28th February 2006

Life energy low

If I thought I'd had a bad week last week, this has to be the worst. Double doses of misery seem to be served on a daily basis. And one thing that I don't want to discuss here has crucified me.

As with any catastrophe, I approach the problem with Sashimi. That is my comfort food and I feel like I need some comfort. North Atlantic fish shortage be damned. I'm going out to eat a trawler full. It costs a bloody fortune but it's worth every single penny.


Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Tue 14:53 GMT
 

27th February 2006

Yet another NHS post

I really, really cannot make my doctor out at all. He's somewhere between insane and genius.

I went there this morning and he explained to me that the NHS medical database is a work of wizardry and that software was a complex problem, indeed an art. I explained to him that software was just a question of thinking the right way; it was medicine that was the art, with the word black prepended. He laughed. I looked at him like he was mad...how on earth can straight logic be more complex than the pseudo-science we call medicine? We spent twenty minutes comparing the two, which is when I had a horrid realization -- either he's as dumb as me or I'm as bright as he is. That scared the shit out of me. Either way is not something I want.

I'm an atheist so I don't want an Almighty sat on my chair; I just want people who are brighter than me in the world to fix problems I can't. My consultation this morning felt more like a chat in a boozer than a visit to the doc's. I'm not sure whether that is a good or a bad thing. You should feel at ease with your doctor, but this is maybe taking it a little too far?

Before I forget, he has a horrible website. Check this out for bad.

Ugg. Back to the meds and hopefully some sleep.


Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Mon 10:21 GMT
 

26th February 2006

Sorry Wigan

I have a large amount of empathy for Wigan's efforts. On paper, the result was inevitable. However this wasn't paper. This was a Cup game and that changes everything.

It's just lucky that we didn't stick six or seven past them. That would have been embarrassing.


Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Sun 17:13 GMT
 

Another love/hate relationship

Rupert Murdock has a lot to answer for but sometimes you do have to love him. Without him, there would be no re-runs of things like Rumpole of the Bailey, Open all Hours, Jeeves and Wooster etc. The Beeb and ITV have to compete with twenty-four hour "entertainment" so they re-run classics that would otherwise have been confined to the celluloid garbage can.

The counter-argument is that, because of Rupert's grip on sports rights, I will have to suffer listening to the Cup final today on the radio. To be honest, I don't care who wins. As Zimmer pointed out in my comments, I'm on a win-win today. Naturally my long term allegiance to Man U over-rides my cute little Wigan flirtation, but either way the result goes, I'll be happy. I just want to see it. But I won't be able to see it unless I go to a pub (which is not the best thing for me at the moment) or hike up my monthly outgoings by about £30 a month. It may not sound much, but I'm damned sure Da Missus could do with that money more than Rupert.

Bless him and curse him. I despise his politics but his presence is for the greater good.


Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Sun 13:01 GMT
 

25th February 2006

Master(Mistress) of videos

I'm bored so you're getting another helping of Kenny opinion.

This one is a bit contraversial twixt me and Da Missus.

I think Madonna is bloody, unbelievably good. I don't rate her music that much but she does have an eye for a fantastic fashion shot. C'mon, which red blooded male wouldn't go a bit gah-gah at the site of a young Madonna in a suit? Way more sexy than her later effort in basques, and I don't object to anyone in basques. There is nothing more sexy than a good looking lass in a suit.

I used to work with a girl years ago who always wore a suit. She looked absolutely fabulous. When Da Missus was working and I was at home, she had a particular pseudo-suit that made her look like a million dollars. 'Trouble was she was working and too tired by the time she came home for anything other than a peck on the cheek and a disappearance to bed. Damn charities for their requirements of people working so hard.

Anyway, I seem to have lost the plot there. I'm watching Madonna's videos on some random channel and she really does have an eye for a good video.

While I think of this, I'm stilled pissed that the kids did a number on my Madonna DVD -- Broken has to be the best video ever, and the song is not too bad either. Apart from Cherish she has never produced something so sensual. That's sensual not sexual jerks. Big difference.


Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Sat 18:17 GMT
 

More pr0n

You all have to try the duck in plum sauce from the takeaway from below me on New Station Street. It is surreal in it's gorgeousness. It's bloody expensive at £6.80 per portion but it is worth every penny. You can taste the marinade of orange, lemon and ginger. Ginger and duck? My two favorite tastes. Blend them together and I'm in heaven.

Da Missus and I went to a restaurant in the QC a couple of times, where I swear I had one with the flavor of duck and raspberry combined. Da Missus isn't too keen on duck but if memory serves me correctly, she was a bit impressed with it.

My daughter here in England has been brought up as a vegetarian and was horrified to hear "duck pancakes" mentioned. She asked my mother whether she had ever had them. My mother must have given me the love of duck so she was honest and said she had. Muchos tears followed.

It's cruel to not let kids eat things. I was vegetarian for a couple of years when I was a teenager. I understand the moral dilemma. It's tough as you grow up to understand the food chain. But life is life and we need protein. Nothing on this planet tastes better than a good piece of lamb or duck or beef or trout. That's one thing that N and I agree on completely; N does a wicked every one of those things.

In a world where you feel so much guilt for various things, the last one you should inflict on a kid is the one of food hang-ups. Eating meat is as natural as breathing. We were made omnivores; why deny it?

Sorry. I'm off downstairs for duck in lemon.

I'm going to be broke by the end of the month.


Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Sat 15:10 GMT
 

Last bastion of football invaded

Good Lord. I love Auntie Beeb but sometimes it's a love/hate relationship.

That great institution, Football Focus, has resorted to discussing gay footballers. Like anyone cares. We pay to watch football. We don't give a badger's fart whether they are gay or not.

Well, I suppose most of us.

People need to get over this whole "gay" thing. It's been around since the dawn of time. Half my blogroll are gay. Heaven forbid a footballer is a Muslim, or a creationist or whatever. There would be hours of TV analysis.

The only point that I took away from it was that there are statistically 50-75 players in the premier league who are gay. And even that is dubious...I don't trust statistics I haven't seen the calculations behind.

Auntie, please don't invade my Saturday morning dose of football porn with such things. Save them for newsnight specials which is where I would expect to see such gunk.


Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Sat 13:00 GMT
 

24th February 2006

How daft do I sound?

I may well have spent until the age of eighteen in Wigan but do I really sound as daft as the girl who has just been on the six o'clock news who is Miss Wigan? She sounded terrible. I'm sure my accent isn't that bad, is it?

Surely with all my travels I have dropped that Wigan twang. I know I have a generic Northern accent from Wigan, Boro and Leeds but I must have lost more of it than I have retained. I'm probably OK for a Coronation Street role still, but really?

I need some help here peeps. This is scary. I cannot sound so dumb.


Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Fri 18:34 GMT
 

Another unsuccessful trip to the doc's

Monday and Friday mornings are come as you are days at the doc's so basically it's first come, first served. I had overheard a conversation my previous visit that said someone had arrived 15 minutes before the 8:30 start and was behind ten people or something equally horrendous, so was waiting for hours. Being the cunning type of chap I am, I thought "I will arrive at 8:00 - should be first then". Only, the surgery wasn't even open and a harsh February morning of sleet and snow had me blasted for 30 minutes. If I hadn't been ill when I went in, I would be now.

I can't make out my doctor at all. He's either a complete goof or a Columbo-style genius. I asked him to feel at the glands in my neck. He put a casual hand on them for all of a second and said he would refer me to a specialist for scans. As I was leaving he called me back to tell me that he is not just a MD, but a trained psychiatrist and that he has "one more question". Honestly, it feels like being in a cheesy eighties film.

What do you make of such bizarre behavior? I've never seen anything so odd in all my life.

I'll tell you who I want as my GP. The lady who looked after me when I was in casualty after my near-car miss. She had everything right about her; professionalism, consistency, good taste in jewelry. Shame she's fresh out of med school and won't be a GP for years.

Endgame; "keep taking the meds mate", but nothing that actually does anything other than amoxicylin, vitamins, stomach pills etc. Not what I call a result. I know these guys are no more intelligent than software engineers but Lord, you would think better than to resort to a proverbial reboot and a referal to a specialist.

I have to go shiver in the cold again come Monday to see how I'm doing.

Lord, I should get off the NHS tales and get back to poking the world in the eye here.


Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Fri 09:57 GMT
 

23rd February 2006

Country going to the dogs

First we let someone steal what could be up to £50m. Immediately there's a £2m reward offered. A WPC gets shot in Bradford and there's little to nothing offered. What a world.

Where the hell did morals go? In fact, I'm surprised the word is a concept in English, in exactly the same way that there's some nation in Africa who do not have a word for sorry so have no empathy for the emotion.

Then we decide to go all metric and put road-signs in kilometers.

Winston Churchill must be turning in his substantial grave.


Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Thu 16:21 GMT
 

22nd February 2006

Bless you blog

The damned website went down again last night. I thought it was because we hadn't paid our bill. It transpires that we have not paid our bill, but that was not the reason for the outage. I would have had the means in my pocket to pay the bill were it not for me personally financing the NHS drug trade this morning and no means of sending it.

After the doctor's yesterday I coudn't face the great outdoors so literally ambled back here to sleep for what must have been a couple of hours. I ended up going in to get my blood work done in an uncoventional manner but that is a story for another day. I tell you, if the nurse had been about a foot shorter I would have lamped him one, but seeing survival was on the line physically and metaphorically I opted against that particular idea. After the test, the doctor who admitted me for observation left me in a room. Four hours went past. I went out for a smoke. Another hour went past. Not even a glass of water. Guess I'm wasting one of these oh so scarce beds here? I got up and walked home. No-one said a word.

I haven't taken any anti-biotics since God was a little boy (which is a good thing if we are to accept the general medical consensus) until today, when I finally got over to Boots looking like I should be clutching handfuls of The Big Issue. Prescription in hand I walked out with quite a stash of drugs only two of which I understand the biology behind.

I have a sneaking suspicion we are on an escalation path here and we're talking tubes where they should not go. Namely down my throat. I have a gag-factor that could be classed as a chemical weapon. Those little wooden spoons they put on your tongue to see your throat? Bleugh. Blarty. Have a pen hit my tongue anywhere over a third of the way back? Chunksville. It would be okay were it done under general anaesthetic but my one and only experience of that left me feeling paralyzed for a day.

Where will it all end? Eh? Death and bloody misery.

All of the above reminds me of my favorite phrase ever..."You can teach a pig to sing, but it sounds awful and is inconvenient for the pig." That's me and medicine right there.


Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Wed 10:44 GMT
 

21st February 2006

Another blood test

I am sick of people sticking syringes in me. I went to my newly resourced doctor's this morning. It is in the end of town that defines end of town. It makes Moss Side look cosmopolitan. There were people so rough in there that they had notices up politely requesting no-one punch the doctor.

I was in such a state that I had to ask a young lady next to me to fill in my forms. She had the kindest demeanor to her. And she smiled at me as she left with a look of abject pity. Midst the end of towners, a truly nice human being. I have some faith restored.

The doctor is an aging Indian chap with outrageous taste in rings and an even more outrageous management style. He barked at his staff with a passion that probably frightened end of towners. He started off the same way with me but I guess I was such a wilting willow, he knew he wasn't in for any trouble. I think the moment he realised I was "with" he literally perked up a bit...I guess mental stimulation isn't on the job spec for NHS docs in areas of Leeds that should be bulldozed.

Anyway, the inevitable happened...blood tests. Blood tests scare the pants off me. If I'm not a dithering mess when I go in, I am when I come out. Last time I was brave and took it like a man. Now I just want to punch anyone with a needle. Honestly, how do drug addicts do it? I'd faint. The very hint of a blood-pressure band and my pulse quickens although my blood-pressure always comes out normal.

It strikes me that this cannot be a hard problem to solve. I have pain in my guts and whatever the name of the glands is in your neck. Just fix it genii. For all our knowledge, we're still in the Middle Ages. It frustrates me no end, having to deal with daily pain that makes me whince from my core.

That said, the experience this morning was unique. It was worth walking two miles to see a bizarre Indian chap with ring madness for him to tell me the inevitable and issue me with a prescription as long as your arm. I think for the first time since I was a teenager, I have a doctor I like. He's just the right side of off-the-wall for us to meet somewhere in the middle. But he still wants blood. The git.

According to him, I'm not depressed at all too. He is the first quack who has had the bollocks to say that to me. I mentioned that I had come off citalopram last week. He looked me square in the eye and said "there are no withdrawal symptoms from that". I wasn't going to argue.

Gook that he is, he wants to see me daily but didn't know he's booked up until next week. I suppose I'll take my meds like a good boy while keeping the neighbors awake howling in pain and dreaming of blood tests.


Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Tue 11:23 GMT
 

19th February 2006

Harmony

I have a lot of things to thank Da Missus for but music is one I owe her for a great deal. We all know I'm a bit girly when it comes to music. My Kate Bush and Tori Amos predeliction has been established for years. However without Da Missus, I could have gone a lifetime without Fiona Apple and Ani Di Franco, and that would have been quite outrageous.

American women sound so beautiful. I could bathe in Fiona Apple's voice. It just oozes soul.

I used to love listening to N sing. I never told her that because that would be cheesy. There is something unique to American women when they sing. The sound just hits you right where you shouldn't be hit.

I mention this because I had planned on going seeing a very un-American vocalist. As per usual, narcolepsy took over and I missed it. Sam Payne, whose ad is over to the left, was playing in Leeds last night. I've only seen her once but she plays a piano like nothing you can imagine. It truly is a gift to be so good on a piece of equipment made of component parts that really should not be in the same locale.

I awoke to Ms Apple this morning; it reminded me that I should have been in Holbeck last eve. It also reminded me that I should be in Thirsk in a few hours for the Ubermeister's eightieth birthday do.

I should have learned music. I have so much love for it and so little talent. There is nothing more earth-shattering than a beautiful voice. It can reduce you to your base bits in seconds. It actually makes you feel alive. Which is not a condition I am feeling so strongly at the moment; a couple of hours until I need to get on a train and I'm not feeling the love at all.

My late grandfather was a very gifted piano player and I'm told my dad was but hated the practice. I really wish I had inherited that talent. I'll just have to appreciate other people's for the duration.


Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Sun 07:34 GMT
 

16th February 2006

Another day to forget

Yet another awful day at work. I feel I can't do right for doing wrong. I get conflicting messages that my frail ego cannot reconcile at all.

Midst all of my struggles at work, the Waaart called to see if I fancied drinkies. He has what he terms "a drinking job" whereby if he pitches in every three weeks for thirty minutes and produces some wizardry a couple of times a year, he's fine. I was so tempted. After all, what better way to ease the strain than a few pints with my oldest friend?

Common sense took over and I had to decline. We have a meet-up on Saturday for a football match between our respective teams; tomorrow night will come all too quickly and I'll see him then.

Speaking of football, this is an email the Waaart sent to his brother-in-law regarding said match:

N,

You are cordially invited to join messrs Yates and Gxxxxxx this Saturday at 12 noon for drinks and nibbles and the small matter of the FA Cup 5th round tie between Liverpool and scum - ahem, I mean Man U (now only the 2nd richest club in the world).

You will appreciate the importance of your attendance - as the only neutral supporter, your job will include pouring drinks and breaking up fights. So no excuses about painting your little darling's bedrooms or any such nonsense.

RSVP.

Waaart.

Apart from the fact that I didn't know N's darling had multiple bedrooms, I swear that was the only time I laughed today.

The Missus isn't online at the moment so I'll see if Ms Kaplinksy can raise my mood somewhat. Gah. I picked a really bad time to give up smoking crack while shooting poodles from the balcony.


Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Thu 18:15 GMT
 

15th February 2006

R.I.P.

Just a quick note of consolation to those poor souls who smoke, and to all the pub and club owners in England whose businesses will commence going down the toilet in Summer 2007. Well done (sic) on the free vote "representatives".

We can only hope that the Lords see more sense. But given their average ages and IQs (inversely proportional to their ages), I fear they will ratify legislation that will wipe out an entire industry.

As the Waaart said, he's moving to France. I say France will follow suit soon. I'm moving to somewhere they would never ban smoking; Taiwan.


Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Wed 07:09 GMT
 

Four is too little

The only thing worse than waking up feeling bad is waking up feeling so good, you just want to go straight out and start performing miracles. I was thinking I might start with making 7:20 to King's Cross leave on time.

Seriously, I am feeling good despite a bad back and what feels like a nest of woodpeckers residing in the back of my throat. A full eight hours of sleep followed by three cups of tea, and it's not even 7:00am. I threw caution to the wind and started to follow the age old maxim when making tea; "one per person and one for the pot". Well I figure there are four cups in my pot ergo four bags plus one for the pot. That's five. And, as you will be unsurprised to learn, I am right. Five is the number for this pot.

My devotion to empirical research into tea-making should be legendary by now yet I appear to be getting no publicity whatsoever. I suppose an artist usually doesn't become an artist until they shuffle off their mortal coil. One day, science will thank me for my efforts.


Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Wed 06:50 GMT
 

14th February 2006

How?

How am I meant to hold an umbrella above me, smoke a cigarette and carry two coffees on my way to work. Darwin was a jerk. Or rather his theory was wrong.


Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Tue 08:01 GMT
 

12th February 2006

Sunday morning 4am

In a mad display of fundamental interconnectedness, I awoke this morning at around 3am with the thought in my mind that N was at the side of me. Sadly she wasn't. But as I walked to the kitchen to get some cough syrup, I heard a berrrrrlllling from the PC, and sure enough it was Da Missus on Yahoo to see if I was there. She's got through a couple of big deals and has a further one to face. Somehow, I knew something was not quite right when I woke up, so expected her to be trying to contact me. You would be amazed how we know what each other is doing or feeling at any given point. I ritually IM N as soon as she has sat down...there's a connection somewhere that cannot be broken by distance.

We chatted a while on Yahoo and then I spent probably the majority of a week's money on the phone to her. We laughed. We shared stories. We remembered. We planned. All the things we used to do together.

We've had several conversations over the course of the year surrounding the opposite sex; another area that we are totally at one on. There is no-one who could come close to replacing the other in this world. Da Missus keeps threatening to elope with Trent Resnor, I stalk Natasha Kaplinski via the 6 o'clock news but that is just silliness. At the end of the day, we operate as a unit whether there are 5000 miles between us or not.

I'm lucky to have stumbled upon my dream woman in a hotel in Harvard IL, a place that I was dreading going to. She turned Chi-town IL and Minneapolis into second homes for me. And every time I feel my head going down at the moment, a fuzzy picture of the world's most beautiful and engaging woman suddenly appears on my laptop -- and that calibrates things.

I still get down living on my own but I have the best friends you can have a small 25 minute train ride away. And they live within 200 yards of each other. I have an income. But most of all, I have Da Missus and my bizarre children. Living on my own is a small inconvenience, not something I should be down about.

With all that said, even Da Missus cannot fix my current predicament. I feel the need for an absolute mountain of roast lamb and roast potatoes. I was meant to be nipping back to Manc for dinner at the parental units' but overslept thanks to a Yahoo show that ensured I could not go back to sleep for hours.

Anyone in Leeds doing a big lunch that I can come and scav?


Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Sun 13:02 GMT
 

10th February 2006

Put in the nails...

Oh God. You would not believe the day I have just had. Well you've probably all had them so don't care a parsnip's buttock about mine. You know the type...that ever present thought that says "if insert-random-event here happens, I swear I will nuke Norway" and as you turn a corner, sure enough, it's right there in front of you but twice as shitty.

I guess I'm not built for bigger companies. I hate micro-managing. I know some people get off on it, but they are the type of person who has just realized that Santa Claus and The Tooth Fairy don't exist and have a mad need to cling to something soft, fluffy and tangible.

When I hired people, I hired them for their ability to make my life less prone to having to manage. I suppose that sounds kind of selfish, but as anyone with an IQ higher than Gazza may appreciate, it is for the greater good.

I have to stop. I swore when I started this job I would not mention it here other than in passing. Let's just say it has been a terrible, terrible day. The kind that make kittens too good for kicking.


Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Fri 17:38 GMT
 

9th February 2006

The universe is not big

When compared to a rail journey from Bristol to Leeds. I've done shorter trans-Atlantic trips. In fact that time I went to the moon was over with quicker than Bristol Parkway to Cheltenham Spa. Cheltenham I ask you? What the hell is in Cheltenham worth stopping for? Doesn't it go Bristol, Brum on the map? There is nothing between the two places other than a void.

And talk about over-populated? I saw old women standing all the way from Brum to Leeds. I would have given up my seat but I was there first. There must have been about 20 people stood up in my carriage alone so I presume the rest of the train was similarly populated. Virgin must be making a fortune on that line.

This particular train started off at Plymouth, probably a week last Sunday and was due to get into Glasgow at about 10:40 tonight. I used to drive to Glasgow and back in the time it takes for this collosus to roll out of Sheffield. Dear God.

I have a feeling I will be doing that trip a lot more often. It doesn't fill me with glee. I get nose-bleeds South of Brum.


Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Thu 19:00 GMT
 

8th February 2006

Reprise

OK, I lied yesterday. I have just discovered an appreciation for color.

To wit, Sian Williams' pink top this morning is just the wrong shade of pink to be worn with her pink jacket. And that nail polish was bordering on the illegal.

I now need to check my outfit for the day for mismatches. Oh God, it's hard being a metrosexual icon.


Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Wed 07:23 GMT
 

7th February 2006

Twofer

Because I got up early, you get a double dose this morning.

Apparently, yesterday my son advised Barbie that she shouldn't wear orange because her hair was red.

Where the hell did that come from? I swear he is not my kid. I don't know orange from red if it has an RGB value written beside it.

And what the hell is he doing with Barbies? I am going to buy him a toy Colt 45 to point at passing Jihadists and a lifetime subscription to the Daily Telegraph. I tell you, the older I get, the less tolerance I have for fashion sense.


Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Tue 07:06 GMT
 

You know it's early when

(a) Joni Mitchell starts singing after you get up.

(b) There's no-one around to deal with the car alarm that has been going off for an hour outside your flat.

(c) There's only Moira Stewart on Breakfast TV. Even Simon McCoy hasn't surfaced yet.

(d) It's just gone six and you already have the dishwasher running.

(e) The kettle has done its second tour of duty yet there is still a rampant desire for capuccino. And bacon. Lots and lots of bacon.


Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Tue 06:24 GMT
 

6th February 2006

And the sad thing is, I could be from the QC...

You Know You're From the Quad Cities When...

You know what the phone number is for "Car Dead Call Fred"!

You refer to the mighty Mississippi River, the second longest river in
the US, as "The River".

You have to watch the paper to see which bridge would be best to get
across "The River", since they are all are being worked on. This has
gone on for years - just ask your parents.

You know that Joes, Franks, Shortys, Clints, and Nancy's are not
names, but pizza places.

You know that Whities is an Ice Cream place, not a racial term.

You know that South Park is the name of a mall, not a television show.

You know that Daisy Dooks is off of I-280, not a character on a television show.

You know that Tuxedos is not a place you rent one from.

You will stand in line for over an hour to buy "sculpted concrete".

You know that Milan is not pronounced like the one that is the fashion
capital of the world.

You know that "Magic Mountain" refers to a meal, not an amusement park ride.

You use the term "Palmer" as a familiar landmark.

You don't crash into a low clearance bridge driving on Brady or Harrison street.

You'll drive out of your way to get on I-80 to avoid going through
Colona for any reason.

You know that pork is THE white meat, not THE OTHER white meat.

You have used the phrase, "stupid Iowawegian" or "go back to Illi-NOISE"!

You have to dial long distance to call someone within sight across the
river, but dial a local number for someone twenty minutes away.

You know that the coming of spring mean that the Rock River WILL
flood. Your house WILL be under water, and you're ok with it.

You'll drive from Carbon Cliff to Rock Island with no problem, but
groan if you have to go from River Drive in Moline to River Drive in
Bettendorf because it means "going across the bridge".

You measure distance in minutes, not in miles.

You know what Taco Pizza is, and argue over who makes the best one
like it was a hot political issue.

You know what Evel Knievel sounds like when he's mad.

You can tell someone that you're on top of the hill or at the bottom
of the hill and they'll immediately know where you are within two
guesses.

You hear someone say, "I'm getting off on Kimberly" and you do not
think it is something sexual.

You can pay $14 for a round of golf.

You still refer to Avenue of the Cities as The Avenue or 23rd.

You know that the Slider Run refers to getting burgers, not to running a race.

Everywhere on the Illinois side can be navigated by John Deere, 23rd
or River Drive.

You cannot see a White Castle restaurant for hours, and didn't hear of
Sonic Burger until you moved away for college.

You still give directions using landmarks that have been gone for
years, like Chenoweth Farm and Venture.

You understand why there's a rivalry similar to the North and the
South during the Civil War between kids "in the cities" and the kids
from Geneseo and Cambridge.

You actually get these jokes and pass them on to other friends from Quad Cities.


Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Mon 07:34 GMT
 

5th February 2006

Lamb always tastes better when the Waart cooks it

Saturday night's alright for fighting looking like a prize Manchesto' raver. Canal Street, here I come:



It was this big. And what the hell are Nev and Karen up to?


Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Sun 19:14 GMT
 

2nd February 2006

What I didn't do

When we were kids at junior school, we used to have to write a journal every Monday morning saying what we had done over the weekend. I used to conform to the usual "played football, went for bike rides, torched local shop" etc. My brother has always thought a bit differently. He used to write about what he hadn't done, which said more about his state of mind than any tale of what he actually had done.

Example: "This weekend, I didn't go to Blackpool Pleasure Beach".

I like his style.

Last night, I didn't go and watch Bauhaus.

This afternoon, I didn't sit there unoblivious to what was going on around me. I'm not expecting to have nothing to say tomorrow evening.

Damn, that's too hard. I don't know how he did it.

Stay tuned folks. I sense another bump on the road. I'm either immune to change now or this one is less unwelcome than the last.

I may be back later. I have a couple of rants that have been building up for a couple of days now.


Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Thu 18:58 GMT