You'll be astounded to know that this post will be short. The reason for that is that I have had a good day of workage, which has been rare recently. I've nothing to throw acerbic pathos at for pages and pages.
The Pole has been tamed. She is now installed and looking good. Thank you Magnoid for the tip.
I have enlisted the help of a cleaner. She is due tomorrow for a few hours. I know, it's a bit bourgeois but it will make life a lot easier to have someone come in and do a proper clean every few weeks and someone gets cash in hand. Everyone's a winner.
Finally, the best part of the day: I've been doing some work (stats stuff) with a guy from another site by phone and email and we just clicked within minutes. It's a real joy when that happens. After a few lengthy calls and email discussions, we called it a day until next week; we have done more in a couple of days than the usual committee of a squillion people get done in a month. To top it all off, the nice chap sent me an email saying what a pleasure I was to work with. Now that is how you finish a week!
To celebrate, I've cranked the Johnny Cash on iTunes, having been through the Willie Nelson (I can't help it -- too much time in the Dew Drop Inn in Greenrock methinks).
I have spent the day with spreadsheets, a good headache and an even better duck and orange paté so my head is all over the place.
Couple of small points of order to start us off.
Apparently today heralds the opening of a 24-hour stalking helpline. I called but they were useless. I asked them for Claire Goose's address and telephone number but they wouldn't help. As I say, no help at all. Seriously though, apparently a million people in the UK are stalked. That is about 3% of the population. I feel left out. The only person who ever stalks me is the window cleaner when I've not been in to pay him as he does the job. I also feel like I am not contributing; I have never stalked anyone in my life. When I can be bothered, I may try to fix that.
Second up: <election warning> I received my first election campaign literature yesterday (leaving it a bit late aren't we chaps?). One was touting our local conservative candidate for Parliament. I don't know why she has bothered. The people in this district are either left of Marx or right of Hitler; your namby-pamby middle of the roaders stand no chance. The leaflet read brilliantly though, if you're a bullet point of hot-buttons kind of a chap/lass with an attention to detail that never strays beyond the soundbites. The highlight though was the leaflet from the a local council representative running to retain his local council seat for the Independents. You have never read such twaddle. The chap obviously has seriously taken to heart the missive to cut down local council costs, to the extent where he has hired neither a copywriter or a PR person. It is quite blatantly written by his good self and is full of heart-felt pledges. And typos. And grammatical errors. And proof positive that we need to do something about literacy standards. It was, quite simply, embarrassing. I thought about scanning it for you but I am too ashamed that this muppet holds a fairly highly paid position in my local government. How can I even countenance voting for a man who has the literacy skills of a 10 year old? Answer: I cannot. There is no excuse for sloppy language. We all make mistakes when tired/stressed/ill/pissed but these were just unforgivable. </election warning>
Finally, my pole arrived today. I have done battle with her already and she is winning. She will not fit between the shower and the ceiling no matter what combination of gubbins I use. She is either too short or too long. I have given up on her for the day. I've locked her in the airing cupboard and told her to sort herself out by tomorrow. I might throw her a bit of rauch-punkel and some cabbage later to try to curry favor.
I suppose I should now force myself to watch some of the Liverpool game. It grieves me but tonight I am a plastic scouser. Expect tears, never walking alone, a (even more) violent hatred of The Sun and me in a shell-suit with a curly wig.
Before I answer that, I would like to state for the record that a Mcdonald's double cheeseburger first thing is the breakfast of champions. Period.
Okay why do I bother? I know the tone of the comments will head South with epic dispatch. I know if I ask you a question that does not involve a subject that would make your mother cry, the chances of a coherent or helpful response are close to those of me achieving fusion at room temperature within the next 24 hours.
But I will try anyway.
We all know that I am to dexterity what Jeremy Clarkson is to common decency, do we not? It is no surprise that people do not call me up to go look at their car or washing machine or lawn mower when it breaks. I get called when their computer breaks -- that I can fix, mostly. Well, I have a problem that I think I know to solve but would appreciate some input on.
When I first moved in here, there was no tray-like fella in the shower for all my various cosmetics (read shampoo and shower gel). I bought one from Sainsburys that has suction cups on it. The idea is that you screw the suction cups against the tiles and let physics do its groove-thang. The problem has been that it has never stayed put. It might be ten minutes later or a week later but sooner or later, it falls off.
My question: would it be wrong to just super-glue the bastard to the tiles?
I look forward to the string of comments that describe how Kenny once fused an entire city while hard-wiring his modem into a foreign telephone port or managed to shoot a £7k calibration target at a wall at speed thanks to the dodgy rigging of a sensor.
In a Herculean effort to put a stop to the previous comment thread which degraded badly, I fear I must return to the keyboard and update you with news of such earth-shattering importance that the whole of the UK's airspace will be shut down. Hell, let's do a bit of Northern Europe too, just for shits and giggles.
I'm actually pretty pissed off that I did not do one to the Canaries for that week now. I could still be stuck there. Bugger. Having read the company announcement on the subject, I could have been stranded for five working days due to extenuating circumstances without any problems whatsoever (I have checked the contract but can see no "Act of God" clause so I guess this must be the "Hand of God" operating from a swanky office somewhere in London). Seriously, I am miffed. I have had some of the best times of my life when I have been traveling and nature has hurled its force at me and caused me to be in places I had no plan to be in but obviously required my attendance for some cosmic reason*. To wit:
-- The fires of '97 in Palm Coast FL. Escaped to Orlando for a weekend of swish extravagance in a well-posh Ramada.
-- Hurricane Dennis of '99. I managed to get the last plane out of Fort Lauderdale. While nursing a pre-flight cocktail, I had the pleasure of meeting Monica Lewinsky (who, incidentally, is a midget) and some famous basket ball player I have never heard of (who was not a midget).
-- Some typhoon somewhere in Asia which had me holed up in Tokyo for a few days. I stayed at the hotel that they used in Lost In Translation and met some amazing people.
-- A deliberately errant taxi driver who drove me half way across Beijing to the wrong hotel and thought I would pay for him to take me to the right one. Wrong. I canceled my other reservation and booked in there. That was genuinely a surreal twelve hours.
-- Any one of countless over-nighters when I've been caught by tornadoes or thunderstorms in Atlanta and Chicago. I always ended up in the bar with the cabin crew.
-- A night out in Dallas arrived courtesy of a well timed ice-storm. I learned I never wanted to ever go to Texas again.
So you see, adversity is my friend. Had I been in the Canaries, I would be sat laughing as the great unwashed queued and panicked for the world's media.
Instead, I have a long-assed meeting in Leeds tomorrow, which fills me with about as much enthusiasm as the prospect of a lobotomy would. Thinking about it, the two are not dissimilar. One day, I will tell you about the last four months but for now I must keep my lips sealed.
Alors, let us hope the comments are full of hoopy and froody stories about where people have been stranded and had an ace time.
* -- excludes 12 hours spent in Carstairs station waiting to get to Edinburgh. The coldest place on earth with no shop, no pub, no heat, no life. Not one of the finer moments.
I managed to survive the passing of 0x29 relatively painlessly. I holed up and sat watching football. Mater and Pater came for ten minutes with cards, a new rug for the front room (God knows it needed one) and some throws for the furniture. I now have color. Much later in the evening, good old Lauren texted me for some reason. I told her I was just maudlin about my age. Once she realized it was my birthday, she demanded to come around on her way home from work. She rang the Vanquisher, who arrived shortly afterward and was, to be fair, about as mopping drunk as I have ever seen him (linear was not in his vocabulary). Lauren then pitched up with a card and demanded that we do a Chinese on Saturday to celebrate. My response? "Only if my new dentures fit."
The moral of the story is that you should never think that 11:00pm is a safe time to let your mates know it's your birthday.
Speaking of, I bought myself a present which arrived yesterday. It's the box set of The Wire. Many people I know and respect have commented on how brilliant it is so I thought I would bow to their taste and give it a go. After the first three or four episodes, I can see why people rave. It's gripping. It's also what I will be watching for the rest of the day (after I have hit the publish button on this anyway). My only complaint (and I am by no means a prude) is the language gets a bit gratuitous at times -- for example, there's a scene where two detectives are looking at a cold-case murder scene and five minutes of dialogue is restricted to f*ck or a variation that involved the word, mother-f*cker, holy f*ck etc.. The Kenny verdict on that is "no need". By all means throw the f-word into conversations but please don't tell me that it's reflective of reality to have an entire scene composed of that dialogue. Regardless, I am enjoying it immensely.
Election update:
I received my polling card a couple of days ago. Having chomped over matters mentally for a while, knowing I have to vote as a civic duty, I now know where I intend to place my X. Most of you will be surprised. I'll let you guess.
On the same subject, aren't we due some kind of debates on air over the next few weeks? No doubt the BBC will reel out Paxman or someone of his ilk to moderate. I have a better idea. Let Ross Kemp do it. You know it makes sense. The steely eyes, the "I'm going to break your spine if you lie" look and his sheer presence should evoke an involuntary spasm of truth from all three leaders of the major parties.
We're one week into a four week campaign and I am bored already. Labour are doing damage limitation. The Tories are effectively advertising a return to Thatcherism and the Lib-Dems are campaigning on one man's reputation (good old Vince Cable). The gap between them all must be as small as a midge's nadger.
/Election update
Sorry for the quietness but as I said earlier in the month, I am taking stock. Back to work next week which should push me one way or the other.
I've been particularly idle today. Even by my heady standards, it is a new high in avoiding anything more taxing than the crossword.
First up, I cleaned up my iPhone music. When the lads come around, they have a habit of downloading stuff from mp3panda. It started off with stuff that was not too obnoxious but looking through my iTunes, it has become a pox. Rather than sync all music, I chose what I wanted on el iPhone. It freed up 7GB. In terms of Mac HDD space, it's no big deal since I have oodles so I'll keep it on there, but when you're constrained to 32GB, 7GB is a big chunk. Anyway, the job is done and all is well in iPhone world.
In terms of a vacation, I decided that rather than waste cash on going somewhere I probably did not want to go, I would investigate the prospect of a weekend in the smoke at a nice hotel by the Thames and near Parliament. Just me and my camera. I emailed my lass in the know, Her Bryonyness, for advice on such a beast which she duly dispensed, having stayed somewhere identical to my wants quite recently. Then I did the numbers on train fares and hotel bills etc. and I might as well be staying in Grand Cayman for the price, so that is a no-go.
The drive to get away was twofold. I'd really like to wake up sweating without the aid of a duvet and central heating -- that beautiful early morning heat that you get in places like Fort Lauderdale, where it's humid to hell and everything smells gorgeously damp until around ten when the sun attacks with a passion. The other reason is that I wish to avoid the annual rituals. Sunday heralds 0x29 and I would quite like to just ignore it. I am not a child and I resent this ridiculous tradition of having to do something on what is, after all, just another day. I hate the fuss and the focus.
I've had a couple of nights of poor sleep (probably because I have been lying in too late). One of my coping mechanisms for such times is to trawl through my mental archives of places I've been and remember what I loved about them. The reason I mentioned Fort Lauderdale earlier is because I loved everything about it. I stayed in the Holiday Inn in Plantation for many weeks over a few years. It was sublime. The sprinklers in the morning heat, Rick the barman who I would call when I landed at 11:30 and ask him to do me some food and keep the bar open a bit longer, the Sushi restaurant next door. All of it was true hospitality.
I guess if I wanted both parts of my reason for wanting to be away for 0x29 to be satiated, I'd like a week there -- that would do the trick. Shame version 2 has pretty much pay to that.
Nay matter, I am sure I can avoid 0x29 hysteria somehow.
I am minded to buy myself a cheapish electric piano as a consolation for the lack of hols. Anyone got any recommendations?
After my Sunday post regarding what a prize doofus Dawkins is, and the much appreciated backup from the galleries, I thought I would dumb it down a bit so as not to spark any controversy.
For the first time in my life, I am at a loss as to what to do. The choices are, if you forgive the vernacular, a bunch of clueless Scotsmen who would be better sodding off back to their own devolved parliament to make a mess of that, a group of over-privileged yahoos with a slender grip of what it means to live on less than £100k p.a. and the invisible guys in the corner.
I thought it might be a bit of fun to hit the Telegraph's VoteMatch site. The results were not really that surprising. I came out as a conservative by quite a long shot. Maybe I am. But I am not a Conservative. Notice the distinction.
Really, I am baffled. I have considered abstaining but then I have no right to whine so I know I must vote. As it happens, it makes no difference where I live. It is as staunch a Labour seat as you can find. There is an evil little suburb of Wigan down the road from here called Ince. Locally, it is "Red Ince". It was termed so because it was the first place in England ever to have voted a communist into power. As you move the five miles from there, not much changes. It's unions and something for nothing attitude through and through.
We now have four weeks of electioneering to not look forward to. Normally I would be chomping at the bit, but this time the country is so royally screwed that there is no reasonable argument to be had. As I have said before, it is time to dust off those passports.
Wow. Today has been a maelstrom of contemplation on many levels. I feel the need for a siesta.
My first dilemma when I awoke at 11:30 was whether there was anything wrong with just rolling over and going back to sleep. Naturally my work ethic kicked in so I slept for just another half hour or so.
I stumbled downstairs and felt compelled to watch a program on Discovery; The Bible: A History. We all know my opinions on organized religion so you might be a tad surprised to hear I was drawn to it. Very good it was too. The problem is that the experts dragged out to offer their wisdom on the subject are the kind of people who would be locked up under some mental health act were they to stand in a street and shout their views.
They trotted out one of my pet hates, Dawkins. How can someone have so much hatred for something he doesn't believe in? The logic is completely flawed. Yes, what he hates may cause wars, inequality, barbarity etc., but those effects are symptomatic of the human condition in general and religion does not have a monopoly. They have been around since the dawn of time, whether that be six days of rhetoric from Genesis or a bit of a firework display at the behest of some magical universal accident. To blame religion for all the world's ills is naive at best. For someone so highly lauded, I am sorry to have to say that the bloke is twonk with all the PR skills of Stalin.
Surprisingly, on the other side of the coin, I have more compassion. The Rabbis that were rolled out were more staid. They defended their creationist views adamantly and tried to tie them back into big bangs and Darwinism. While it did nothing to change my view on the matter, an argument which is reasoned and not back-stopped with bile is always more compelling.
I guess what I am saying is that I will always have more time for religious people than I will have for zealots who pride themselves on the hatred of something they refuse to acknowledge. Better still, I will have even more time for those who hold their views with sincerity and respect others' rights to theirs.
Two further challenges arrived after I had been God'd.
The first was a call from Mater. If I was really going to get rid of my crockpot, she would pick it up today. After a nifty bit of bargaining, she is collecting the damned useless article at about 6. In return I get a home-made steak pie. I do not often say this but my mother's steak pies are the stuff of legend. I have no idea how she makes the crust, cooks the steak or bakes them. They are sublime. If I ever had to choose a final meal, that would be it. Many years ago, in my teens, when we used to have parties (be they birthday or Xmas Eve or whatever), there would be a gargantuan number of steak pies made. It infuriated me that these works of art were being wasted on people who were not the connoisseur that I was. After a couple of years of moral discussion with my (now late) grandfather, I hatched a plan for such occasions. There would be a Kenny tax. Whenever multiple pies were around, I would half-inch a couple and hide them somewhere in the house -- Divan drawers, airing cupboard, wherever. They would be consumed before anyone ever noticed and I was never caught. Actually, I think this is the first time I have ever told anyone about my pie tax. Call it an Easter confession. All I'm saying is that I am in for some good eating tonight and that the crockpot is gone.
My final, rather less intense, decision was whether to watch Everton and West Ham. What did I do? Well, I'm blogging not watching football.
Have a nice Sunday, whether it be Easter in your view or not.
My mood is much improved knowing that I am on holiday for two weeks now, albeit that I do have to finish a document by Tuesday morning. I will be taking my two weeks to weigh up options on a few things. As usual, I am expecting therefore preparing for the worst.
Anyway, word to the homeys here (I'm looking at the Vanquisher, Kev, Kei, Rebecca, Lauren and Emma). Why have none of you ever told me that there's a cig shop about a hundred yards round the corner from me on Landgate estate? One of you must have known about it. The last time I went down that road, I was eight. You have let me struggle up to the Co-op in all weather for a year when I could have nipped around the corner. No brownie points for you lot.
Next up, question for the Mad-chest-oh people. Is the underground market opposite the Arndale still there or did it fall victim to the IRA? If it is or it has been rebuilt, is it as good as it used to be for clothes? I think I have bought every leather coat I have ever liked from there (apart from one I bought in Minneapolis). If it isn't there anymore, any recommendations? (Caveat on that: I draw the line at Affleck's Palace which ceased being anything like "cool" in the late 1980s).
Apart from that, I have nothing to report. Although there's a delightful evening light dancing around the front room here at the moment. Everything is tinged orange and early twilight-y. Very beautiful. I might be tempted by an evening stroll but I have been out there today and I have no desire to repeat the thawing process I had to tolerate earlier. Instead I will enjoy the glow and marvel at how much my windows need cleaning inside.
