you take your football, you could be anywhere between one and three games into your season.

It's early doors, but they're doors that someone has pissed on, superglued the lock, and shoved shit through the letterbox.

I really have the deepest sympathy with my Naardge friends. When you let in enough goals on the first day of the season to almost start needing to use the fingers on the other webbed hand, things are not good.

Only one thing to do when you get beaten 7-1 by Colchester. Nick their manager. I can't help but wonder if Paul Lambert will still be happy with his decision at the end of the season, with the U's continuing their undefeated start tonight, and Norwich losing again.

Elsewhere in the Premiership, we see Tottenham top after beating Liverpool in the opener, and spanking Hull 5-1 tonight, who themselves didn't look that bad against Chelsea - the only other team to have won 2 from 2. Several have still only played the once, but Man Utd somehow managed to get beaten by Burnley tonight, so no perfect start from them, nor points for me from their players.

It's playing merry hell with my Fantasy Team. Whilst picking ~~Jolene~~ Joleon Lescott seemed like a good idea pre season, what with him being touted by Man City, he helped Everton let in 6 goals at the weekend, has been refused a transfer, and has now been dropped following an incident involving a pram, some toys, and a passable Monty Panessar impersonation.

Most importantly of all, Grimsby have got off to a typically heroic start, with three straight defeats. This puts me in a great position to slag off or take the piss out of any other team in the league, because there is nothing that anyone can say or do that can make anything worse that what we are doing to ourselves.

Yazz would say 'the only way is up'. Not true. Okay, we can't move very far in the downwards direction for several months, but after that, there's a fucking huge drop.

At least there's still some Cricket to be enjoyed. I completely expect England to win the last Ashes Test, and therefore retain that magic little urn. And we've got tickets to one of the one dayers to look forward to as well.

But after that it's just the slow inevitability of the days getting colder, the nights drawing in, and Saturday afternoons of despair and despondency as nothing goes right.

Roll on World Cup 2010.

On and on and on....

2009-08-12T21:37:00.003+01:00

Greek mythology tells us of Sisyphus, a King punished by the ancient Gods to forever push a boulder to the top of a mountain. Once at the top it would roll back down, and he would be forced to start again.

Pretty stupid if you ask me. You'd think after the first couple of times he'd say "You know what Zeus? Fuck you. This is pointless. I ain't pushing no boulder no more. It's staying right the fuck where it is. You want it at the top? You do it you big beardy cock. This is the very definition of futility".

"No" would say Zeus. "This is the definition of a Sisyphian task. I have named it especially for you, and from this day forth, anyone who finds themselves in an endless task will for ever think of you."

"No" would say Sisyphus "From this day forth they will most likely think of the Forth Bridge, and the endless task of painting it".

"If that is so, it is because they are uneducated wankers, with no knowledge of Greek mythology" Zeus would reply. "I believe man will always remember your name, and the toils it suggests".

"Prove it dickwad.."

"I will! In 3000 years time, when work is done by machines powered by lightning, and the sky's are filled with rain even in the middle of summer, I shall pick a man and a task, and see if he remembers you.....now back to your boulder monkey man."

*****cue lots of wavy lines to signify the passing of time*****

Cheers for that Zeus.

Every day when I feel like I'm seeing light at the end of the tunnel, of the bottom of my pile of papers, someone drops another stack on top, and I'm back staring at the computer screen, repeating the same action over and over.

It may not be a back breaking, blister breeding boulder, but I have worn a little hole on my wrist from the same repetitive movements with the mouse.

And when I look at that wound, I think of Sisyphus.

But not because I am not an uneducated wanker. My knowledge of Greek mythology is rudimentary at the best, but I do remember Sisyphus. Not because I studied it at school, but because I was fortunate enough be exposed to the fantastic 'Ulysees 31' as a child.

An early 80's Franco-Japanese anime series, it transposed the story of Ulysees/Odyseus to the 31st century, where our brave hero travelled the Universe in a spaceship with only his irritating son, a blue alien, and a little gay robot for company. The rest of the crew being dead, and hanging around in suspended animation until he can find 'the Kingdom of Hades'.

Each week he would encounter another character from Greek mythology, all whilst dressed like one of the Bee Gees in a space suit. And thus my education in 'the classics' would be complete.

In Episode 5 (of 24), he met the erstwhile Sisyphus. I know this as FACT because Mrsslippy managed to find the boxset on ebay last year. For those of you who have never seen it, or it is just a distant memory, you're in for a treat. Here's the entire Sisyphus episode courtesy of YouTube.

So next time you think you're stuck with a never ending task, just sing the theme tune, and everything will be alright.

Altogether now, Ulysees, Ul-y-se-ees. Soaring through all the gal-ax-ee-heees....

I made you this...

2009-08-10T21:38:00.002+01:00

More musical musings today.

After reading several good reviews on line, I decided that I was long overdue having a closer look at Spotify

Streaming music really has come a long way. Spotify has a library of 3.8 million tracks, and although there are apparently some big artists missing, it found everything I was looking for. And unlike iTunes where you can listen to just an excerpt from a track before deciding if you want to buy it, with Spotify you can listen to the whole song - hell, you can listen to the whole album.

You can queue up tracks to play, or just create playlists that you can listen to again and again, or send to others via Facebook or by sending the URL.

What you can't do, is copy the music onto a CD or mp3 player. But if you're just sat at home and fancy listening to Now! 72, then you can. If you can tolerate a short advert every 4 or 5 songs, it's completely free. If that bothers you, you can pay 99p for an advert free day, or a tenner a month to never hear an advert again. WIN.

If you're a bit geeky like me, you can hook up your computer to the surround sound, and it's like having your own radio station with 3.8 million tracks at hand.

But that's not the real selling point for me, it's the ability to make playlists and distribute them by the wonder of teh interwebs.

It's the mix tape of the future.

I don't have to sit by an old tape deck, patiently listening to each song as it copies. A pile of other music sat next to the stereo waiting it's turn to be added. Carefully writing the tracklist onto the cassette inlay, listening as you create. A mix tape was something special (or at least you hoped so), because there was a finite amount of space on the tape, everything had to be carefully selected. It had to be listened to in order, and you hoped the recipient understood that selection and creation took hours. It was special.

iTunes made things easier. I don't have to walk all the way to the shelves and start rummaging through CD's. Everything is already ripped to the hard drive. If I want to make a mix CD I just drag and drop files, and then burn it. You have to take a bit of consideration of how the recipient will play it. If they can play mp3s off a CD you can stick loads on, but if not, you're restricted to burning it at 78 minutes max.

But now there is Spotify.

And because I love you very much, I have made you a mixtape.

I like a good cover version, but am also quite partial to a bad one also, so on this very special mixtape you can expect to find a bit of both...

If you've never heard William Shatner and Joe Jacksons unique interpretation of Pulps 'Common People', you're in for a treat.

There are some pretty obvious ones. No mixtape of covers could be complete without Johnny Cash's haunting rendition of Nine Inch Nails 'Hurt'.

And there's stuff that is more famous in it's covered version that you may have never even heard the original - but that's not going to stop me chucking The Damneds 'Eloise' on.

And if you manage to stick it out to the end - get ready for Queensryche "doing" 'Scarborough Fair'. As I type Simon and Garfunkle must be busy digging themselves a shallow grave so they can dive in and have a damn good spin.

To listen to your mixtape, click here , and if you really love me, you could always make me one back.

Or just send one to someone you genuinely care about.

iDiot

2009-08-07T18:57:00.002+01:00

I've still not got round to making any playlists for my iPod, and so can't trust it on shuffle yet, as it may play me something that's merely residing on it for a rainy day.

But I had forgotten that the newer ones come with built in 'Genius' to generate playlists for you based on the track you have selected.

It does this by comparing your library and purchasing habits with those of "other people", to suggest similar songs to the one you picked.

Other people......hmmmmm......

Other people are not to be trusted. It's "other people" that make Britain's Got Talent Britain's most watched show. It's "other people" that keep Duffy in Diet Coke and ridiculous leggings.

You've only got to go to "other peoples" houses and check out their CD collections to see what I mean. We all do it. First time we go to someones house we go straight to the music collection and start judging them - usually finding them lacking.

But iTunes reckons it knows so many other people, it must be able to use this knowledge to satisfy me on the way to work, so ok iPod, give it your best shot.

I headed out the door with Muses magnificent 'Knights of Cydonia'. I wanted wakey-wakey music, and that certainly fitted the bill. Six minutes and seven seconds later, it's time for the "Genius" to step up to the plate. 'Reptillia' by The Strokes blasts out.

So far so good. Not what I would have chosen for myself, but I like it, and it is in keeping with my general mood. So what will it throw at me next....

"'Map of the Problematique' by ..erm...Muse again." said the Genius

"Ok Genius, well worked out. It's even off the same album you fuckwit. I'll listen because I like it, but I was hoping for a bit more variety...now play me something else.."

"How about the super smashing 'Cherub Rock' from the super Smashing Pumpkins?" asked the Genius.

"Splendid" said I. "Now you're getting the idea. What's next?"

"I really think you want to hear a bit of 'Time is Running Out' said the Genius.

"Er..hang on. Isn't this just Muse again?"

"Yes, but it's off a different album. Different see? Variety!"

I was starting to suspect this Genius was a bit more Justin Hawkins than Steven Hawkin...

Yes Justin, that is a catchy tune, but isn't it just a little bit ~~Queen rip off~~ derivative, and basically what you just played me but ever so slightly different. Why can't you be more like Steven?

He knows what variety means, using his unique vocal stylings to maximum effect collaborating with artists as diverse as Radiohead (Fitter, Happier) and Daft Punk (Technologic) He was even Chers singing coach on 'Believe', for which I believe he also choreographed the video.

"Now do you get what I mean Genius?"

"I think so. You want something that matches the camp theatrics, killer 70's riffs and wailing vocals of Knights of Cydonia, not just lots more Muse?"

"Yes please."

"Ballroom Blitz by The Sweet?"

"Absolutely!"

That is what I want Genius to to. To take something that I would never thing of playing myself, but matches my general ambiance, and brings a little grin of guilty pleasure to my face.

My next logical step would be to see how far I could push the Genius's logic, and try to get it to generate a chain that would get me as far away from where it started.

It would be a fair assumption that anyone who liked Knights of Cydonia would also like Ballroom Blitz, but since that hails from a long gone era (released 3 years before Muse's Matt Bellamy was even born!), it probably has fans that would have turned their noses up at some of the other 24 tracks on the Knights generated playlist - particularly Tenacious D's most tender and romantic 'Fuck her Gently'.

"So Genius. I like Ballroom Blitz. Find me 24 other songs like that one."

"Right you are sir. Anyone of these rather take your fancy?"

"Yes. ELO's 'Mr Blue Sky'. Got any more like that?"

"As a matter of fact I do. And I think you'll be particularly pleased with Supertramps 'Logical Song'"

"I would. Logical Song would be a logical step. Give me 24 songs like that one."

"You're the boss. Anything tickle your fancy?"

"I like a bit of Human League. Find me more like 'Don't you want me'."

"Madonna's 'Holiday'?"

"Ok - one last jump."

"Hit me Baby one more time?"

Yes - I think I will. I think I will hit you in your silly digital face. By trusting the listening habits of those pesky "other people", I have contrived by using playlists of only 25 songs, and 6 steps, to get from what is an undeniably a classic rock tune, to Britney. If I hadn't stopped there God only knows where it would have gone...

The fact that all the above songs are even on my iPod are inconsequential........

Next up I'm going to see how many steps it takes to get me from Ace of Spades to Ace of Bass. I bet I can do it in in less than 10, especially with the fucking retard at the controls.

I would have done it on the way home, but chose to listen to Geoff Boycott on Test Match Special instead.

Now he is a Genius.

I know he is, because the fucker never stops telling us.......

Faux parps

2009-08-05T20:54:00.002+01:00

The only problem with the sound insulating quality of my new headphones is it's very hard to judge how loud you are talking if you have them in.

This is compounded when talking, which I often do, both metaphorically and physically, out of my arse.

Walking through the underground to work this morning, music on, and in a world of my own, I felt the familiar gentle pressure in my colon, and despite the fact that I knew someone was a few steps behind me, and another person approaching, I relaxed slightly to reduce the pressure. This is normal practice when farting in public. A slow controlled release whilst carefully listening for any tell tale signs that it's coming from you. If silent, just carry on regardless, and if it smells, just keep that poker face and look accusingly at everyone else. It was easy to get away with on an elderly care ward, and still pretty easy in most areas of the hospital.

But this morning I was in a staff only section, and had forgotten the key flaw in my usual fool proof plan. I couldn't hear my own arsehole.

And even more foolishly, in my early morning fug of confusion and low caffeine content, I got cocky. Hearing no noises myself, I started to relax my sphincter....

As a child growing up, we had several different words for farts based on the noise, or lack of noise they made.

A pleb was a small staccato fart, audible, but not overly wet.

A veep was one of my favourites. A long high pitched whine through very tight arse cheeks, and often slightly moist - as best demonstrated by Gav Hatt onto Matts head. It even gave it's name to a character in the Spanish role plays me and Nick used to have to do for GCSE. I have fond memories of the exploits of Senor Sticky Veep and Senor Eggy Guffer at the cafe Jumbo Whiffy.

A whiff was not just a smell, it was the gentle breeze of a warm, but silent fart - like the Mistral blowing through your pants.

And a quack was about as onomatopeic as it gets. Like a large duck stuffed down the back of your trousers. Expulsed at a forceful high speed to maximise the volume and pitch, it also held the inherent danger of following through, ripping your ringpiece, or even both.

So what started as a whiff this morning, transmogrified into a veep as I grew in confidence, until with a probable strained expression on my face I tightened up every muscle in my abdomen and turned it into a full blown quack.

If I was sat on a chair I'd have been rolling onto one cheek...

I can only assume from the disgusted look on the woman approaching me that she could hear what I could not. Poker faced, I walked on - avoiding eye contact.

And the woman behind me was stepping into the vapour trail so obvious that I may have well attached a Red Arrows style paint job to - I certainly wasn't about to look around and check if she was also glaring.

But I'm sure she could also hear the other thing that escaped my ears. The sound of me giggling like a child at a fart that I was more proud of than ashamed, and just wishing I'd had the pleasure of hearing it myself.

iVedied

2009-08-03T17:31:00.003+01:00

A friend died this morning.

After nearly three years of dutiful service, my iPod has stopped shuffling, and just shuffled off.

I should have seen the warning signs. It's not been well for some time. The screen had developed faint black lines across it like LCD crows feet, making video playback useless. It's memory had been full for over a year, and failing fast, and every new thing it had to remember was at the expense of something else. It had become increasingly neurotic - even when I played my favourites on shuffle, it kept playing the same ones, and completely ignoring others.

A few months ago it coughed up a lung, or part of it's headphone, into my ear canal, but rather than retiring it, I tried to nurse it back to health with some lovely new headphones (Goldring GX200's - with Comply foam earpieces that work like earplugs - block out pretty much all extraneous noise. Fucking sweet. Thanks Gingerwarrior for the tip), but to no avail.

It was tired of amusing me, so after playing me a podcast from Adam & Joe last night we both went to sleep.

It never woke up.

I tried to resuscitate it on three different chargers, used the 'magic sequence of buttons' to try to initiate a soft, then factory reset, and plugged it into the laptop, but to no avail. The laptop wouldn't even recognise it as an external storage device.

It's dead. I'd like to think it didn't suffer. It probably enjoyed a little chuckle to Adam & Joe before it slipped away to technology heaven in it's sleep.

So after a brief period of mourning, which took about as long as it takes me to walk to work whilst listening to nothing but the traffic, I decided I should replace it as soon as possible. It's what it would have wanted.

I managed to stay at work for at least 4 hours before I gave up for the day and headed into town (Fuck off! I'm owed hours, alright?), and straight to the Apple shop. Once I finally managed to corner an assistant amongst the throng of people who weren't there to shop, just wank over the shiny white goods, it was a quick process.

"My iPod has died, I need a Classic replacement"
"Black or silver?"
"Black."

Box out the draw.

"Card or cash?"
"Card."

Assistant had a hand held card reader.

"Do you want a printed receipt or an e-mailed one?"
"Email."

Key my e-mail address into his card reader, and I was out within a minute of making eye contact. Job done.

Safely home, I need nothing out of the box except for the iPod itself. The dead one was only 60GB, and since we have way more music, audio books, videos and podcast subscriptions than that, I had to manage the content manually.

Now I've just connected it up and said "knock your self out".
As I type it is now 'copying 6100 of 12484'. Greedily devouring the contents of my hard drive like an electronic baby suckling at my digital breast.

Trouble is, just like a greedy child, once it's done, I'm going to have to burp up some of the shit that it should never have swallowed.

I keep a pretty eclectic library. Some things that are not really my cup of tea were allowed to reside on the old iPod just in case they were ever needed on group holidays or gatherings. Cheesy party tunes and 'classics' by the likes of Abba, or Britney.

But there is stuff in the Library that has been added to make playlists for specific occasions, or to rip into a 'significant' cd for someone, that I will not have on my new iPod, for fear it might accidentally play it at the slip of a button. Better safe than sorry.

The other problem is this new child also needs to be taught not only what it should never have swallowed, but what is actually very tasty and nutritious. Part of your musical 'Five-a Day'.

Because I had to manage the old iPod manually, and both Mrsslippy and I used the same library, all my playlists and ratings were in the actual iPod itself. I don't have to rank all 12,500 songs, but as I like to use smart playlists, I am going to have to tell it what I would rank as 4 or 5 stars, so if I want it to play a selection of all my favourites, or stuff I quite like from the 80's, it can do.

And the best part? Not only do I have a nice shiny new iPod that I can fit all my stuff on, with plenty of room for more, I also have yet another pair of shitty white headphones that came with it. I think that makes six pairs between the two of us now. They're not even coming out the packet. They're going straight into the big box of wires and other such gubbins in the loft where all electrical equipment goes when it dies, along with a very dear, but very dead, old friend.

Fantasy Football

2009-08-02T18:28:00.003+01:00

As the nights draw in, and the air starts to feel like winter is just around the corner, my mind turns to football.

Hell, it may only have just turned August, but it is a bit nippy out, and having done the necessary research (ie been watching Sky all day), the Premiership season does indeed start next weekend - or sort of. It's the Charity shield or whatever they're calling it this year, and a full fixture list for The Championship and leagues 1 and 2.

So all of a sudden it's time to think long and hard about fantasy teams.

My first foray into Fantasy sport was way back in the early nineties, with cricket. I'm pretty sure The Daily Telegraph was the first place to do it, and as the years have gone by, there is a Fantasy version of everything. I was even asked to sign up for a Fantasy Tour de France this year - sorry Matt - I didn't even reply, having no knowledge or interest in the sport.

Football soon followed suit, courtesy of The Sun. In the early days, you paid to submit a team, and then got updates and scores printed in the paper. To check out your own team, or have a mini league with friends, you had to all add up your own scores and compare.

My early attempts were ok. Not winning amongst my peer group, but still doing myself proud. Scoring was pretty basic too. Points if your player scored a goal, minus points if a defender or goalie let them in. Points for a clean sheet for defenders, and minus points for cards.

As the years have gone by, and the advent of OPTA statistics, scoring has become more convoluted, and more websites have sprung up running similar style competitions.

A few years ago I was running a league based out of the Sun for colleagues at work - this time just for The World Cup, with £10 in for each team - winner takes all. It was starting to get a bit easier to manage leagues, as The Sun was publishing all the players scores on line, so sticking everyone's teams in a spreadsheet and then just copying and pasting the pages from The Suns website meant I could produce a new league table in a matter of minutes after each evenings games, rather than scouring the papers hours on end for each individuals players and scores.

I was planning on distributing the scores as I had done with the previous years Premier League - via works email.

Shortly before the tournament was due to start I received an email from a very senior member of management, entitled 'Fantasy Football'.

'Shit', thought I. I'm going to be told not to do this on work time. I can explain away that all I do is send an email with the scores in, because not all the players have a home email address. I don't do any of the updating or preparation of tables at work (but only because the website is blocked by works firewall). I'm not making any money out of it, It's not gambling, it's just a friendly sweepstake.....

As it turned out it wasn't an email telling me to cease and desist, rather one asking me very nicely if he was allowed to play, and if so, here was his team, and to whom should he give his £10?

Fucker went on to win it too. Very begrudgingly I had to go to the Management Suite to hand over the cash.

"Have you got an appointment" said the receptionist.

"No" said I, "but I think he'll want to see me if you just buzz to let him know I'm here. I have his gambling winnings for him".

Now the multitudes of websites are free, and the game play even more sophisticated. You can start with a whole squad rather than a team, and pick which 11 actually play each week, allowing you to swap your keepers if your 1st choice is going to be playing against Man Utd, or drop players if they are injured. That is if you can be bothered to log in everyday and micro manage your team. I had Torres captaining (double points) my team for around 6 weeks last year before I decided that I should probably log in and make some substitutions being as he was injured and not playing.

Team selection can take hours, as you decide whether to blow your cash on a killer strike force, or go for a balanced approach.

You ca spend a fortune on 'big players' who either get injured and score nothing, under perform, or who everyone else has bought anyway, so you gain nothing by having them, but lose everything if you don't. Do you save fuck all for defenders so you either have cheap players from big teams who never get off the bench, or whatever you can afford from Fulham, and then just hope that the amount of goals they let in is offset by the millions that Anelka and Berbatov are going to score?

I've decided that most of it is down to a little bit of common sense, and a lot of luck. It's that £4.5 million that you have left to spend on a defender or midfielder. You can't afford anyone you want, so you just look at the price list and pull someone at random, and then they go on to bag up hundreds of points for you. That was Joleon Lescott for me last year. This year he's £7.5, but because he did well for me last year, I've stumped up the cash - as have 16% of other people who have registered at the official website.

I've spent a grand total of 10 minutes and £100 million selecting my squad, and as usual, I hope for success, but expect mediocrity.

If you want in, I'm playing at The Barclays League site. If you want to join my mini-league, contact me via email, FB or Twitter for the pin number. The more the merrier, and the further down the points table I can slide.

I'll still do better than Grimsby though...

Radio Gold

2009-08-01T12:12:00.003+01:00

I posted a slide show on Facebook yesterday from a holiday Mrsslippy and I enjoyed with friends way back in 2003, as I was feeling nostalgic.

Amongst the comments from fellow holiday goers, was one from Stoxie purporting to be nostalgic for 'Radio Squeaky Voice'.

Do I look like I do requests? If I were a DJ maybe I might. But maybe I was once a DJ, and Stoxies comment, whether a request or not, has got me reminiscing about that once great show.

Radio Squeaky Voice (RSV) was at it's heyday in the early '80s. Recorded at one of the most hi-tech ~~bedrooms~~ audio studios in Cringleford, it really was the cutting edge of broadcasting, with Nick owning a cassette recorder that not only had tape to tape facilities, but could also record at two different speeds!

Recording at the slow setting could double the length of a standard tape, meaning a C120 cassette could potentially hold four hours of music, or five whole albums! Take that Apple with your poxy ipods!

The only drawback was that anything recorded at that speed could only really be played back on Nicks new fangled portable stereo thing. Sticking it in a standard Sony Walkman it would play back in its uncompressed format, and would be sped up and useless.

What made RSV so groundbreaking was the way it's DJ's used this change in speed to record segueways, intros and ~~malicious gossip~~ news, that once played back at normal speed would disguise their voices and protect their anonymity from ~~litigation~~ adoring fans.

While modern DJs and wannabees (yes Moyles, I'm talking to you) use computer gadgetry and jiggery pokery to alter their voices, RSV relied on the raw skills and talents that the DJs were blessed with.

This meant taaallk-iiing.....veeerryy...slooow-llly...aaand...deeeeply....iiinn-toooo...theeeee..miiiiiike.

And then just play it back.

Because it's far, far easier to extend a vowel than a consonant, if you got the pitch right it didn't really sound sped up, it just sounded like three people with the weirdest fucking speech impediments.

That is unless a DJ got a bit over excited. Stoxie was prone to such things, and as his section went on, his voice got higher and faster, making the playback copy almost unintelligible (appropriately). Accompanied by the now also sped up giggling of the co-hosts, it was raw, radical and outrageous.

We called it a radio show, but unfortunately we lacked any transmission equipment, so I guess you'd call it a pre internet podcast. If released today, I'm sure it would put Ricky Gervais, or Adam and Joes feeble attempts at 'comedy' to shame.

Sadly I don't think anyone will get the chance to hear it. I believe Norwich Library were holding copies in their archives, but they were destroyed in the fire of 1994.

The British Library, or the BBC might still have copies, but don't hold your breath. I fear they are lost to the annals of time.

We will never hear their likes again....unless you guys are up for a 25th Anniversary comeback tour?

The F word

2009-07-29T18:23:00.002+01:00

F**k

F**k, f**k, f**kity f**k.

In a ~~blatent rip off~~ homage to the wondrously funny Tim Minchin, I could pontificate on the use of asterisks to hide letters in f**k.

Whether you print the missing letters or not, f**k still says f**k. It's what you say in your head when you see it written. It's hiding in plain site. There can't be a man or woman alive who doesn't know the true offensive nature of f**k.

So I'll type it, as offensive as it is to me.

FOLK

Yep, it's the end of July, which for residents of my little corner of the world can mean only one thing, The Cambridge Folk Festival is upon us once again.

Gates open at 12 tomorrow, which means at 12:01 MY pub will be full of ~~cocks~~ festival goers, clogging the place up with beards and the smell of damp cardigans. Grumbling about the lack of real ales and a variety of ciders. True, MY pub doesn't hold a great selection of ales, but it is just a suburban Green King eatery, so there isn't much call for that sort of thing the other 51 weeks of the year.

Now before you accuse me of being narrow minded, I don't have a problem with Folk music per se. I don't really have a problem with any genres of music (except jazz). If it's got a good tune, or I can sing along then I'll listen to anything - it doesn't have to be pigeon holed into a genre. It just so happens that there are more guitar led grungy tunes that I can relate to than fiddly folky ones.

My ipod favourites playlist contains music from ABC to The Zutons, and everything inbetween. There's pop, goth, emo, rap, drum and bass, classical, metal, folk, blues, soul, and lots and lots of guitars. If I want something with a bit of a fiddle, you can't beat a bit of Gogol Bordello, although they would claim their music is gypsy-punk rather than folk. I'd rather listen to a bit of Simon and Garfunkel than Scouting for Girls anyday.

What truly offends me is the folk lifestyle. To every weirdy beardy who calls me a heathen for not 'getting' folk, I ask - "Did you get Kasabians latest CD? What do you think of Jamie Ts recent single? Will you be buying his album?"

No?

Thought not. And nor will I be in the slightest bit interested in the majority of the performers at The Festival. Each to their own. I will not criticise your musical tastes, as I am not familiar with a lot of the acts who are performing, but I do know quite a few. Some of them I have even seen live, and bought music by. There are also those that I've seen on TV, whether it be Jools Holland or the Culture Show, and I just don't really like them. Wouldn't say they were shit, just does nothing for me.

So don't come round my manor, parking your camper van that's painted in flowers, and smells of something distinctly organic outside my gaffe, and "tut" at me for living so close but not taking advantage of such a "wonderful opportunity" on my doorstep.

Don't frown at me because I won't give up the table that I am hogging to myself to you and your bearded brethren just so you can warm yourselves up around a communal cup of coffee. I've been at work all day, and am enjoying a quiet, contemplative pint. If you are cold and wet, don't go fucking camping.

And stop moaning at the checkout people at Tescos Express when they run out of cider and portable barbecues. It's a local shop for local people. People who can't drive to the big Tesco rely on it for everyday provisions, so it's not going to be cleared of useful produce just so you can keep yourselves in Scrumpy and Linda McCartney sausages.

You can enjoy a type of music, or even several types of music without it becoming your raison d'etre, and then disapproving of anyone else who doen't share your touchy feely, new age olde worlde sensibilities

I did go once, many years ago and just on a ~~sneaked under the fence~~ day ticket. My resounding memory is of bokey warm cider. I'm not a big cider fan anyway, but this was pretty rank .

'Warm with real apple chunks' was it's alleged selling point.

If you've ever done a bit of sick in your mouth, but managed to hold it and re-swallow it, that's the experience you're looking at.

Body temperature, sweet and acidic, and little bits of food in it. Yum.

So I won't be going, but if you are, why not pass the time by playing a little game of 'I-spy at the Folk Festival'

Man in an Australian cork hat 1pt
20 Men in straw hats 2pts
Dog on a string 3pts
Drunk person passed out on his own 2pts
Someone wearing a Folk Festival 2008 t-shirt 3pts
Someone wearing a pre 1972 t-shirt 10pts
10 people with leather waistcoats 5pts
Skull on a stick 10pts
Woman dressed as a fairy 15pts
Child in spider-man face paint 3pts
Grown adult in spider-man face paint 15pts
Spider-man 100pts
Gandalf (or lookalike) 10pts
A waist length beard 5pts
A naked child with no sun protection (if sunny) 5pts
A clothed child with far too much sun protection (if cloudy) 5pts
A man with his 'lucky tankard' on a string round his neck 2pts
A woman who really should be wearing a bra under that top 3pts
Someone playing a penny whistle 3pts
Someone playing bongos on their own 5pts
Mark (Lard) Riley 5pts
Billy Bragg 20pts
Mike Harding 25pts
Slippymark 1,000,000 pts

So I'm stocked up on essentials for a weekend of seige mentality. All that's left for me to do is sprinkle some broken glass on the road outside the house, and I'm all ready for another F**k Festival.

Spitting Images

2009-07-27T22:45:00.006+01:00

In an ongoing theme where I extol the virtues of those clever, clever people at Google, I shall today be hammering on about their photo storage software, Picasa.

Downloaded to the desktop, not only is it a nicely functioning image viewer/editor, it also offers oodles of online storage where you can geotag your photos to see them on Google Earth, or just keep them safe and accessible for a rainy day.

The really clever bit is it's face recognition tool.

Upload an album in a couple of minutes, and it will find all the faces in the photos, and ask you to name them. It'll clump together faces that it thinks are of the same person, and is often frighteningly accurate, even if hair and makeup vary enormously from one picture to the other, which mine normally does.

The more you upload and name, the better it gets at it.

However, you often get people lurking in the background of your pictures, so it will still find the face, and have a stab at guessing who it is - even though it's nobody it's ever seen before.

I was starting to find it quite amusing as it suggested random strangers who look nothing like any of my friends might be someone I know, based on it's previous experiences.

So in the name of ~~titting about~~ science, I thought I'd chuck a few random photos at it, and see who it thinks it is.

First off, what better substitute for real friends, then plastic ones.

This is a picture of - from left to right - Lyndsey, Kat, Sam, Morph, Kay, and Tanya.

I don't know what's more puzzling from this. The fact that it thought the cast of Friends all look like girls (or at least girls that I know), or the fact that Ali has married a David Schwimmer lookalike. Ethicon on the other hand, has done alright for himself.

There must be a celebrity that looks like a male friend?

How about this fine fella?

It's not Dale Winton - it's Ethicon of course!

And who's this?

Sorry Timbo. It's you. Still in shock from NCFCs relegation I see.

This one?

No it's not Brucie, but neither (rather surprisingly since I was trying to stitch him up) is it the Gingerfeck. If you think you look more like Brucie than Ronan does, I think I'd keep very quiet about it. I know who it thinks it is, but I'm not saying either.

Suffice to say, it is neither me or Mrsslippy. There are so many photos of us saved to it, you could shoot me in the dark with a balaclava on and it'd still know who I am.

Have a go for yourselves. And if you find a picture of a dodgy celebrity that it thinks is me, please let me know. I'm thinking of branching out and setting up a lookalike agency.

Are you free to 'do' Graham Timbo? I'm sure he'd like it.

R U bng SRVD?

2009-07-22T20:41:00.002+01:00

You just got served. And pwnd.

Mrsslippy has gone to work for the night which means I am at a loose end, and lacking in adult supervision.

After sitting through the first half hour of Hellboy II, I decided that I was a wee bit restless, and needed some erstwhile stimulation.

Lurking by the TV is a copy of Dance Dance Revolution - a still boxed present for Mrsslippys birthday that we have yet to plug into the Wii.

Knowing her impatience with instruction manuals, I decided the gentlemanly thing to do would be to open it up 'just to check it works', and see how to navigate through the menus and suchlike.

Purely in the cause of scientific research of checking how sensitive the dance mat is, I thought it sensible to 'have a little dance'.

I'm pretty 'down with the kids', so dressed in true urban streetwise style of my shirt from work and just my pants, I took to the dance floor!

As N E fule no I am renowned world over for my shapes, and have won many a dance off, so it should be easy to recognise what I am dancing to.

So go on - can you tell? First correct answer get a private dance, just for them. I may even tape it so you can watch it again and again and again....

You are what you eat

2009-07-20T18:30:00.009+01:00

I've been most flattered recently by a number of people telling me that I have lost 'shedloads' of weight.

I am aware that I've gone down a couple of belt sizes, but the implication that I have lost shedloads kind of insinuates that my girth was once adequate to fill aforementioned shed, so maybe I should be offended. I believed that my gut was not shed sized, and would in fact struggle to fill our mini plastic Argos greenhouse.

I have moaned previously about feeling fat, and undeservedly so since I was walking more, and eating and drinking less, (but still having to disable the touch pad from my laptop as my overhang could move the cursor just by me breathing).

And even now my stomach is definitely more washbowl than washboard - so what kind of a monster was I?

I however hadn't really appreciated the size that I had become. If I knew my photo was being taken, I would probably breath in a bit. And when looking in the mirror, I wouldn't stand side on and let it all hang out, I'd just check the front, which can be deceptive....

It was only this weekend looking at Mum and Dads photos from Brazil that I truly took on board what I had done to myself.

The photo below is un-doctored, and taken without my knowledge.

If you look carefully you can probably just make out the contents of a small, but perfectly serviceable shed strapped around my midriff.

Due to the usefulness of the Wii balance board in weighing travellers carrying, and not carrying suitcases, I know that just before we flew out, I weighed 16 and a half stone.

Since I have been walking to work, and consuming slightly less pies and ale, the Wii now reckons I weigh less than 15 stone. Still overweight, but at least no longer bordering on obese.

Without going to the gym (ever - I've never even stepped foot in one), or consciously dieting I've lost over a stone and a half. I still get two sausages with a large portion of chips from the van that parks outside Slippytowers every Saturday. I still eat bacon sandwiches for breakfast every Sunday. I can demolish a packet of gingernuts before the first crumbs have had time to hit the floor, and have become quite keen on melting marshmallows and/or chocolate to glue together cornflakes or rice crispies, and then eating them before they've even set properly.

Yet I'm losing weight....

To try to get it into perspective, I've tried to visualise what the 24lbs/11kg I've lost actually looks like, so in true (not a real) Dr. Gillian McKeith style, I have lost the equivalent of...

A 24 tinned crate of ale. I'd rather it was Broadside, but they only do that in 4 packs, so it would be 6 of those.

Or, 32 packets of mucky Richmond sausages.

The thought of not having 384 low quality sausages secreted about my person makes me feel very positive, and I think I still might like to lose a few more. I don't even have to do any thing different - just carry on, and let nature take it's course.

Talking of which, would anyone also like to see a picture of my poo?

Thought not.....

A little bit gay

2009-07-14T19:26:00.002+01:00

Along with writing a Blog of mine very own, I also subscribe to several others. It's easy peasy Japanesey. I use 'Reader' from those oh so clever people at Google, and whenever someone posts something new, they all get sent to my Reader page via an RSS feed, and I can sit and peruse the less important things in the world while drinking my morning coffee.

One such Blog belongs to Andrew Collins, journo, and collaborator with Richard Herring on the highly amusing and often wholly innapropriate Collings and Herrin Podcast

Today, Andrew was encouraging Twitter users to check out a website that would check their heterosexuality, based on words used in their tweets. Andrew was a very effete 34%, due to words such as 'Karaoke', 'Fame', 'Cottaging', and rather bizarrely, 'Northampton'.

Got to be worth a go, and as you've no doubt guessed, I am a very metrosexual 63% .

Words that I use too often to stop me being 100% real man were; 'bum', 'shop', 'good work', 'drag', and 'master'.

You don't have to be a Twitter user, just know the name of a Twitter user in order to check, so next up comes Mrsslippy - but apparently she doesn't use 'cliche' words so it couldn't score her.

What, like that old cliche, "Northampton"?

Gingerfeck, it turns out, also doesn't use cliche words so couldn't be scored.

My next favourite current Twitterer is none other than Mr Cricket himself, David 'Bumble' Lloyd. I've only recently discovered that Bumble likes nothing more than to listen to a bit of The Fall, or Inspiral Carpets on his way to work. What a top man - but is he a ladies man or a ladyboy?

Bumble rather impressively scores an 81%, let down by using words like 'brilliant', 'pink', and 'biscuit', and talking about Shirley Bassey.

So I'm more of a man than Andrew Collins, and less so than Bumble. I'd best check some of the interwebs top tweeters and see if these scores are representative of the population as a whole, and what words mark you down....

Jimmy Carr? 75% 'Bender', 'pride'

Mike Skinner? 54% 'Coming out', 'sauna'

Andi Peters? 33% 'Gym', 'Bruno'

Philip Schofield? 53% 'Milk', 'Madonna'

Jonathon Ross? 63% 'Another way'

Chris Moyles? 60% 'Body', 'bits'

Stephen Fry? 56% 'Opera', 'bitch'

Richard Bacon 39% 'Available'

So there you have it. Bumble is officially the manliest man on Twitter.

Jimmy Carr is more macho then me, but he's the only other one. Me and Jonathan Ross are snuggled up together with matching manbags on 63%.

Stephen Fry is more hetero than Phillip 'Mr Ice Dancing' Schofield and Mike 'The Streets' Skinner. Dry your eyes mate.

And finally, coming up everyone's rear, it's Andi 'Broom Cupboard' Peters......who'd have guessed that one.

Hours of fun - but only if you're on Twitter. Go on. Sign up. How else are you going to find out that Andi Peters might be ever so slightly a whoopsie?

Mrsslippys birthday boozing

2009-07-12T19:38:00.003+01:00

Funniest thing I heard on Friday.

A complete stranger says - "You know what I really hate about Gays? They're always having fucking parades and shit. How come we never get parades? We should have a parade just for us - for white people...."

Tremendous.

A man so hateful and stupid that in his drunken ranting towards anyone who was listening, or earshot of his shouting, that he completely forgot whether he was trying to be homophobic, or just plain racist.

So that can only mean one thing, I'm out on the tiles suffering the intelligentsia and bar room philosophers that frequent the bars of this fair city....

Not normally my bag, town on a Friday. I don't really even like our local on a Friday night. Too busy. Too many amateurs and arseholes, ruining my gentle slide into inebriation with their mockney chavery, gangsta low slung jeans, and wanky R&B ringtones. Screeching chavettes in matching jewellery/makeup/sports gear combinations.

But every once in a while, or to be more precise, once in a year, Mrsslippy has a birthday, and gets carte blanche to do anything, with I just blanch at the prospect of bars that don't serve ale, and 'nightclubs'.....

The evening started well. Meet up with the others at The Fort St. George and sit outside in the sunshine/sunlight. Yep. Definitely sunlight. If it was shining it would have been warmer. But still very pleasant.

I like the Fort, but do have two issues with it.

Firstly, size. It has an enormous outside seating area, that can easily cater for a few hundred people on its many, many benches. This is however counter balanced with only 2 bars. One 4 foot wide, the other about 8 foot. This woefully inadequate space is then staffed by 4 people, who may often be highly skilled, but certainly weren't on Friday. The queues at each bar where generally about a dozen people deep, and getting served took in excess of 25 minutes each time. Not assisted by the fact that the staff seemed incapable of pouring more than one drink at a time. Tell you what. If you're standing watching that lager tap, why not stick a glass under the other one at the same time. Or find out what the next people in the queue are drinking? You might be able to fil that coke glass while that Stella's still dribbling out, completely unassisted. Also the toilets so small that if the urinals are all in use (which they will be with all those people sat outside), in order to not stand so close to the man in front that you are practically spooning him while he has his cock out, you instead stand so close to the automatic hand dryer that it blows a Saharan wind down your arse crack.

Secondly, it's the clientele. It certainly lacks the chavs of the local, but unfortunately has taken a step too far in the other direction. Whilst queueing for drinks, I had to listen to the prattle of some bint questioning the licensing laws that prevented Felicity and Christian from bringing young Peter into the bar area, as it was getting a bit chilly for him with his asthma. Tell you what Felicity and Christian, fuck off home with young Peter, and only bring him back when he's either a) old enough to come into the grown ups only area, or b) has grown a pair, and is not so fucking fragile that Mummy and Daddy need to wrap him in cotton wool.
There were posh twats, trendies, and weird Americans.

Second funniest thing I heard that night, an American, saying to his friend with absolutely no irony or sarcasm "hey, there's no point at us both queuing at separate bars, why don't we consolidate beverages?".

CONSOLIDATE BEVERAGES???

You fucking morons. "Get my round for me" not "consolidate fucking beverages".

Only safe thing to do, when at the bar, get a tray, and rack up some spares. Once consumed, move closer 'into town'.

The place of choice, the B Bar (or is that BeBar, or even Bee Bar?), and that was the place I heard the twat at the top of this tale. They had one ale, which was off. Would they allow that to happen to a lager? I doubt it. I think they are just trying to stop people like me going there, which is fine for people like me, except once a year, I do have to go there. Never mind. I can tolerate wife beater, and a few pints of that thrown into the mix would surely only brighten up mine, and therefore everyone else's evening. In fact it was doing such a good job of altering my conscious and perceptions of normal Slippymark behaviour, before I really knew what was going on, I was paying my way into The Fez Club.....

Shit. How did that happen? I was in a night club.

Definitely no ale here, so I believe I was drinking something with a slice of lime wedged in the top, but I really couldn't say what. My resounding memories are of Gingerfeck doing his usual special (needs) dancing, people that looked like they'd escaped from a Hollyoakes/Skins fancy dress party, and a terrible, terrible smell.

I can say with confidence that I have not been clubbing since I gave up smoking, and probably not since it was made illegal in public spaces, so I had always been pretty oblivious in my ruined olfactory system, or the fug of others fags. What I never realised was, take that away, and what you are left with is not the heady mix of a thousand fragrances, fresh from Boots.

No, what you get is the acrid stench of thousand rancid boots, shoes and trainers, and a thousand strangers stale armpits.

Got to go, got to get out, got to get a Kebab....

Thankfully, and thank Katieluv, she was ready to leave, and wanted to get food, and could give myself and the birthday girl a lift home.

Result.

Gardenias was only a short stroll away, and not too busy, once you negotiated the drunkard who had fallen on the floor in front of the counter.

Then came a spot of luck - for Katieluv anyway, or so I thought.

There, on the ground near Gardenias was a shiny, brand spanking new looking mobile phone. Katieluv was unsure what to do with it, but to me it was pretty obvious.

"Sell it" said I."It's very new looking - you could probably get at least £50 quid on t'internet"

"No" says Katieluv "it's someone's phone!"

On closer inspection, it appeared to be the same model, but a couple of upgrades up from Mrsslippys.

"Give it to Mrsslippy" I encouraged. "It exactly the same as the one she's got, except only newer, shinier, and better.

"No" says Mrsslippy, "I don't want it".

"Then you have to sell it" says I. They're probably a cock anyway if they're drunk enough to lose a lovely new phone on a Friday night. They don't deserve a phone".

At this point Katieluv started checking the contacts and messages, to see who it might belong to.

"Look at his mates names" I shouted, getting quite indignant now. "He is clearly a cock, and should have his phone either sold, or just thrown away. It's Karma. He was meant to lose it, you were meant to find it".

"No", says Katieluv. "He's got his mums name in there, he can't be that bad".

Not true. I have my mums name in my phone, and after a dozen or so pints of ale, wifebeater, and stuff with limes in it, I am most definitely a cock.

So Katieluv took us home, and kept the phone safe for the night, to ponder on it's fate the following day. I don't know what she's done with it yet, but I do know that it woke her up at stupid o'clock with a shitty ring tone, because she woke me up at stupid o'clock to tell me, and ask what the Karma was telling her then.

So if you are a cock and you lost your phone on Friday, Katieluv has it.

If you are not a cock and lost your phone, I would re-evaluate your self assessment. Your friends sound like arses, your inbox is full of drivel, and you have a shit taste in music.

If you are a cock, and Katieluv has returned your phone, she's too good for you, and Karma owes her big style.

All I know is it's not mine. I am just a cock who didn't lose his phone.

Hotrod Cow

2009-07-08T21:01:00.002+01:00

Rejected as a spin off series from the multi award winning best TV show on earth ever, Doctor Who, Hotrod Cow was planned to be the tale of a many uddered bovine superheroine, tearing around the highlands of Scotland in a souped up Austin Allegro.

Never getting past the pilot episode, we have instead the also cleverly anagramed spin off from the multi award winning best TV show on earth ever, Doctor Who - Torchwood.

And instead of a hairy polytit in a car, we have a massive tit in a trench coat.

Torchwood is supposed to be an 'adult version', of Doctor Who. If adding the odd 'piss', 'paedo', and 'fart' into the script makes something adult, then maybe it's not safe for pre watershed. But is that enough to make it an adult show, or is it just Doctor Who Light, made edgy with a big swear?

You could take the other spin off from the multi award winning best TV show etc....., The Sarah Jane Chronicles (a CBBC show - deffo for the kids), and turn it into an adult show by having her diddle herself stupid while K9 shoves his extendable eyepiece up her extended ringpiece, but it would still be just Doctor Who without the Doctor.

So is Torchwood sexy enough to make you want to touch wood? Is it scary enough to make you touch cloth? Or do you just want to torch the wooden actors?

It has returned to our screens this week in some kind of nightly extravaganza. Event television to force us into watching BBC1 every night, and play havoc with all the stuff that's already been series linked on Sky+

It started predictably enough. Grotesque lifeforms, fat and misshapen. Dribbling and spewing out words in an incomprehensible, alien guttural language.

Still, if you film in Cardiff, it is cheaper to use the locals as extras....

And yet even more terrifying than that, is the novel plot device used to creep us all out.

Never used before, except maybe in The Village of the Damned, The Omen, Children of the Corn, The Exorcist, Ringu, The Grudge.....erm.....Torchwood, and countless others....

Scary children.

Cheap, readily available, and fucking frightening without even the need for prosthetics, kids freak the hell out of me, especially when they all start doing the same pointy thing on mass, much like Donald Sutherland and his mates at the end of Invasion of the Bodysnatchers.

But the scary kids are just a precursor of bigger scarier things to come. The 456 are coming (not to be confused with Species 8472 from Star Trek Voyager), and the Government has made a special toxic gas filled tank for them to beam into, because as any self respecting Brit knows, if aliens wanted to come to earth, they would definitely come to London rather than Washington. There's more to see and do, and what with the Olympics round the corner, it's definitely the place to be.

However, interstellar travel does not seem to suit these creatures well. We've not yet been able to have a good look at them through the fug in their isolation tank, and it's not helped by the fact that they spew pea soup vomit down the glass every few minutes whilst squealing like a pig having it's neck slit open/Katie and Peters rendition of 'A whole new world'.

We'd better get a decent look at it in the next show. We're already 3 hours in, and I'm starting to suspect that the big reveal is going to be a bit of a let down. What's often scariest is what you don't see, so maybe they'll go down the 'keep it hidden' route.

And the biggest and scariest reveal we've had so far? The one thing that really should have stayed hiden? It's got to be the grainy image of John Barrowmans cock on a video monitor, then his bare arse covered in concrete dust, as he wandered naked and bewildered round a quarry in Wales.

This definitely nudges it way past adult entertainment, and well into not appropriate viewing for anyone.

So don't bother watching Torchwood. It is just Doctor Who Cares? Adult in attitude, but not in plotting or pace. A bit of swearing, gay characters, and a bit of gore doesn't make it into a grown up show, it just makes it Doctor Whos little brother trying to show off to impress his mates.

If you want to see real heroes battling hideous aliens in Cardiff, there's still another 4 days of "The First Ashes Test" there before the war moves on to London, and Lords.

Or "Fist Testes Sheather" as my hastily penned spin off series will be called. Or maybe "Te Shit Arse Thefts"I really haven't decided...All I do know is, it'll be better than Torchwood.

What's in a name?

2009-07-06T22:47:00.002+01:00

Chillaxing in front of the TV tonight while Mrsslippy works to keep me in Bombay Sapphire gin and organic limes, I was alerted by the power of Facebook, and the good taste of Mrs Bellus, to a potentially shit a.k.a GREAT horror film on Sky 3.

Black Swarm, starring Robert 'Freddie Kruger' Englund is proper made for TV bile, and therefore great. So far the killer wasps have only been normal sized, but I'm holding out for a huge CGI motherfucker, on really a ropey greenscreen background.

And whilst watching, I'm reminded of another great creature feature from my youth that has left it's imprint on my life.

My blogging name is Slippymark, but nobody really calls me that. I am known to many friends in Cambridge as Slippy, but when creating usernames and logins for other websites (such as my photo pages), my real name was always taken, and Slippy was always too short, so I started using Slippymark for stuff, and found it was always available, so it has become my avatar. Go Google it, apart from the odd Underworld remix by Mark Mendes, it's me all the way down.

Don't search for Mrs Slippy - or at least not from a work computer. That Mr & Mrs Slippy are definitely not us...

But my friends from my formative years in Norwich do not know me as Slippy, and regular readers, or Facebook friends may have noticed, to them I am Rauc, or Homer.

First guess might be that it's something to do with the overweight, imbecilic man-child of the same name, but you'd be wrong. It pre-dates The Simpsons.

Nor is it short for homosexual. I may be a sensitive soul, but I'm too lazy, too poorly groomed, and too attracted to women to bat for that team. Sorry boys.

No, Homer stems from a film from my youth.....

Back in the late 80's, the formidable Cringleford lads were wrenched apart as key player Nick was relocated to Writtle, near Chelmsford.

To support him in his exile, Stoxie and I would go down on occasional weekends, and spend our days farting on his brothers head, playing tunnelball, and watching films on VHS.

In the days before 2 million channels of fuck all, and the endless possibilities of the internet, the only way to amuse 3 teenage boys of an evening would be for Nicks mum to drive us to the nearest video store, and us to get out absolutely anything that we hadn't seen before involving sport (American Flyer's anyone?), ninjas, or horror - usually one of each.

Let's not forget that this was before Blockbuster and other such mega chains. Video stores were the size of a walk in wardrobe, and stocked a copy of everything. And when I say everything, I don't mean they had a copy of every film, I mean no matter how new or popular a film was, they only ever had one of it - and the good ones were always out.

So by this process (which also held true at home), it was highly likely that if there was a bad sport/ninja/horror film made in the 80's, I've seen it (and since bought my own copy).

One fateful night, we returned to Nick's Elba with a copy of The Nest. A genre staple of island town plagued by mutated insects - in this case roaches. If you ever wondered what a cat/cockroach hybrid would look like, then this is the film for you.

Suffice to say, at the end of the film, man triumphs over beast, largely due to the larger than life local exterminator, and happy and entertained we retired to Nicks bedroom. All was going well - we were going through the usual 'Name your World XI football team' type stuff, then Stoxie got up for a piss, only to return a few seconds later, white as Plums hair, and crying like a girl.

"In...the ...bathroom...." he stammered.

"Massive.......flying ....creature."

"Not...safe........Can't ....go...in."

We bundled down the corridor/tunnelball pitch together, and with Stoxie binging up the rear, and peered round the bathroom door.

He was right.

There it was. Fluttering round the lightbulb was the biggest moth I had ever, and probably still have ever seen.

We needed an exterminator par exellence. We needed the guy from the film we had just seen.

We needed Homer.

But he wasn't there. Left with the alternative option of Stoxie pissing in Nicks room, I stood up to the plate.

With the boys chanting 'Homer, Homer, Homer', I launched myself at the flying abomination, and with both hands, somehow managed to wrestle the vile beast out of the window.

Job done, my talent for insect extermination was carved into stone, and the name stuck. I'm not sure if my other friends in Norwich know the real reason I'm called Homer. It's not for a cartoon caricature, or a sexual slur.

It's because that fateful night in Chelmsford, I damn well saved Nick and Stoxies lives.

One day I might tell you all why I'm called Slippy in Cambridge. My close friends here all know.

All I'll say for now, is it's got very little to do with Underworld, and alot more to do with undercarriage....

Slippymark/Rauc/Homer/Mark

The Duckworth-Lewis Method

2009-07-05T15:59:00.003+01:00

Not, as some readers might assume, the method your significant other uses to prevent you watching The Premiership on Sky, because they have to watch Coronation Street, and then the continuing adventures of Inspector Morses brickie turned detective sidekick.

Nor the method of calculating the target score of the second cricket team to bat following a break in play due to rain.

But very much cricket related, for Duckworth and Lewis are the alter egos of one Thomas Walsh (whom I've never heard of), and Neil Hammon - he of The Divine Comedy, Father Ted theme tune, and seminal work for the aforementioned show, My Lovely Horse.

With the Ashes just 4 days away, it's perfect timing for an album based around the joys of Cricket. There are dozens, if not hundreds of football related songs, with a couple coming out each year for the domestic finals, and then countless others at every Euro and World Cup, but when it comes to cricket, there are woefully few.

There's 10ccs Dreadlock Holiday, and Rory Bremner had a stab with n-n-nineteen

By far my favourite was one that my friend Nick brought back from Australia entitled 'Come on Aussie Come on'. I managed to find a copy of it on YouTube, but it was it's B-side 'Lah lah la la laaaah West Indies' that was the real crowd pleaser. Nick, if you've still got it on vinyl, and have the ways and means to digitise it, I'd love a copy.

But back to present day, and a whole album of cricket.

Piss take, parody, or pop gold? Lets find out.....

1) The Coin Toss - Set's the mood nicely. Let's play.

2) The Age of Revolution - It's got a 20's baseline, modern electronica, and conjures up the modern history of the game nicely. Duckworth and Lewis' first delivery finds line and length, but doesn't really challenge the batsman.

3) Gentlemen and Players - A bit like if 'Love' had put down their spliffs and knocked the ball about a bit. Wistful and summery. Just how village cricket should be, but not the Ashes. No balls to it, a no ball it is.

4) The Sweet Spot - Glam-rock-tastic. Hits the sweetspot, and it's over the pavilion and out onto The Edgware Road.

5) Jiggery Pokery - The tale of the First Test 1993 as told by Mike Gatting. An easy first innings target at Old Trafford. Merv Hughes, Ather's, Dickie Bird, and the debut of a certain young leg spinner taking him for a duck. I remember Gatts, and I hate Shane Warne too. We all do.

6) Mason on the Boundary - Delightful. Dreams of long summer days, and having a little sit down in the outfield. Just how fielding should be.

7) Rain Stops Play - Instrumental break in the proceedings, pull on the covers and go and make a cup of tea, it's only a shower....

8) Meeting Mr Miandad - Hannon/Lewis at his witty best. Off to Pakistan in a VW Camper Van. An historical, phantasmagorical destiny. I'm going to be humming this for days. It's another six.

9) The Nightwatchman - The melancholy song of the fall guy brought up the batting order at the end of the day so one of the big hitters doesn't lose his wicket to failing light. I remember Jack Russell coming on as a nightwatchman against Sri Lanka in the 80's and still being there the following lunch time, nearly making a century. Not bad for a banana eating, floppy hatted, wicket keeping Derek Smalls lookalike.

10) Flatten the Hay - Still full of whimsy. Duckworth and Lewis clearly like their cricket in the cucumber sandwiches and tea in the pavilion variety.

11) Test Match Special - Who doesn't love a bit of TMS.

12) The End of the Over - The official end of the album on the sleeve, but as I bought it from itunes, it's patently obvious that there's a hidden bonus track....

13) Pedalo - The funky misadventures of a man on a pedalo in the Caribbean. What on earth could this have to do with cricket?

All in all it's quite a nice little listen. As expected from Neil Hannon, it's clever lyrics and generally full of optimism for an idyllic English (or Irish) summer, watching gentleman players as the sun goes down on the village pitch. Neither piss take nor parody. He proper likes cricket, alhough his glasses are rather more rose tinted than the sporty wraparounds favoured by players these days.

I will be mostly watching the games finish via a pop up window on my pc at work Ball by ball scores, praying for a miracle. And that's provided each Test isn't all wrapped up in 4 days...

You never know, Australia might lose.

Because that's what it will take, not England winning - we're clearly not good enough for that, Australia need to lose. But given their (Andrew Symondsless) showing in the Twenty20, anything is possible.

At least we won't be beaten by Duckworth-Lewis in the event of rain (unlike Twenty20), because in Test Cricket you can still play for 5 days and come away with a draw.

What a great sport.

Disadvantage Slippymark

2009-06-30T19:32:00.003+01:00

I hate tennis.

It's boring and it's shit.

There - I just came straight out with it. I just served you a literary ace. No returning that one.

15- 'love' to Slippymark.

Maybe I'm being a little harsh. It's a popular enough sport, so I'll settle for I find it boring and shit.

Every year I dread Wimbledon coming round, with it's monopolising of the TV schedules, and the countries obsession with strawberries and cream, and the next British (not English anymore) superstars gallant, yet inevitable failure to lift whatever trophy they give out there.

I just don't get it. I'm sure there must be some pleasure in playing it - I know I never found it - but to actually watch it? I just find it tedious.

I like my sport to have a preordained end time. True, some football matched end up going to extra time, but you know it's going to be 30 minutes, plus possibly a few more for penalties, but never hours and hours and hours of 2 men hitting a ball back and forth.

It's played all year, at tournaments all over the World and the majority of the country doesn't bat an eyelid, yet once we're hosting it, it's stop everything (except 'breaking news' of a man who's already been dead for 4 days - how it can break any further I'll never know), because Tiger Tim or Morose Murray is on.

Be honest Wimbledon fans. When, other than now do you take the slightest bit of interest in tennis? Who did Murray lose to in the quarter final in this years Dubai Championship?

If you guessed nobody, because he withdrew through illness, please carry on enjoying your sport, but please don't try to explain it's finer points to me because I really can't be arsed.

If you guessed it was a trick question, and he wasn't knocked out in the quarters, or named another player -BOOOOOOOO! Shame on you! You know fuck all!

Now stop cluttering up my ears with tales of how 'exciting' last nights match was. The only time my pulse raced was when I thought Mrsslippy screaming from the living room was some kind of emergency, only to discover it was her reaction that 'Super Sizers go Medieval' had been cancelled as Murray was dragging his heels finishing off some fella I've never even heard of.

So not an emergency, but certainly a fucking tragedy.

There was probably a time when I would have heard of his opponent, back in the day when there were characters like Conners and Nastase. I couldn't care for the games, but the post match interviews were a bit more amusing.

Now we just have homogeneous serving machines who make Gordon Brown look like the life and soul of the party. Commentators bemoan the lack of British talent, and implore the Government to invest more in getting youngsters playing, but if Murray is the product of intensive training, then there's no way I'd let a kid of mine even look at a tennis racket, let alone pick one up.

If kids are interested in a sport, they'll play it themselves. They just need a role model. Look at the influence Beckham has had on getting girls and boys worldwide to play football. Every boy in India wants to play cricket like Murali Vijay. Who wants to be Henman or Murray? A posh boy from Oxford, or a miserable Scot?

You can force them to train and play, and you might get a result. China had unprecedented results at the Bejing Olympics, largely due to it's 'interesting' coaching techniques. Is this what we want of our children? An army of miserable automatons? Not me.

We may not win Wimbledon this year, next year, or for 100 years, but what does it matter? We don't have to be the best at everything. And even if we win, how much credit can you take for it?

None. It matters not a jot where the player comes from. It's a solo effort. They take the glory, not just whatever piece of the globe their mother happened to pushed them out onto.

So last night we had nearly 4 hours of Murray blocking up BBC1. It wasn't exciting and atmospheric. It was disruptive, and had all the atmosphere of a fart in a spacesuit.

Now center court has a roof, they can play for ever, long into the evenings TV. I thought the roof would be a good thing, as it would stop Wimbledon dragging on for weeks, and Sir Cliffaroke whenever the brollies come up. Now I'm not so sure....

I guess I should be grateful that the BBC, and 'tennis fans' up and down the country forget all about it as quickly as the strawberries turn and the Pimms goes flat. Two weeks and it's all over for another year.

Game, set and match.

Where as golf.....

Death of a nonce

2009-06-26T19:41:00.004+01:00

Everywhere I look on the TV or internet I'm deluged with hype about the death of Mr Michael 'Wacko Jacko' Jackson; Prince of Pop, misunderstood genius, and all round nonce.

So if you can't beat 'em, join 'em.

With his special talents, he touched us all. He touched men and women, black and white. He touched the elderly, and he definitely touched children.

I won't say I'm pleased he's dead. I'm not that heartless. There are a few people upon I do wish a slow and painful death; Robert Mugabe, Nick Griffin, Kim Jong-il, John Barrowman could all shuffle off this mortal coil right now as far as I'm concerned and the world would be a better place without them.

But I shan't mourn his loss either. For every person in the country who's glad he's gone, there's another wailing down a tv camera lens at some mass gathering, spangly glove and spangled brain. Inconsolable, and happy to share that fact with any news network that likes a loony.

"He was beautiful- just beautiful" they'll squeal, mascara running down their puffy tear stained faces. And that's just the men.

Er........no - he wasn't beautiful. Not emotionally nor physically. He was just a fruit loop who (ably assisted by Quincy Jones) knew how to knock out a tune.

"You just didn't know the real Michael" they howl.

No, I'll concede them that. But then neither did they. We based all our perceptions on the man on what the media has told us, rightly or wrongly. Those who did get close to the man either won't, or in the case of Jordy Chandler, can't talk about their 'special private moments'. The latter following a reputed $20m out of court settlement to 11 year old Jordys family.

"Think of those three poor children he's left alone" they cry.

Just three that he left alone? That's showing great restraint Mikey.....
But I am thinking of his children. True, they might miss their father - if they really even know who he is. Who knows what kind of relationship they had with him. I'm not suggesting any impropriety, just that it wasn't a 'normal family'.

A lot of his supporters have explained away his random behaviour with the fucked up relationship he had with his own father, and a childhood in the media spotlight. What on earth are we to expect Prince Michael, Paris Michael, and Prince Michael II (aka Blanket) to turn out like?

So while the camp that swears he's the victim of media hysteria and never done anything wrong in his life, and those that despise him rub their hands together with glee, the rest of us email and text the countless amusing jokes that cropped up within minutes of the news breaking.

Neither happy nor sad, just a bit indifferent. And bothered by which of their favourite TV shows are going to get bumped in order to show documentaries, homages, and biopics of the once great weirdo.

Some fucker will probably even show 'The Wiz'....

And it won't be long before the conspiracy theorists all come out the woodwork too.

I'm already curious as to what will happen to the revenue from the ticket sales from a sold out 50 date residency at the O2. If you bought one, good luck getting your money back, although I suspect a lot of people will hang on to theirs as a ghoulish piece of memorabilia, or flog it for even more on ebay.

The promoters probably have it covered by insurance anyway, so they get quids in whether people return their tickets or not. There's a big pile of cash sitting around somewhere, and a lot of people wanting their slice of it.

And amongst all the furore, the rest of the todays news has been pushed to one side, so sadly, in Michaels chemically bleached shadow, Farrah Fawcett has also died.

Charlie, somewhere in Heaven there's a real angel with big 70's hair.

R.I.P. Farrah Fawcett. February 2, 1947 – June 25, 2009

I see lead people....

2009-06-22T19:56:00.003+01:00

I saw a glimpse of my past today. I ghost of my adolescence.
A phantom. Dead flesh and empty eye sockets glimpsed out the corner of my eye.

And about 4cm tall....

Mrsslippy has just booked us a lovely cottage in Cornwall for a week in September. I've not been that way since I was 3 years old (apparently), and it'll make a nice change from the usual yearly jaunt to The Lake District.

Excited about the prospect of visiting somewhere new, I skipped out of work early to nip into town and buy some OS maps and guide books. Given my new found enthusiasm for walking everywhere, I took a leisurely stroll into town, taking time to soak up the surroundings that usually fly straight past me in the car.

I was ambling down Regent Street when I saw it. I knew the shop was there, but was always in a vehicle. I tried to walk past without a second look, but was hypnotically drawn to the window display.....

Citadel Miniatures.

Or as the Cringleford Lads would say, 'Toy Soldiers'.

Exquisitely painted little figurines from the Games Workshop range of fantasy role playing games.

From the Tolkienesque/Dungeons and Dragons style orcs and goblins, to the full on sci-fi Space Marines of Warhammer 40,000, I used to love that shit.

I wasn't a gamer, I'm not that geeky, but I loved to paint those little things. It sort of started out of necessity....ie I needed a job.

Unable to pay for the fortnightly trip to Carrow Road, and general day to day expenses of a boy growing up on my pitiful paperboy's wages, I had to get a Saturday job.

There was a games shop in town that specialised in board games (not toys!), and as we've always been a bit of a cards and board games kind of family, it seemed like a cool place to apply.

They took me on, and I discovered that there were many more games than just Chess, Triv and Scrabble. There were dozens of D&D style roleplaying games, and the ones from Games Workshop had little lead miniatures to play them with. We also sold the paints, and the brushes - the whole kit and caboodle.

There was (and still is) a magazine called White Dwarf that was packed full of pictures of readers paint jobs, and I just had to try....

As it turned out, I was pretty good, and found that there was a ready market for pre painted figures for the younger kids that came in. The owner of the shop used to have us split the multipacks of figures, so they could be sold individually to kids who couldn't afford £2.99 for three. But he'd have us sell them for £1.20 each to allow for the fact that there would be some single figures that nobody would want.

Lying cock.

It was just a way of fleecing the kids, just like a bent newsagent selling a single ciggy and a match for 20p (but probably more these days).

As a way of redressing the balance, I had no qualms about lifting the stray figure, painting it in the shop while it was quiet, and selling it for my own gains. He still made more than enough from the split packets, and given that he took 20% commission on figures painted by others and sold in his shop, I could leave a few there at the end of the working day, and come back to the shop the following week to find them sold. He got the same as he would have got if we'd sold it unpainted, and I got a nice little supplement to my meagre wages.

Perversely, I now had enough money to go to the football every week, but not the free time...

Thank god I discovered that it was pretty easy to get served alcohol at the age of 15, or I'd have nothing to look forward to an a Saturday (or Tuesday) anymore. The friends that mocked me for painting also mocked my involvement in Venture Scouts, but Scouts with cars (who took it in turns - so no designated driver night for me.), genuine ID's, and a knowledge of all the decent taverns in Norwich was a happy part of my growing up.

So I wandered into Games Workshop this afternoon, and looked at the wares on display. All nostalgic for a youth spent fiddling the boss, or sitting in my bedroom with paint and brushes everywhere.

I had a habit of sucking the tip of the paint brush to get a fine tip on it, and after an hours painting would end up with a some kind of weird emo stripey acrylic lip gloss.

Or sitting on my bed all hunched over with my legs stretched out in such a fashion that I'd cut off the blood supply, and would only notice when I went to stand up and both legs would give way, leaving me laying prostate, frantically trying to rub away the pins and needles that had taken hold of both legs, right to the top of my thighs.

Happy days......

But it appears the figures are now made of some type of plastic, and lack the comforting weight of the old metal ones.

What's more they're around £8 for a single figure! Or you can buy a box of 10 build 'em yourself Space Marines for £20. I remember when you could get 30 plastic ones for a tenner, but they were just for pikey cheapskates. They had to be metal!

And the paint that used to -'ahem'- cost me a quid is now in a pot half the size and twice the price. I'm definitely best out of it, and happy to report I left the shop empty handed.

Because if at the age of 15, painting toy soldiers got me involved in petty theft and underage drinking, if I did it today I doubt I'd get away with anything less than gun crime and a nasty crack habit.

Super Sunday Step Quiz!

2009-06-21T13:31:00.001+01:00

Step on...

2009-06-20T16:58:00.004+01:00

You're twistin' my melons man...

And bruising my plums....

Another Saturday morning means another trip to Tesco with its incumbent undead, but this morning I have all the more reason to stay out of their way, and as Jay from 5ive would say, 'just keep on moving'.

For now all my movements are tracked by a little device clipped to my trousers, and it is very much a case of, you snooze, you lose.

Last week I purchased a little widgety game thing for the Nintendo DS called 'Walk with me'.

I say game, but it's not really. It's a little pedometer that counts how many steps you make during the day.

The little key fob sized dongle has a nifty little accelerometer inside it, so every step from the moment you get dressed in the morning until you put everything on the floordrobe for the night is duly logged.

The clever bit is, it will only log them if you make 10 in a row, ie you're properly walking.

So if you're sat down watching tv and roll over to let out a fart or scratch you're arse - nil points.

At the end of the day, you bank all these steps by pointing the dongle at the DS, which then tells you exactly what you've been up to.

It's displayed minute by minute, in little blue bars. If you manage to walk more than 10 minutes of continuous walking, it's classed as 'Active Walking', and the little bars are red. Little red bars are better than little blue ones, as they gain you more points for some of the mini-games that can also be played on the DS.

You can set a target that you have to reach every day, and your dongle flashes red until you reach that target, at which point it turns green.

Suffice to say, that is not a screenshot of me - you can import your avatar from your Wii, or make one up on the DS.

It may puzzle some of you as to why on earth I should even care how much I walk, but as of late I have taken to walking into work everyday, where upon I sit on my arse for the rest of the day.

Since starting regular walking, I appear to inadvertently gone down a couple of holes on my belt, which can only be a good thing, so I thought it might be useful to know how much I'm doing, and how I can sustain it if I'm not at work.

Mrsslippy on the other hand drives to work and back, and is then mostly on her feet. So who does more? Early research based on distance of known trips (I plotted my route around Manchester looking for drugs on Google Earth) suggests that even if I walk the (over an hour) round trip, Mrsslippy still walks further in a day.

And yesterday, even though I spent over an hour in the kitchen cooking and cleaning, it didn't count a single step of it, as it was constant start/stopping in the much less that 10 steps at a time from oven to sink to worktop...

So today I decided I would have to get off to a flying start. My ear is much better, so with a target of 7,000 steps, I headed off to Tesco, on foot, and taking a very circuitous detour to ensure a good 30 mins of active walking before I arrived.

The problem then was, the usual blocked aisles and dawdling duffers that threatened to make my step count so sporadic that I would not be able to get 10 in a row, and 20 minutes of aisle trawling would count for nothing.

So I was forced to hurtle up and down, doubling back on myself whenever one of the grey ghosts approached me in the other direction like some kind of deranged Pac-Man collecting fruit rather than power pills.

Even so, I was pleased to note that as I arrived home, the little flashing LED on the dongle had changed from red to green. Mrsslippy has yet to move any further than from bedroom to living room, so unless she pulls off some major movement later, today will be WIN for me.

Tomorrow might be a bit harder. Mrsslippy is working a long day, and I....well clearly, I won't be. I will be mostly eating a bacon sandwich at around 10am, and then depending on the weather, either watching the cricket on TV, or listening on a radio in the garden.

I'm wondering if I'd be able to get away with attaching the dongle to my wrist. With Mrsslippy out for 12 hours, just imagine how many 'steps' I'd be able to pack into the day.

Because I'll also be catching up on emails from being away from work all week, and I'm sure typing will set the thing off.

What on earth were you thinking I meant?

Expenses

2009-06-18T20:51:00.002+01:00

If M.P.s are going to come clean and have their expenses published on the internet, than I believe it is only fair that I do the same.

In order for me to function properly at work, which is most definitely in my employers best interest, I require a strong cup of coffee on arrival, and another to get me through the mid afternoon.

I would not be as dodgy as to claim for days that I am not there, so we'll say that it's five days a week, 44 weeks of the year. At £2.45 a cup that's..

Coffee - £1,078

I can't just drink coffee. It's not enough fluids. I should top it off with a bottle of diet coke, and at £1.09 a bottle that's....

Coke - £239.80

And food! How am I going to work on an empty stomach? I vary my lunch, but I think £5 a day is reasonable for anyone....

Food - £1,100

I know, I know...if I brought my own food in it would be cheaper, and Mrsslippy and I have thought about this, and have spent a lot of time setting up various raised beds and pots in the garden to grow our own produce. We also spent a lot of money - just an initial outlay on materials and seeds etc...., but think of the money that can be saved in the future! So please can I have...

Garden equipment - £200

I often have to work from home, so when my laptop died in March, I think I know who should foot the bill....

Laptop - £350

And how am I going to connect to my desktop PC at work without....

Internet (and phone package etc..)- £540

Our washing machine also broke down this year, and unless I was to be expected to come in wearing dirty clothes and meet important visitors looking like a tramp, then I think I should also ask for.....

Washing Machine - £260

Although I sometimes have to do work at home, I'm still expected to come into the office, so I expect to claim that travel expenditure back...

Bus - £726

And just in case I'm running late, or it's raining, or I have to attend meetings elsewhere, replacing the Mondeo that died in December with a much cheaper to run and insure Micra, will cost (including purchase price)....

Car - £1,380

I need the car to get me from home and back again. In fact, if I didn't have to go home from work, or work from home once in a while, then technically I wouldn't need a home. Nor to ensure the contents, heat it, and pump it full of electricity. And have Sky. Cough up.....

Home - £13,860

But this is all work at home, or work at work. I surely deserve some down time? Petty cash of around £300 a month should keep me in trips to the pub, getting a takeaway once in a while, or new video games to help keep me stress free an productive when I am in?

Petty cash - £3,600

What if I'm in the pub and work try to get hold of me. My mobile isn't for personal use....

Mobile contract - £600

And I'm no use to them dead. Imagine how much it would cost to try and replace me...?

Life insurance - £1,200

Last but not least, I'm probably most productive and refreshed after a Holiday. Borneo and Brazil were lovely, but this year all we have planned so far are weeks in Cornwall and Norfolk. How responsible is that for next years expenses? But for now, there's the small matter of.....

Rain Forest Holidays - £6,000

All totted up, that comes to..

Expenses 2008-09 .....£30,933.80

I've brought this to the attention of our finance department.

They say they've already given it to be.

Apparently that's my salary, and I'm supposed to live within that.

Maybe that's what we should do with MP's? Instead of paying them a basic £64,776 (with more for Cabinet Ministers - £144,520), with unlimited travel expenses, and £22,193 for 'incidentals', just give them a round £100,000, a frequent traveller rail card and a list of Travelodges near Westminster and let them get on with it?

And if they still can't manage on that, I'm happy enough to pass on any advice on how to live just as frugally as I do on a third of the salary.

Cunts.

Scoring Drugs in Manchester

2009-06-17T19:21:00.003+01:00

I'm ill.

Again.

This time it's not my manky hand, which has cleared up nicely - thanks for asking.

Now I have an ear infection, which feels not too dissimilar to earwigs crawling around inside my head while being prodded with a red hot poker.

Nice.

I wouldn't say I was prone to the,, but have had a nasty one before, around 3 years ago. I ignored it for a couple of days, then went to the GP for some antibiotics. He gave me flucloxacillin, which didn't touch it, so 36 hours later Mrsslippy was driving me to A&E to get a second opinion as to why half my head was red and swollen, and my ear sticking out at a right angle.

It was only her promise to bring me straight back in if my head started to split open that prevented admission and IV antibiotics.

Instead, I was allowed to leave with some oral Ciprofloxacin, and a wick inserted into my ear canal to allow the transit of drops in one direction, and pus in the other.

Removal of pus from a manky ear is a tricky one. You can't lie on the affected side to allow it to drain at it's own rate, so instead sleep with it facing upwards as the goo slowly creeps up and up like an overfilled bath.

In the morning, you sit upright and

EUREKA!

Half a pint of putrefied skin cells and blood running down your shoulder.

So when I was woken up yesterday morning at 4am with a burning sensation that I recognised all too well, I though I ought to act promptly.

Biggest problem - I wasn't at home with access to my GP, but away at a Conference in Manchester.

I watched the clock until the hotel started serving breakfast at 7am, and after a coffee and fruit juice (being all I could manage as moving my jaw was very uncomfortable due to swelling), headed out to find the nearest pharmacy.

As luck would have it, there was one just opening at 7.30 not far from the hotel.

Now in fairness, I probably wasn't looking my best. I'd got my most comfortable (read 'tatty') jeans on, a vintage/distressed T-shirt, my comfy (again read 'fucked') Adidas, had managed very little sleep, and hadn't shaved in 5-6 days.

Yet in I ambled. Looking like shit, in a pharmacy that was miles from any actual residential areas, and clearly not looking like I was on my way to work in the City.

And my opening gambit?

A not very well thought out 'I..er...don't come from round here...but I'm going to be here for a few days...and er... I think I need some antibiotics and strong painkillers.....so I can't see my GP....cos he's not in Manchester...'

I got a pitying, patronising look from the pharmacist, and directions to the nearest free health clinic for 'People with no GP"

Great. She thinks I'm a homeless....

Unperturbed, I thanked her for her assistance, and walked a bit further down the road to the local Boots, and bought some Paracetamol, Ibuprofen, and asked for any topical drops or sprays for treating the symptoms of external otisis.

Bought and paid for, back to the hotel for shower and shave, and on with the conference.

Somehow I managed to get through my presentation, which by all accounts was excellent (if by all accounts you count the evaluation forms that I read, which would have been just mine, on which I wrote 'I thought I was great!)

Job done, a quick Google, and assisted by Latitude I managed to find an NHS walk in centre at Piccadilly Station, and saw a very nice nurse who prescribed me some anti-biotics and topical steroids.

Unfortunately, they weren't overly receptive to my suggestion that Fluclox did fuck all last time, and I'd probably be better off with Cipro, he thought I should still probably try the Fluclox first.

So a fortnight after finishing the last course of it, I'm back on it again.....

I even managed to see the pharmacist I'd first approached that very morning.

'Good afternoon' said I.

'I've come back for some antibiotics with a prescription this time'

I watched her preparing it, giving me puzzled glances every few seconds.

She might have just thought I was being a bit random, or maybe she was just trying to work out when she'd seen me earlier.

I like to think she was thinking 'Who the hell did that fucking tramp nick a suit off?'

S.O.S.

2009-06-16T22:19:00.001+01:00

Mamma Mia!

Work conference in Manchester + post dinner live ABBA tribute band = Hell on Earth.

Voulez vous?

No I fucking would not!

The fun police are after me to try to make me dance, but just as sure as Charlie don't surf, and White men can't jump, Slippy don't disco.

I'm hiding in my room under the pretense of taking more anti-biotics - long story, I'll fill you in tomorrow when I can blog from a proper computer rather than the itty bitty touch screen on my phone.

Suffice to say it is not my hand this time, but an ear that is threatening to turn my head a bit Merricky.

The biggest problem is that I demand more booze, but the fun police are patrolling the bar.

I'm just going to have to take a chance, take a chance, take a take a chance chance .......

The Lunatics are playing at the Asylum

2009-06-13T12:19:00.003+01:00

This morning I was alerted via Facebook that Stoxie had been incarcerated in the West Ryder Pauper Lunatic Asylum.

As my fuzzy Saturday morning brain, (poisoned by a post work pub crawl with Chinny culminating in meeting up with respective birds and friends at the Green Dragon) tried to process what I was reading, it finally made sense.

Kasabians new album has been out since 5th June. Stoxie has bought it and enjoyed it, and I had forgotten all about it.

Oops....

A quick trip to iTunes, and balance in the universe has been restored, but is it any good?

1) Underdog - Good, steady opener. Trippy beats and Serges guitar reminiscent of the first excellent album. So far so good.

2) Where Did All the Love Go? - ooh er - it's all gone a bit Cock-er-ney for Leicesters finest. What's going on Tom? I still like it, it just sounds a bit odd. Sing us a-nov-ahhh one boys.

3) Swarfiga - An homage to the green gelatinous industrial hand cleanser? Nope just 2:18 of an urgent baseline, and no lyrics. I wash my hands of it!

4) Fast Fuse - Now this is good. Great riff. I'm nodding my head to it as hard and fast as it's swollen contents will allow. Feels a little bit psychedelic 60's at time, but it fucking rocks. I'm gonna have this riff in my head all day, and I ain't complaining.

5) Take Aim - The strings are out, and Tom sounds a bit pissed and confused. It's all layered electonica, fuzzy guitars and horns. Not a dancer, but certainly a come downer. Come home off your tits and wind down to it.

6) Thick as Thieves -We're stuck in the Sixties for this beautiful one. I can hear Ray Davis doing this, and it works for, as long as I don't get Bernard Cribbins sing about digging holes stuck in my head, because at times, it is just a teensy bit similar...or People are Strange by The Doors. Definitely wearing their influences on their sleeves, and rightly so.

7) West Ryder Silver Bullet - "Then I went down into the basement where my friend the maniac busies himself with his electronic graffiti. Finally his language touches me, because he talks to that part of us which insists on drawing profiles on prison walls. In that moment, poetry will be made by everyone, and there will be emus in the zone.."
As an opening poem read by a clearly unhinged women, it's not a typical song start. Man alive this is a weird one. Roll yourselves a big fat scooby and chill out to tripped out fucked up duet with American actress Rosario Dawson

8) Vlad the Impaler - Stub out that fat one and gobble down some disco bisuits. More killer riffs and dirty electronics....Get loose, get loose...You dancin'? I'm askin'.

9) Ladies and Gentlemen (Roll the Dice) - Another chill out. Sorry boys, but I can't really be arsed with this one. It's alright, just nothing special...

10) Secret Alphabets - More psychedelic. If the first album was to go clubbing with your mates to, then this is the one for when you come home mashed, and lie in a darkened room wondering whether you should roll one, or go raid the liqueur cabinet.

11) Fire - The first single off the album (bet Fast Fuse is next), and it's a stomper.Love it, love it, love it.

12) Happiness - The album ends on much the same vein it has tapped throughout. Chilled and whimsical. Sloppy dub breakbeats that you can tap along to, but not necessarily get up and dance.

All in all a fine album. Some great guitar hooks, and plenty of time for some downtime to ponder on the important hings in life.

Thanks for the reminder Stoxie, I think I shall spend the rest of the day incarcerated with you.

T-2000

2009-06-08T18:57:00.004+01:00

As people who read their newspaper from the back page will be very much aware, the country is currently gripped in the excitement of the ICC World Twenty20.

For those who take their sport only when forced upon them like sprouts at Christmas, the World Twenty20 is a cricket tournament where the games aren't longer than the lifespan of a small rodent, you don't have to stop for tea, and there is a definite winner at the end of it all.

Twenty overs (that's 120 balls) for each team, to either bowl the other team out, or score as many runs as possible by smacking the ball out of the ground at every opportunity, rather than just tapping it to the ground and wondering if the cucumber sandwiches have got the crusts cut off them.

No white flannel shirts and woolly jumpers, its all snazzy colours and floodlights.

They've even tried to make the name more exciting by shortening it to T20, possibly so it's not confused with 'Mad Dog 20/20', a drink so rough it will turn you blind, not give you the 20/20 vision you need to play this lightening fast game.

They could have shortened it even further to TT, but that's already been taken, and the last thing you want tearing up and down the wicket is a hoard of touring bikers, or some cock in an Audi.

Now I love a Test Match, but anyone who watched Chris Gayle batter the Australian attack out of the ground (and I'm talking to you weaselly faced Brett Lee), could not help but delight in how good a game it is to watch, especially as now they can't take the piss out of us too much for our woeful display against the Netherlands.

But is this enough to entice the casual viewer, and will it be enough to contain my rapidly depleting attention span?

Fear not, for I have a solution.

T-2000

With it's increasing global domination, SkyNews/SkySports is clearly a front for bigger things to come.

Skynet.

And with Skynet, comes Terminators, most importantly the T-2000 - a shape shifting metal motherfucker with the ability to turn into anyone it has sampled the DNA of.

Given the number of cricketers who've had hair transplants, there must be mountains of DNA floating around the worlds changing rooms and pavilions.

Imagine the terror seeing an amorphous silver silhouette bounding down the pitch towards you, suddenly to morph into Shoaib Akhtar and nearly take your head off. Next ball you're ready for him, only now it's Shane Warne - out of retirement with a deadly leg break.

Metal Billy Bowden stood near the wicket, just waiting to extend that crooked finger..... and extend....and extend....imagine what he'd do with a six?

I'd love to see it, and shall pen a missive to Rupert Murdoch as soon as I'm done here.

And if you think it might all be a bit easy on the bowlers in my thrilling upgrade of the game, don't worry, I've got a little plan up my sleeve for the batsmen.

He'll be back......

Dawn of the (nearly) Dead

2009-06-06T12:03:00.005+01:00

Mrsslippy worked a night shift last night, meaning our usual exciting Friday evening jaunt to the shops had to be postponed.

Her parting words were 'I'll do the shopping in the morning before I go to bed'.

'Grand' thought I. 'Add some bacon to the list and I can be woken by the sound of it gently frying',

However, since my now structured life has vanquished my ability to lay in at the weekend, when she came home to change out of her uniform, I leaped out of bed with gay abandon and offered to join her.

The car park looked pretty empty on arrival, and there was the promise of freshly stocked shelves, rather than the 'East Berlin bakers circa 1985' appearance that Tesco sometimes has on a Friday evening.

It was only upon entering the sliding doors that the true horror of what lay in store hit me.

Pensioners.

Everywhere.

Shuffling, mumbling, or just staring into space. It was like a scene from George A Romero's most excellent 'Dawn of the Dead', where a band of survivors from the undead outbreak that kicked off in 'Night of the Living Dead' shore themselves up in a shopping mall, while the undead denizens go about their business, unaware that their life has been snuffed out.

'Braaiiiiinns........faggottttsss'

Viewed as a satirical observation on commercialism and the impersonalisation of sprawling shopping centers and massive globalisation, it was now a harsh reality.

Aisle upon aisle of grey faced automatons. Clutching shopping lists that they may as well have had laminated 15 years ago; purchasing habits not changed since they first drew their pensions and faced the realisation that a tin of spam, a tin of corned beef, a tin of pilchards and a loaf of thinly sliced white bread was about as exciting as food was going to get for the rest of their lives.

Yet with nothing else to do until pension day, this was their big outing for the week, so no rush. They've got all day......

I treat the supermarket aisles as motorways, or busy A roads. There are three lanes; the ones at the edges next to the produce are the 'slow lanes', and have double yellow lines. The central third lane is for cruising at speed, or overtaking. It can only be used as a car park by the shelf stackers, as they know to only close off the lane in a position where the other two lanes are clear.

You can move up and down the outside lanes at a reasonably leisurely pace, and can even pull over, provided your engine is still running.

By this I mean that you know what you want from the shelf, and are either trying to locate the best 'best before date', or weighing up the options on a couple of new varieties of a product. It is not a place to stop for a chat about how your prostate is now so large that it hangs out your arse, and when pissing it takes you so long to get started that you now paradoxically have to get up to the toilet two hours before you've actually gone to bed.

And you should only be allowed to stop for a maximum of 30 seconds. Any longer than that and you should be barred from the store. I waited an unfeasibly long period this morning because an elderly couple (with a trolley each no less!), had both parked blocking the entire bacon shelf whilst they inspected every single packet. I ended up having to drive round the block, because I was then causing a jam in the middle lane whilst waiting for an opportunity to pull in.

Curiously enough, of the handful of items that they had in each trolley, the fella, who was bald, had got a tub of Brylcreme (he'd been parked in front of the hair products earlier when I was trying to get some wax).

See - so stuck in his sad shambling grey life, he'd not even noticed he'd lost all his fucking hair.

And if parking in the outside lane is a social faux pas, it can be circumnavigated provided the overtaking lane is clear - which this morning was generally filled with all manner of road blocks.

Firstly, the idiots who park in it the central lane to stop for a chat with some other twat who has parked next to the produce. This creates a bottle neck as traffic has to move in both directions in the remaining lane. It can often happen on any day of the week, but what I saw this morning was people parking side on to talk, effectively blocking the entire carriageway.

Then there are the ones that abandon their vehicle. As you then go to move it to either get through, or access a shelf, you may be met by the returning shopper, who gives you a dirty look for touching their stuff, even if they haven't paid for it yet, so technically incorrect.

Sometimes there is no sign of who the trolley belongs to, and there's a creeping suspicion that they owner has forgotten all about it and has long gone home. Either that or they're now merrily filling another trolley. They've probably been there for hours and have dozens dotted all over the store.

Lastly, it's not a trolley hazard, but human.

The recently retired gentleman.

You know the sort - no longer able to rest on his laurels after being the bread winner all his life, he's never had to assist with bread buyingBut now he's been told in no uncertain terms that he is expected to help with the shopping on a Saturday morning.

And he hasn't got a fucking clue.

Still dressed in shirt, tie and blazer, because he's never learned to dress down, he follows the wife and her trolley around, always a couple of feet behind and to the side, like some bewildered slip fielder, waiting for a tickle - but she's such a pro she's knocking everything straight into the trolley. The only time he's going to see any action is when the scorecard comes out.

So there he stands, blissfully unaware that he's standing in the middle of the fast lane. Ask him to politely move, and he gets all flustered and starts looking to his wife for help, as if he steps out of position without the captains permission he may well drop a wicket taking catch.

I know they can't help it. But they get up at 5 o'clock in the morning, can't they just do their shopping then?

Just like the Zombies in the films, they don't know they're doing it, but I know what the kindest option would be.

It's what they do in the films, and if ever show signs of becoming one of the living dead it's what I'd want - please - just fucking shoot me.

Big Bang Theory

2009-06-05T20:57:00.003+01:00

Much as Mrsslippy and I enjoy watching enormously funny Big Bang Theory, I sometimes worry that she sees a little too much of me in some of the characters, particularly Sheldon.

Fair enough, I may have a few nerdy tendencies, but have conclusive proof that I am nothing like the caricatures of geekdom that grace the screen...

They all own padded dressing up costumes based on DC Superhero 'The Flash'. My padded Superhero Costume is Batman, who is also from DC comics.
They spend a lot of time playing video games, and are obsessed with playing Halo. I am not. It makes me motion sick. I much prefer to play Resident Evil, Doom, any of the Lego themed stuff, Super Bros. Smash Brawl, or anything based in the Star Wars Universe.
They think Captain Kirk walks on water. He doesn't. Jean Luc Picard does.
They are such creatures of habit that they have a Chinese meal every Thursday. We don't. We have fajitas every Friday. And fish and chips every Saturday lunchtime
They play Boggle in Klingon, which I wouldn't be able to do. Well not win it anyway, as the only Klingon I know is HIja (yes), ghobe' (no), and Ka'Pla!
They have stacks of comics kept in plastic bags to protect them. Only my Fantastic Fours and V for Vendettas are in plastic bags. The rest are well thumbed, as are my graphic novels.
They've got a couple of telescopes in their flat. I only have one.
They have several laptops dotted around their flat, I only have three, and one is pretty dead , and another pretty unreliable (but if I need to get on the internet and Mrsslippy is on the good one, I can still use my phone, my Wii, or my DS )
They play World of Warcraft, which I haven't played for nearly a year (after nearly 1500 hours of game play)
Sheldon refuses to accept Loop Quantum Gravity theory as a method of unifying quantum mechanics, insisting on String Theory, whereas I am happy to consider both of them as possible concepts.
None of them have the coordination to play any team sports, whereas I am great at.......oh fuck it.....you've got me bang to rights on that one.
I HAVE A REAL GIRLFRIEND

Yes Mrsslippy, as if the other 11 reasons (ok, 10 because of the sport one) weren't reason enough, you are the living, breathing proof that I am not a lonely sad geek.

I'm a happily attached sad geek.

Follow me...

2009-06-04T20:16:00.004+01:00

Those clever, clever people at Google have done it again.

Just as I was becoming afraid I was turning into some kind of gibbering Luddite with a penchant for sandals and horticulture, they update a gadget on my phone, and I'm back in the land of the techno geeks.

My phone has GPS on it, which is doubly handy for using it for Satnav,which I rarely do, because being a bloke I was born knowing how to get from anywhere to anywhere by merely glancing at a map. However most maps don't tell you where the nearest boozer is, which the Satnav on the phone does, and doesn't need to be attached to a car, so I can always find a pub in a strange town.

Secondly, teh interwebs. Dial up WAP costs a fortune and is painfully slow. GPRS data connection is fast, and unlimited with my (generous) contract.

What the phone also has is Google Maps. A little version of Google Earth for your pocket, that does pretty much the same as the Satnav, only no boozer searching, and the satellite view is a bit busy for finding your directions. Only really useful if you're say, wandering around in fields on the a convoluted walk home from work and you want to check if you're likely to hit a proper path anytime soon.

But as I did that last Friday, I was prompted to install the latest version of Google Maps, and like a geek, the first thing I did was check what the new features were.

The application now has something called 'Latitude' bundled into it. What this has essentially done is turn the GPS into a 2 way street. Not only can I see my location, I can share it....

This can only be shared with people you approve, and if they have Google Maps on their phone, you can see where they are and vice versa. It doesn't matter if you don't have GPS, it will use phone masts to triangulate your position, but the accuracy is to within a few hundred, rather than a few meters.

With privacy in mind, you can set it to just show what town you are in, or to let people follow you like a hawk.

You can even add it as a widget/gadget to your iGoogle page, and follow your friends around from the comfort of your settee.

*Geeks only* - It's only set to work as a gadget in in America, but you can make your browser think that's where you are by amending the address bar to http://www.google.com/ig?gl=us

I thought this would be handy for Mrsslippy to be able to track if I was still at work, or had been sucked into the pub on the way home. Now she can see I'm enjoying a pint without having to ring me and disturb my supping.

Right now, if she's not busy rushing her arse of at work she can log in and check if I'm still home

Yep, looks like it.

In fact it looks like I'm in the living room....

Yesterday as I travelled back from Birmingham on the train, she was able to watch me chugging my way through Melton Mowbray, Nuneaton, Peterborough......, and had she been watching as I walked home this evening she would have seen me apparently trashing my way through neighbours houses and hedges due to a couple of metres error in where the satellites thought I was.

Probably like the scene in Aliens where the scanners show them all in the room, but there's no sign, Mrsslippy expected me to come crashing through the ceiling "they're coming out of the fucking walls man!"

So there's no hiding now. But don't think that means you can come and rob my house when I'm not here - Mrssplippy still might be.

And don't assume that just because my icon says I'm at home that I am. That's just where my phone is, and why would I take it to the pub with me anyway?

You know I never answer the fucking thing.

Homeward Bound

2009-05-29T21:00:00.004+01:00

A beautiful summers day left me with an urge to leave work early, which I duly did (I will be making up the hours at home, but on laptop in the garden, rather than a dingy office).

Looking to maximise fresh air time, I decided to see if there was an alternative route to walk home from work that was a bit more countrified than the dull repetitiveness of Queen Ediths Way.

As I sometimes have to teach off site at a little training centre that's only about a mile from the hospital, and about a mile and a half from the Slippy Towers (as the crow flies.....), I thought I'd try to negotiate them both and see how long it takes. This would mean that if Mrsslippy's working early and I'm teaching, it means I don't have to drop her off at 7 o'clock, then debate whether to go back home for an hour, or go straight to Magog Court and work on my own in a soulless IT centre for a couple of hours. One day I'll take my Wii with me and make use of the 8 foot square interactive white board, but I might accidentally end up staying the night if I did...

A quick Google suggested that there was a road cutting along Magog Golf Course, then a bridleway through the quaintly named 'Beechwoods', then a track across the fields that Mrsslippy and I have walked across before, but in the other direction.

It would double my usual route, but as I said, the weather was nice, and then I'd know how long it took to walk to the the training centre at the roundabout if I got the bus to the hospital, and how long it would take to go straight there across the fields.

Twenty minutes to the golf club, then start walking along the road towards the woods.

It didn't say 'Private Road', but fuck me, the golfers looked at me as if it was....

I wasn't dressed for golf, but I was still in a shirt and trousers from work, but there were scornful looks as I crossed the car park, and looks of suspicion/derision as I strode out - a spring in my step and a smile on my face, enjoying the weather.

I've never been a fan of golf. I have friends who play, and I can understand why they do, but despite the increase in open courses, I find the whole private club, no women in the bar, old boys doing deals on the greens thing just a bit fucking elitist, and The Magogs strikes me as just one of those clubs.

As I approached the woods it appeared there was a bit of a flaw in my plan. As men stopped mid stroke to look at me walk past I came to a sign saying 'Access to Woods from Fulbourn Road Only'.

Bugger.

The club had done it's damnedest to prevent access. Presumably this was to stop people getting onto the course from the woods, and although I probably could have just scrambles and climbed my way through, I had too much dignity, so I did the next best thing - I faked a phone call.

"Yes, I'm on my way up there now.........what......the one by the club house?....I couldn't see your car so thought you meant the other one.....ok I'll come back down now...see you in a minute",

and I turned tail and walked back down the road, head held high. A cursory glance over my shoulder confirmed what I already knew. They were still watching...staring....cunts.

Back in the car park, I was faced with two choices. Double back to the hospital, or walk 200m up Lime Kiln Hill, and cut across to the woods and over the field to home.

Fields it was, and as I walked along the drive out the car park, more cars with rubber-neckers drove past, furious that scumbag me was walking near where they twat little white balls around.

I heard a car pull up alongside me, and drew a deep breath, expecting the 'What do you think you're doing?'

Instead, in a polite but not posh accent that I could not place, I got a 'Do you need a lift?'

'No thanks' said I to the two blokes inside 'I'm enjoying the sun and the fresh air -cheers anyway'.

They didn't even ask where I was going, or care that I clearly wasn't a golfer - just a couple of good Samaritans checking if I needed a hand.

My faith in the golfing fraternity restored!

For a nanosecond.

As the car drove off I clocked the plates and twigged the accent.

Germans.

I've been mistaken for a German a few times on holiday. Did they think I was one of their own? Lost and car less on a balmy summers day?

I doubt it, I think they just don't do the whole class/private member thing that the English do so well, and just offered another human being a hand.

I followed the field edge up Lime Kiln Hill, conscious that the cars hurtling down it wouldn't think twice about knocking me down, and crossed over to the north side of Beechwoods, and into the field that would take me home.

Only last time we crossed it the corn wasn't 4 feet high, and what was once a path, was now just crops and very uneven soil. Unperturbed I walked on, enjoying the sunshine,and the rustle of the crops in the gentle breeze.

It took me about 90 minutes to get home, rather than 30, so I don't think it's a route I'll be using very often.

If I need to go anywhere that's too far to walk I'll just hang around in Lederhosen and wait for a passing German.

Its a Good Life

2009-05-28T19:59:00.002+01:00

I've just had a bit of a 'moment'.

An epiphany.

A realisation that the man I was is slipping away...

I've probably been living in Cambridge too long, and it's rubbed away all the rough edges.

It dawned on me while I was in the garden a few minutes ago.

I'd started cooking my dinner, and was just taking some rubbish out.

Or to be more precise, I was boiling some vegetables to make a healthy home made soup(curried carrot and parsnip thant you for asking), and was taking the peelings, wrapped in newspaper, out to the compost bin.

With half an eye on my watch so I didn't miss the start of Springwatch, I was inspecting my own crop of vegetables, which now consists of three types of potato, two types of carrot, savoy cabbages, lettuce, cauliflour, two types of peas, baby sweetcorn, onions, spring onions, two types of peppers, strawberries, and a host of herbs.

Content that they were fine, and none of the bird feeders needed topping up, I was crossing the lawn, taking care not to trip over my flip flops or sarong....yes sarong....it hit me.

My sarong is very comfortable. I bought it in Borneo as it was dress code in one of the lodges we stayed at, and I enjoyed the 'airyness' of it so much I bought my own. It stops me slobbing around in just a bath towel, which was a previous habit, and is really rather fetching.

But that does not alter the fact that I have become a soup cooking, recycling, vegetable growing, sandals and skirt wearing hippy.

Am I getting old, or is it a midlife crisis. If it is a midlife crisis then I really am fucked. I'm not in middle age! I'm young! Vivavcious! I play hard and fast, or fast and loose, or something.....anyway, I still play!

Where is my pork pie?

Where is my chocolate milkshake?

Why, when Mrsslippy is on nights am I not down the pub, or gorging myself on a huge bloody steak?

I've got free reign of the tv, I should be watching cheesy horror, classic sci-fi, or just porn (although Kate Humble is looking very good on Springwatch, I shan't be shuffling one off).

I should have the Wii on, shooting Zombies, or Nazis, or Zombie Nazis.

That's it.

My soup should be ready to attack with the hand blender. I'll eat that, then open a tinny, and heads it's a classic DVD, tails it's Resident Evil.

After I've watered the hanging baskets and window boxes....

Slippys Choice

2009-05-27T19:47:00.003+01:00

Sometimes we all have to do things that we find distasteful, amoral, and just downright shameful.

I could list many, but tonight I stoop to an all time low on my social barometer of what is a VERY BAD THING as I find myself faced with a decision that I find thoroughly unpalatable.

I'm supporting Manchester United.

It's not really that I want them to win, it's that I don't want Barcelona to.

Just like Meryl Streep in Sophie's choice, neither going is not an option. It will only prolong the inevitability of a firing squad, so I must choose who to lose, and after weighing up the alternatives, with a heavy heart it is Manchester I cling to as Barcelona are dragged off crying for their mothers.

*GOAL FLASH*
Eto for Barca. Bollocks.

It wasn't an easy choice, and I've mentally gone through the pro's and cons of a decision I'm going to have to live with for the rest of my life.

Against Manchester United

They are Manchester United
Ronaldo is a slimy, cheating cunt
Winning two on the bounce will make them so smug
They are Manchester United
They've won enough this year already
They are Manchester United

For Manchester United

They are not Barcelona
They are an English team
They are not a Spanish team
I've got the teeniest amount of respect for Giggs, who maybe deserves it before he retires
I hate Puyol more than Ronaldo (he fucked up a potentially winning World Cup fantasy team for me, and I have never forgiven him. And he has shit hair.
Some of my friends are real Man Utd fans (ie never been there), and the philanthropist in me wouldn't begrudge them a little bit of pleasure.

Twenty five minutes in and it looks like Barcas goal was against the run of play...oh oh..Xavi free kick..........and safe....., so things may turn out right in the long run.

For now, I think I'd better go and get myself a stiff drink. It might make it a bit easier to cope with what I'm doing with a bit of dutch courage and beer goggles.

But when I wake up tomorrow, all bleary eyed and unsure of what I got up to the night before, I'll be able to look back on this blog, and all the shame will come flooding back.

Am I getting into bed with a stunner, or a munter?

Only time will tell.

Whisper it proud ....Come on Man U.......

Slings and arrows of outrageous fortune

2009-05-26T14:28:00.005+01:00

To (mis)qoute Shakespeare, I am now suffering in a sling (no arrows involved), due to the outrageous fortune of being bitten by some terrible beastie that had obviously been gargling with raw effluent before sinking it's fangs into me.

It looked bad enough yesterday, so when it was even redder, more swollen, and creeping further up my arm, it seemed like a trip to the GP really was on order.

Unfortunately, due to availability issues, I couldn't get an appointment today, so trudged into work, vowing to keep an eye on it.

Eventually, after succumbing to much peer pressure, which as the name implies, involves a lot of peering and poking, I begrudgingly went to A&E.

I felt like such a fraud, apologising first to the nurse on Triage, then the receptionist that I had tried to get to the GP. Self diagnosis and 15 years of nursing told me that all I needed was a good dose of Flucloxacillin, and I'd be on my way and right as reign in no time, but with the rate the infection was creeping up my arm, I needed to start anti-biotics today, and with no joy with the GP, I'd have to come and sit with the rest of the walking wounded who really should have been at the GP surgery.

The waiting area of A&E is a fascinating, although sometimes uncomfortable place to people watch. I'd removed my ID badge, so there could be no accusations of queue jumping and favouritism should my infection prove more important than the man who'd had a lump on his foot for three weeks that gave him no pain, but today decided it was urgent enough to come straight to hospital.

There was a couple there who were clearly on a family day out, having brought flasks of tea, sandwiches, and several magazines. I have no idea which of them was waiting to be seen. They were there when I arrived, and there when I left.

I patiently watched as other people impatiently challenged any staff who accidentally made eye contact (which is quite hard when people walk up to them and put their face 6 inches in front of them), and demand to know why they have been waiting 2 hours. Or just walk straight into the treatment area to see 'just what all the staff are doing'.

Um....because it's busy? And you're not dying, whereas someone came in an hour ago that was, so we had to..you know..re-prioritise things a little bit.

Not that that's what the staff said. They were polite and courteous, without being patronising. How they get through the day without saying "Just fuck off and stop wasting our time with your insignificant little scratch, that I bet if it happened at home you'd do fuck all about, but because you're on work time you come here with your muddy boots and your 'I'm the center of the universe' attitude, demanding we stop everything to deal with you, you self centred little prick. Fuck off to Boots and buy a packet of plasters you insufferable cunt." I'll never know.

So I was seen after 90 minutes, which I thought was pretty good considering the triviality of my complaint, and now have a course of anti-biotics, and been told to keep my hand in a high sling.

Feeling a bit useless at work, I opted to come home, and being as Mrsslippy was nearly done, and her work was quiet, she nicked off too and will pay them back the hours.

She's gone to Tesco - I couldn't face going with her and enduring the cruel stares, nor would be much use with pushing the trolley, or pack and carry bags.

Nor will I be able to make dinner, or wash up.

I will be able to drink coffee, watch and control the TV, and pootle on the computer (different to work, where a lot of actions involve using the mouse and the keyboard at the same time - not so here).

As long as I avoid doing anything too heavy, or that takes two hands I should be safe, so I hope Mrsslippy comes home soon.

I think I need the toilet.

Uncomfortably Numb

2009-05-25T18:25:00.004+01:00

Having hands like two balloons may have been the epitome of comfort and numbness to Messers. Waters and Gilmour, but to be honest, I think it's overrated.

Maybe it's because only one hand is affected, and I need both to be balloon like to experience the alleged pleasure it devolves.

Some fucking creature bit me yesterday morning. I don't know what, as I neither saw nor felt the assault. I just noticed a small white itchy lump as I was pootling around. It could have come from the garden - I'd been out for an hour doing a spot of watering and weeding. It could have been a stowaway from Brazil - I'd been poking around in the suitcases. It could have been just some double hard bastard mozzy that spiked me as I slept, and I just didn't notice the lump until I'd been up for a couple of hours.

All I know is, it has definitely disagreed with me. My hand has slowly ballooned, whilst getting redder and redder.

If I clench my fist (sort of - the skins too tight to do it properly), the skin blanches, and the surface looks blistered and burnt.

It even seems to be tracking up my arm. If it hasn't improved in the morning, I think a trip to the GP's might be in order.

I've seen too many (or not enough?) films to speculate on what might be bubbling away under my skin.

Whilst Alien chestbursters tend to grow in the chest, how fucking cool would it be to have one of them fly out the back of your hand? And I've not been in any teleporters recently, so the chances of me turning into Slippyfly are also a bit slim.

More likely it's just some mutant plague, or the larvae of some exotic insect that will consume me from the inside out.

Whatever it is, there's one thing that's certain, the top layer of skin is so fucked it's going to slide off in some sort of horrible mess during the next couple of days, and if I'm lucky, I'll get to keep my arm. I hope so, as I'm rather attached to it. I don't mind typing one handed, but I can't hit Ctrl-Alt-Del if the fucking laptop crashes.

Doon Toon

2009-05-24T18:59:00.004+01:00

Dear Newcastle United,

By the time you read this letter you will have hopefully had time to wake up and face the realisation that you no longer have a Premiership team.

For the first time in twenty years, you're in the second tier, and I'm sure there are plenty more tears in your Newckie Brown.

You gave Mr Shearer his millions, with the promise of more if he kept you up, but to what point? He may walk on water, but he can't polish a turd.

I'm glad Manchester beat Hull, despite me cheering for the Tigers all the way, because I know if you'd gone down due to Mr Ferguson playing his second team you'd have cried 'foul'.

But if Hull had won, it would not be because of a team of teenagers that you went down, it was simply that you weren't good enough.

Mr Ferguson had 38 league games to pick teams that would give him enough points to win the league, and get to the Champions League final with a fit, winning team.

He only needed 37 games.

You had the same opportunity, without the added pressure of Europe, and you fucked it up.....

Blame Mike Ashley.

Blame King Kev for walking.

Blame Owen for always being injured.

Blame whoever you like if it makes you feel better, but just face facts, you played shit all season.

Now you can stop telling us about how you're too big a club, and there's too much history, and you've got the best fans in the world, relegation could never happen.

Go ask Leeds, Norwich, or God forbid, Notts Forest.

Spend the next season with your heads down learning some humility. Don't expect to win every game. WANT to, then be grateful when you do.

Do not gloat when you wallop Scunthorpe 5-0 at home, because if you get complacent they might just return the favour on a cold December midweek game.

You still get to enjoy a local derby with Boro, but try not to get too nostalgic as you see the Macams team bus heading off to Manchester...

Now back to your bottle of dog to have a good hard think about what you've done(or rather not done) - I'm off to enjoy my moment of Zen.

Yours sincerely,

Slippymark

Man Tax

2009-05-16T22:10:00.003+01:00

On my travels this week I've noticed a distinct increase in the number of joggers.

But not your usual professionally attired, slim and speedy joggers, no - what I'm seeing is a lot of women of a 'certain age'. Overweight, unfit, and wearing ill fitting leggings.

To say the action they are performing is jogging, would be the very loosest definition of the word, since I'm pretty sure that if one foot is always in contact with the ground, then it's walking.

It might be red faced, sweaty and puffing walking, but walking it is. And that can only mean one thing, Race for Life is back upon us, or as I like to call it, Man Tax.

As a man the only way I can support Race for Life, is by sponsoring someone. Those sneaky women have prevented men from actually participating, thus guaranteeing that every race (rather than none) is won by a women.

And how many women do you know that are participating? I bet it's at least one, but more than likely several, and they'll all want your support. Not a pat on the back, or a 'Well done you'. They want you're cold hard cash.

Mrsslippy did it last year, so support I did.

Not only did I stump up cash (up front no less!), I drove her and some of our other female friends to the other side of Town, and agreed to pick them up again when the race was over. Traffic was shocking, so by the time I got home, it was pretty much time to go back out again to collect the team from the nearest pub to the venue.

So not only did I end up significantly out of pocket, I also wasted the best part of a day off.

Mrsslippy walked 5 miles, then went for a beer. That's what I do on most work days, and she got a fucking medal for it!

What did I get (other than a decreased risk of developing cancer)?

Diddly squat.

Apparently cancer is still not cured, hence they're doing the whole thing again this year, and no doubt once again I'll be expected to support...

And that how it will continue. Women will go for a stroll, men will 'support'.This Man Tax will go on and on until they get enough money to find a cure.

So let's nip it in the bud. Go sponsor someone big style, then maybe I won't have they to look at women in ill fitting leggings every spring, and we'll all be a bit less likely to get cancer, or at the very least ensure those affected get the care and treatment they deserve.

If you haven't got any female friends, you don't have to feel left out - Mrsslippy will be more than happy to take your money. She's promised to run this year, and that's got to be worth a few quid.

Please, give what you can to her and her motley crew, The Cambridge Stragglers.

For pities sake.

Think of the leggings....

Meatus is murder

2009-05-14T18:43:00.004+01:00

Last Saturday saw a trip to Ginger Towers with the express purpose of achieving three things.

1 ) Wishing the Ginger Ninja a happy birthday.
2) Consumption of BBQ as cooked by Gingerfeck.
3 ) Very heavy boozing.

All the safely accomplished, I am now just about back to the land of the living.

My limited bloggage output this week has probably been due to the fact that stage 3 of Saturday involved three bottles of wine, and the destruction of countless billions of defenseless little grey cells.

I've been running on autopilot all week, and unless I go to the boozer tomorrow after work (which is unlikely) then I will have been off the sauce for a week which can only be WIN of the highest order.

Saturday was great fun. It's always lovely to see the Gingers, as the Ninja is one of the finest bakers in the World, and Chinny knows how to spin a yarn. We were joined by the usual suspects, and as the booze flowed, so did the banter.

As is often the case at a BBQ, there was someone there who 'didn't do meat'. Each to their own - I dabbled with vegetarianism myself for a few years, until I remembered just how fucking lush a nice bloody steak is.

And as always, there was a little bit of the grill reserved for the soya sausages and bean burgers. When all had eaten save for Gingerfeck, I swapped places on the barbie with him so he could have a burger while I kept an eye on the remaining sausages. On seeking the location for the utensils for the veggie stuff, I was advised that he was just using the same flipper as for the meat. Fair enough. His gaffe, his rules. They would never know about the cross contamination.

This got dropped into the conversation on my return to the table (the veggie was sat on the lawn somewhere), with a small discussion on whether this was ok, then Elvis had to go and lower the tone and ask if vegetarians could give blow jobs.

Oooookaay, lower the tone and draw a line and I'm going to cross it. In fact after a couple of bottles of wine I'm going to take a running jump at that line, and hurl myself over it.

Because, as I'm sure I quite eloquently pointed out without being overly loud, repetitive or crude, it isn't as simple as just a can they or can't they.

A vegetarian will not eat meat that has been killed, but will consume animal by products. Sure, you don't see them flocking to Tesco looking for a gallon of bulls semen, but sure as eggs is eggs, if they'll eat one of them, then that's half the DNA of a new life. The spunk is just the vinegar stroke vinaigrette that completes the dish. A nice glossy Eggs Benedict.

So not only can a vegetarian gob you off, they can also swallow with a clean conscience (and chin).

But vegans are a completely different kettle of fish (or mung beans). Due to their very strict rules, they cannot 'do' any by products even if the animal is still alive, nor use the leftovers to make a nice handbag. No eggs, no dairy, no leather, and definitely no man-milk.

Yet this doesn't mean they can't put your cock in their mouth. As long as you don't shoot your load in there, they haven't broken any rules.

And you better be very careful where you do end up spraying your muck as you pull your tally whacker out. If they can't wear animal products, then you're probably not allowed to cum on their tits.

So - rules sorted, and next time your at a barbecue and some vegan checks that no meat products have come into contact with the vegan utensils, it's perfectly acceptable (and probably advisable), to check that her boyfriend hasn't spunked all over the ones reserved for the meat eaters.

Babel Fish

2009-05-13T19:15:00.004+01:00

Little sister has just returned from a weeks diving in (or rather off) Cuba, and appears to have developed a prodigious knack for the language, as all her Facebook statuses are now in perfect Spanish.

I suspect shenanigans. Sorry Bec, but I don't recall you being fluent in non-gringo lingo, and are using some kind of translating service to help you.

I've copied and pasted her statuses into Babel Fish, and they kind of make sense – I reckon the process of translating to Spanish and then back again fucks things up a little bit.

She suggested I had nothing better to do than translate her updates, when actually I should be blogging. Maybe I should be doing both? As a scientific experiment as to how good Babel Fish is at translating back and forth, I'll blog in English, have it Spanglified, then back to the mother tongue again...

So one more time from the top....

The small sister finishes returning as of the weeks that are plunged in (or something dull) Cuba, and appears to have developed a prodigious skill for the language, as all states of Facebook now are in perfect Spanish.

I suspect shenanigans. Grieved time, but I do not memory of you that is fluid in mazarota of the not-gringo, and is using a certain class to translate service to help him.

I' IT SEES it copied and it stuck his states in Babelfish, and class of story has sense - the process to again translate to the later behind lame Spanish and things for above a little.

It suggested better did not have anything to do than her updates, when I really must blogging. Perhaps I must do both? As scientific experiment as far as how good Babelfish is in translating forwards and backwards, I will blog of in English, has Spanglified, then again to the maternal language again…

This is taken for above, and clearly not working. It does probably the sense that a form only does, but it' s the return trip that does borked.

How on something of my favourite film dent? They must at least have an appearance of normaility to them, but you will be able to reconise they once they have been soiled around by Babelfish?

"A census taker once tried to try to me. I ate his liver with some beans of fava and an pleasant Chianti"

– Too easy

"It takes its legs that stink out of me, you you cursed the dirty monkey!"

- Probably still it improves, but a too easy small piece

"They listen to. Children at night. What music does"

- Grieved candle, now you sound rather paedo that the gentleman of the vampires

"The size concerns no. Míreme. Judge by my size, do you? Hmm? Hmm. And well you do not have. For my ally it is the force, and a long-range ally that is. He creates it to the life, does that he grows. Its energy surrounds to us and it ties to us. The luminous beings are we, not this crude matter. You must feel the force around you; here, between you, I, the tree, the rock, throughout, yes. Even between the Earth and the ship."

- It sees, the sounds of mixed Yoda so for above before translate you it, who not more or less do not have sense that in the first place.

It could do this per hours, but probably shouldn' t. Fodder that the lesson is, that does not trust the translation in line

My following project will be to translate Rapsodia Bohemian to Chinese, later returns it to record once translated English again. It has probably then sense…

Or script the film following of Borat

Clash of the Titans

2009-05-07T19:15:00.004+01:00

I'm facing an almost exciting prospect. Cambridge United are through to the play off finals for promotion back to Division 2, and thanks to some end of the season heroics (and Luton starting the season on -30 points), Grimsby Town have somehow avoided the indignity of non-league football next year, and I could once again see the Mighty Mariners play at the Abbey Stadium.

You can call me a fair weather fan, because in all truth the weather's got to be a damn sight better than 'fair'. It's got to be abso-fucking-fabulous weather for me to drag myself any further than a couple of miles down the road.

I'll stand in the driving rain at the Abbey, safe in the knowledge that a hot bath is only 15 minutes away, but a cold Tuesday evening in Peterborough? Stevenage? Even Histon is an extra 20 minute drive away. Fuck that for a game of soldiers, I'll watch Grimsby if they come to see me, but not the other way round. Not until they buck their ideas up a bit and start playing some decent football anyway.

And because of this disparity of leagues, I'd not been to watch a game for a couple of years, and then all of a sudden, I get 2 games almost back to back, and they couldn't have been more dissimilar.

What did you do for Valentines day this year? I went on a stag do to London, and part of that Weekend jaunt was a trip to see AFC Wimbledon play Bath at Kingsmeadow.

I was stood at the back of the terrace - but not a problem, take 5 steps forward, and I was at the front. Most of the party were so bored by half time that they disappeared into the bar and never came back.

The half time entertainment consisted a keepy-uppy competition in which the Stag participated, but was beaten by a ringer who was ex pro.

His other excuse being, that in keeping with the Blue Square League, the ball was blue and square, which the pedant in me insisted was blue and cuboid. A square ball would not be a ball, it would be a 2 dimensional shape. I'm such a fucking geek.

They did serve some particularly lush bacon sandwiches, and the stall was a little shed in the ground so you would,'t have to miss any of the game. You can just about make it out just at the very left of shot, whilst Matt does a big fat FAIL.

The bar was pretty good too, and very organised for getting pints out swiftly. When with 5 minutes to go , and the score 1-1 following 2 shots all game, the brave few who stuck out the second half rejoined the wanderers in the bar for a swifty before heading out to find a titty bar/muff club, and to watch the rest of the days results stream through courtesy of Jeff Stelling on a big screen.

Turns our Wimbledon won 3-2. We must've missed a pretty exciting 5 minutes whilst getting pints, but I think the call for beer was the correct one at the end of the day.

Roll on 8 weeks and again I'm at a football match, but this time I'm still waiting for Matt, and we're a little out of our comfort zone.

Mrsslippy and I have caught a taxi to the Maracana in Rio to watch the semi-final of the Carioca Cup between arch rivals Flamengo and Fluminense.

Matt said he'd meet us at this statue at 3 o'clock.

If I look a bit hungover it's because I am. It's the day after the wedding and I suspect I drank at least a bottle of Scotch, and god knows how many ciaparinhas and how much champagne. At 6 in the morning I didn't think I'd ever be able to lift my head from my pillow, but then my gut forced my hand, or rather it's contents, in a glorious fountain that I only just managed to get to the bathroom on time for.

So half past three, still no sign of him. We'd positioned ourselves near some friendly looking policeman, and were thick in the Flamengo stronghold. We'd seen a few thousand all come running towards us, hemmed in by mounted police. I bit of pre match banter I'm sure, but still a bit daunting. They were also accompanied by the real police.

The ones we stood near had guns and batons, but these guys were in full body armour, and packing 5 foot bats, shotguns, automatic rifles, and grenade launchers (which I'm sure were just for tear gas canisters, not real grenades, but still pretty hardcore).

As we stood watching, mouths agape, the newly married Matt arrived, apologised for being late, and told us that we were probably standing around at the wrong area (despite it being his idea, what with him having all the local knowledge and that), as the Flamengo fans are 'fucking nutters'. So hyped up for aggro, if they haven't got any rival fans to fight with, they'll fight amongst themselves. If we went in the Fluminense end we'd be much safer,as they only fight other supporter...

....and Gringos....

Still, as the lesser of two evils, and with Whiggy for added security we went round to the other side and entered what is the most remarkable ground I've ever seen.

Built for the 1950 World Cup it held 200,000 before it went all seater, but now holds a rather more sedate 100,00 - and none of them were sitting today.

There were parades of gigantic flags, fireworks, smoke bombs, but not a single safety steward to tell you to stop blocking the aisle, sit down, and stop letting off rockets in peoples faces. The only security was those impressive policeman who had now formed a loose perimeter around the pitch (which in itself is protected by a dry moat). I got the distinct impression that they didn't really care what we did to each other, just as long as nobody got near the pitch or the players.

I'd like to say it was a great game, but sadly, it was pretty run of the mill. The Flamengo players were all very proficient at the dive that's fortunately rarely seen in the Premiership now (although Ronaldo used to try it on). You know the one I mean, the one where the defender doesn't make contact, but somehow manages to apply backspin onto the opposing player, so after rolling over three or four times in one direction, he suddenly reverses polarity and starts spinning back towards the defender again.

Both teams had a player called Everton, which left me pondering why anyone would choose that as a nickname. Presumably because they have a twin brother who plays more attractive football, and is far more successful.

Despite it being perhaps the widest pitch I've ever see (either that or the shortest - it's almost a perfect square), both team seemed to have forgotten about the 15 yards of grass either side of the central strip, and just hoofed and fell and rolled and protested all over the same little bit of real estate.

Flamengo's goal was lame; a tame shot that the Flu keeper pushed under his own arm and into the net as he fell to the ground. Very poor.

In the second half a shot that he managed to deflect, and was then cleared off the line by a defender was met wit such jubilation that the pair of them had this whole bromance thing going on for the next two minutes. Sorry to break up the love-in boys, but you've saved fuck all. You're still 1-0 down, and would be better advised to stop going down on each other and paying attention to whats happening elsewhere on the pitch. That equaliser isn't going to score itself - and it didn't....

It's pretty clear that although Brazil may produce some of the best footballers in the World, they don't play over there. We've got them all in Europe.

And for all the pomp and circumstance, posturing and bravado, fireworks and spectacle, the football itself is not a patch on the Premiership. We've got the best league in the World. Love it.

So hopefully next season I can again go and watch Grimsby play again. I can't say it'll be anything like the experience of 100,000 nutters at The Maracana, but the football might be of a similar standard, and certainly better than a Valentines Day watching AFC Wimbledon and Bath.

Come on you fishy men.

Path rage

2009-05-06T23:07:00.002+01:00

I was nearly knocked over by a cyclist this morning.

Not my fault, although she clearly thought it was, as she swerved to avoid me on the path just because I'd stopped and stepped sideways to get a clearer look at a little fluffy bird up a tree.

She lent round on her bike, and shouted "I rang my bell! Take your headphones out, or are you deaf?"

It was still too early to think of a witty response, so I just flipped the V's and carried on walking DOWN THE PATH. It was only as she peddled away that my morning brain started to rouse, and I considered the pointlessness of her question.

Why the fuck would I have headphones in if I was deaf? And if I was a deafer, would that really justify her shouting at me for not hearing her ring her bell as she charged towards me?

Can you imagine this women making her excuses to an ambulance crew if I actually had been deaf and she'd plowed into me? I doubt it. Maybe in her world deaf people should carry a big sign warning cyclists so they know to give them a wide berth.

It seems to be the general attitude of cyclists in Cambridge that they can do what the hell they like. Cyclists would maintain that it's car drivers that are to blame, and make the road so unsafe for use that they are forced to cycle on the pavements.

As I both drive and cycle (although much less of the latter these days), then I can say that they are both as bad as each other. I know if I'm in the car, I need to check all the mirrors constantly because they can come at you from anywhere, at anytime.

I firmly believe that if you hit a cyclist at who has not got lights on their bike, it is not only okay, it's perfectly acceptable to throw the car into reverse and back over the twat just to drive the point home that it is nigh on impossible to see them.

And if I'm on my bike, then the reverse applies. Assume every parked car is about to throw open it's door in your path. Always leave at least 2 feet of road to your left, so when someone overtakes you, but forgets he has wing mirrors, you've still got a bit of space to avoid bundling under the car when he nudges you of your bike.

But the one saving grace of motorists, is at least they stick to the bloody rules. They don't fly through pedestrian crossings because they think they can swerve round the poor souls on it.
They don't suddenly drive on the path if there's a traffic jam, or because it's safer because the road is full of big nasty lorries that are bigger than them.

But cyclists on the other hand (or the majority of at least) just do what they damn well please.

So tell me madam, if you're cycling like a lunatic on the path because the road is too dangerous, then where the hell am I supposed to go as a pedestrian?

Maybe I should just crawl in the gutter. It would probably be quite fitting.