31st January 2008
I'm gutted
I just received the following in an addendum to an email from the W-meister:
Other than that nothing much to report.
BTW: Bryony's into men who are "Flamboyant and camp". I'd say that gives you a fighting chance mate! ;-)
W
I resemble resent that remark!
All those who know me in that horrible place called real life (Flip-Flop, Kidder, Stan, Psycho, Mopsa, MJ, Nicole, The Supervisor, Conners, Dr Stu, Grom, Emma, Manx Lennie etc.), please come to my defense and refute this outrageous allegation. Manx person, you are not allowed to bring up pantomime tights. Flip-Flop, Kidder, W, Supervisor, you are not allowed to mention eye make-up, dyed hair (in fact the whole of the eighties). I thank you.
Update: The Flip-Flop's Bidet presents have just arrived. I will not display a photo until she has unwrapped them.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Thu 15:51 GMT, by Kenny
Sundries
I was a tad surprised when Bryony put her hat into the Conway saga. Not because she isn't right (to a certain extent), but because I can think of many other complete wastes of tax-payers' money. Nepotism is a finely crafted art that pervades all politics. It was originally devised by the Tory party when God was a little boy and has spread into every section of society.
I didn't bat an eyelid when I first read the Conway story. To be fair, I was still a little nauseous from the Northern Rock bung (now that is a waste of tax-payers' money if ever there was one). As quick as I started to feel some slight anger towards Conway, up jumped something that overtook it in raising my blood-pressure: the "secret bung to banks in trouble" legislation that means full disclosure really translates to full'ish disclosure. I must confess I have yet to read it in detail because I know it will be criminally tedious and will necessitate ploughing through layers of weasel words to extract the real crime. That said, my simplistic noggin automatically thought "How on earth do you hide a sudden bung of a few tens of billions of beer-tokens in an earnings statement?" -- Stan, can you spread any light on such things?
I've just had one of my infamous shifts in mental gear. Back in the day when I was still wet behind more than my ears and even more naive than I am today about accounting figures etc., I came across one of my favourite phrases ever. When I say favourite, I mean a phrase that is complete and utter gibberish. That phrase is (and I will italicise it in upper case for the dramatic gasp it deserves):
AMMORTISATION OF INTANGIBLES
Isn't that like playing a joker in gin rummy? Essentially you can make the number that you have detailed as an "ammortisation of intangibles" any number you like in order to cook your books.
Back on track...there are millions of back-scratching exercises performed all over the world. Had Conway not been a politician and paid his kid the same amount, no-one would have even noticed.
Bryony's point is essentially questioning whether you should indulge your sprogs if you are mega-wealthy (a la Conway and Leo Luther) or make them struggle like you did (or not in the case of Nigella Lawson)? My take on it is that there's a happy medium. If you can afford it, buy them a modest home so they don't have to worry about that, give them a small dollop of cash and then let them join the real world.
One last thing before I go -- I am lead to believe that Nigella Lawson is regarded by the male populus as being a bit dishy. Having my infamous lack of knowledge on all things deemed pop-culture or reality-whatever, I think I have only ever seen her on TV once and, to be honest, I have no idea what the fuss is all about.
On that subject, I haven't said this for a while and I fear newer subscribers to my almost daily tripe will not yet have seen the light, so I will say it again. Chant it as your mantra:
Kylie Minogue is not pretty. She is an evil midget.
I think that's a few people put to rights.
--
PS -- thanks to "Tim" for informing me that my machinations have been taken seriously by his employer and that actions have been taken. I now feel obliged to go and buy a new shirt at Next.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Thu 14:29 GMT, by Kenny
29th January 2008
The signs were there
I don't very often trouble my peabrain with quick crosswords, where the only skill involved is to be a walking thesaurus, however yesterday I had rattled off the cryptic doo-da so embarked upon the quickie.
1A -- Arsenal
14A -- Wenger
15D -- Gunners
Who did Utd draw in the FA Cup? Yes. Arsenal, or the Arse as they are not-so-imaginatively named in my presence.
Spooky or what? Someone knows something at the Telegraph.
It'll be nice to get one of the harder games over with prior to the final. Whenever the Arse play United they have this look of rabbits in headlights as they try to defend their way to glory. So, given the tie is at Old Trafford, my money is on us to beat them (where else would it be?). Sealed envelope prediction: 3-1.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Tue 12:37 GMT, by Kenny
28th January 2008
Flip-Flop finally catching up in age
A week today, the Flip-flop turns 30-something. I'd out her age but I have no idea what it is. All I know is that she's younger than me -- I was doing my degree when she was doing her O Levels so she must be at least three or four years behind.
I would tell you what I have bought her for her birthday but she has a nasty habit of bobbing on here every now and again. Suffice to say, I'm "chuffed as a whippet 'bowt piles."
I must now away to cleanse myself prior to my rearranged doc's appointment. Before I do this though, I'll read the article in the Telegraph about Kate Silverton's laser surgery nightmare.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Mon 11:39 GMT, by Kenny
I've got a degree
I can ask whether you want fries with your bacon-dog-burger in five different languages. I am working on the sixth and seventh (Arabic and Hebrew -- not sure the bacon bit will go down too well) towards my Masters. Once I hit ten, and have mastered how to instantly calculate that an order is cheaper if it comes as a "meal" rather than doing it by iteratively hitting random keys on the register, cocking it up, waiting for the "manager" to void the transaction etc., I should have a PhD and five stars on my badge.
I can claim my degree from the pull out sticker on my super-super-sized Big Mac, large fries, gallon of something that vaguely resembles coca cola and two apple pies.
Yes, according to the BBC (and a bunch of nothing parasitic government ministers), McDonalds is to start handing out qualifications. Other forward thinking companies include FlyBe and National Rail (analysis of snow and leaf conditions is heavily covered).
Personally, the only reason I can see for looking for a "career" at McDonalds is to open one under the franchise, pay the staff a pittance and trust to Joe Public to spend, spend spend while I sit in the Bahamas sipping cocktails. Incidentally, have you seen how much a McDuff's franchise costs? Last time I looked (in the early 90s), it was £250k. I'd expect a PhD for that.
My PhD in McAnalysis (Ronald's Business Park) details as follows: Majored in the viscosity of tomato relish when fused with standard McMustard at room temperature. An unexpected conclusion was that the more heat applied to the system from external forces, the less viscous the relish becomes. In layman's terms, the tomato gloop is far more likely to drop on to your freshly dry-cleaned suit if the burger is actually hot.
I have a funny feeling that Ms Gordon might pick up on this one. Roll on Thursday.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Mon 10:12 GMT, by Kenny
25th January 2008
How do I bitch at thee?
Let me count the ways...
Well it has to be said that today was a monumental disaster of a day.
I was meant to be having yet more blood drawn from me this morning. It was one of these fasting deals so I was narky having been deprived of my gallon of tea and my frosties since midnight last night. Upon arrival at the walk-in center armed with Trusty Telegraph and two blood forms, the carpark was at saturation point. I tried doing a few circuits for ten minutes before screaming blue murder and setting off to find somewhere nearby to park. A mile away I found a parking space, albeit with an hour time limit on it. I bitched and moaned as I walked all the way to the hospital.
The waiting room looked pretty packed. No matter, I grabbed a ticket. I looked at it; number 30 and then looked at the little number display that tells you what number they will syphon next. It was on 69. Yup 50 people in front of me, and the clock quickly running down on my parking. I gave it a royal sigh, cursed very loudly in the direction of the receptionist, walked back to the car and drove home.
I've now booked an appointment for next Thursday somewhere closer that isn't a walk-in center.
This pisses me off because it means El Doctore will not have the results back by the time I see her. And if she hasn't got the results, she won't know my ferritin levels ergo will not be willing to let me go back to work. I was clocking in at 2500 when I should be at 150. Go me. Apparently if you stop absorbing iron (the side-effects of which are these high ferritin levels), iron deposits start to form on your joints and organs. If left untreated, organs start failing on you. Thankfully treatment comes in the guise of being drained of 2 units of blood a week. I suggested that they go the whole hog and do a bit of trepanning while they were at it. Perhaps a leech or two? Let's hope that my levels are back to normal.
Aside -- Ferritin is a great name for some blood gubbins, only in Lancashire it's what we do when we're looking for something. To wit, "He wur ferritin' in t'cupboard fur it." Less common is the act of taking one's pet mongoosey type creature out to bag a couple of rodents: "He's gooin' ferritin' so's them bloody rats gerrart ot'garden." /Aside
I returned to Wigan for a further appointment this afternoon only to find out it had been cancelled. Stress levels were now seriously high.
I decided a little retail therapy was in order so wandered into Next. The following letter sums it up:
25h January 2008
The Manager
Next Retail(Wigan)
The Grand Arcade
Market Place
Wigan
Lancashire WN1
cc: Next Corporate (by www, email and post)
Dear Sir/Madam,
I write to complain about my treatment while purchasing goods at your Wigan outlet today.
Having a few minutes to kill, I stepped into Next to see if there were any suitable trousers for me to purchase. I spotted some that I quite liked -- unfortunately on that particular rack, the trousers were only available in short and long, not regular. I pulled each of the available sizes from the rack and measured them against my waist to see whether they would fit. Unfortunately they didn't. I then spotted a pair on another rack in my size so picked them out and carried on browsing. One of your attendants then pounced on me asking whether I intended buying them to which I responded in the affirmative and carried on browsing. The same assistant then followed me around the shop while I browsed. Initially I put this down to over-zealous selling.
As I passed the register on my way to look at shirts, the same assistant asked whether he should put them through the till. I was getting a bit annoyed at being pestered so thought I'd just pay and have done. I paid and started meandering out, looking at the shirts as I went.
As I reached the doors downstairs, I noticed that the same assistant had followed me down and as I was leaving the store, shouted "You'll not be allowed back in here, I know what you were doing."
I was a little taken aback and responded "Sorry?".
He then alleged that I had a gadget of some description that takes off the electronic tag secreted in my pocket and that he had seen me rummaging in my pocket and that this was all on camera. Becoming quite indignant, I demanded that if I was being accused of anything that he show me the CCTV tapes to prove it. I insisted that we go back upstairs to view these images and openly dumped the contents of all my pockets on the counter; handkerchief, lighter, keys, cigarettes, change, pen -- nothing that could vaguely be construed as an implement with which to remove a tag.
The assistant then re-iterated that he had seen me delving in my pockets. The only thing I can think of is that he saw me holding the trousers to my waist to check them for length.
Having established that I was not attempting to shoplift anything, he dropped the subject of the camera and let me leave. I was obviously highly embarrassed and affronted. Thankfully the only other person in the menswear section at the time was another member of staff.
I was given no apology by the assistant as I left.
I have shopped at Next for many years, both online and offline. I have never been treated so disgracefully in any store here or anywhere else in the world. I will certainly not be shopping at Next again, whether it be the Wigan store or any other, unless I can see some kind of appropriate action taken against this power-crazed retail assistant. A company that empowers its employees to be overtly rude to its customers does not deserve any trade at all. I wish I had thought about returning the trousers and demanding a refund before I left.
The time the sale was made was 13:53 by assistant 041 (he identified himself as Matthew when I asked) at Wigan 244. Although it is not expressly labelled as such, it appears the transaction ID was 02 0271.
You will note that I am copying this letter to your corporate office by various media.
The whole sorry tale reflects very badly on you and your company.
Sincerely,
Real Name Kenny in earth-tones.
So you see -- a royal shite of a day.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Fri 17:57 GMT, by Kenny
22nd January 2008
My certain appointment
Bryony has blogged about the comfort and exclusiveness of London buses. Having never been on one in my life, I left a sarcastic message stating that next time I was unlucky enough to find myself in the smoke, I would make a point of experiencing the delight. Given that I know my way around London about as well as I know how to navigate Leningrad, I promised I would file my report in the "Places I have nearly died in" folder. Unfortunatley, I don't have one even though I should. With this in mind, I thought I would catalogue my travel (and day to day) near-misses for an appointment with a barbeque in a long box.
I think my first brush with St Peter was in Palm Coast in 1998. N and I were asleep one Saturday morning (July 4th) after a heavy night of wassailing with the natives. There was an enormous rattle on the door. The hotel security were evacuating us due to wild fires surrounding the hotel. The good news was that the fires were only on two sides. The bad news was that one of the other sides was a matrix of canals and had no through roads. As we hit the highway, everyone else appeared to be heading in one direction. Being perverse and not opting for the "sheep" response, I ignored the signs pointing me towards an enormous traffic jam and put my foot down. It was a bit surreal -- the air was solid plumes of black wood smoke. Charcoal stumps lay smoldering with an occasional blink of orange as the wind caught them. As we got out of Palm Coast, the fires were virtually within reaching distance from the car.
You'd think that was a near-death experience but it was nowhere near as scary as what happened when we finally found somewhere to stay in Orlando. We sat in a bar near the hotel supping nasty US "beer" (I use the term freely). As a joke, and not being from around those parts, I took it upon myself to declare that I was reclaiming the USA for her majesty. It being Independence day, and the patrons of said dive having the sense of irony of Jeffrey Archer, the atmosphere became a tad frosty towards the insane Brit in the corner. "It's okay" spake N, "he's English" (in a very apologetic manner). We legged it before any meat-heads regained their senses long enough to feel affronted.
My next visit to Florida was to Fort Lauderdale. I think N had got a flight home earlier in the week. I was due to fly back to blighty on the Friday morning, via Atlanta but Mother Nature had other plans. A tropical storm decided it was going to grow up to be a hurricane and land right on me. Planes were out of the question so I sat and rode out the storm. It was robably the worst and most destructive weather I have ever seen.
Then there was the tornado in IL. I was staying in Bolingbrook, just South of Chicago. A few days earlier I had joked with one of the guys there that "his daughter would not be so scared of tornados if she saw one". He looked at me like I had gone daft. All I had ever seen were funnel clouds. Sure enough a couple of days later, enter Mr Tornado stage left. An almight "phew" as it whizzed to the East of us, flattening houses en-route.
Should I mention waking up in Tokyo with my 17th storey box room shaking like Elvis without speed? A brief glance out of the window saw the horizon rocking gently from side to side, up and down. Being a believer in relativity, from my view point, it was rocking. However were you sat on the horizon looking at my hotel, you would see that it was it that was rocking. Just another friendly Japanese wake-up call. Some places have a telephone wake-up, others a buzzer on a clock. In Japan, I used to set my 6:00am earthquake call.
This isn't a near-death thing, but about three months after my visit to Phuket, the room that I had been staying in was lost to the tsunami. It's hard to envisage such a serene and beautiful place being reduced to the pictures we saw on the TV.
Phuket hits me kind of like 9/11 does. I know, I wasn't there but there hangs just enough accumulated experience to say "there but for the grace of [insert deity here], go I." I had spent quite a lot of time visiting a client in the WTC a few years previously. Given its immensity, I remembered everything about it in great detail. The kicker was the fact that I had flown back from the UK the day before, with a layover in, yup you guessed it, Boston.
There have been other near misses including the time the cockpit window smashed at 20,000 feet going from Minneapolis to LAX (that was an adrenalin rush and a half), a couple of lightning strikes above Atlanta etc. that I will need to add to my collection of morality mortality-reminders.
Now, bring on London buses.
Oh, I forgot: Our old CTO fed 240V through me on many occasions. I tried to explain to him that making me redundant would be a lot less inconvenient to him than doing a stretch for murder. Also, I once had an employee that used to set fire to me -- the last I heard he was working for Sun, so be warned; you heard it here first.
It's a bloody wonder I'm still here.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Tue 17:05 GMT, by Kenny
20th January 2008
Some welcome, some not so welcome
I've observed a few things about British TV over the last few weeks.
The first is a good thing. The rest are annoying to the point of giving the box both barrels and then seeking out the perpetrators of such misery.
The good thing is that it appears that all the young 'uns are finally getting Kate Bush. Thirty years after the first album was released and twenty-three years after The Hounds of Love was released, Cloudbusting appears to be trendy. Seventeen years after The Sensual World hit the shops, This Woman's Work is now treated with the respect it deserves. However, I'm still awaiting mass-acclaim for The Ninth Wave which, to this day, makes my spine tingle.
The bad news is that cheap-skate companies who don't want to fork out royalties are using old songs to back their ads. They are taking well known tunes and changing them just enough to render them not copies of the songs they are flagrantly immitating. I cite, as just a smidgin' of evidence (there are many more), Visage's Fade to Grey and The Stone Roses' Love Spreads.
My main pet gripe a ce moment can be described in three words: Bill Feckin' Oddie. Are there no lengths to which this slimey sychophantic half-wit will not turn in order to get his furry-fizzog on the box? The ex-Goodie (who didn't have the dignity of Graham Garden and Tim Brook-Taylor and retire gracefully) has what appears to be multiple nature shows where he sits and lears at his female co-presenters and makes all sort of schoolboy sexual innuendo quips throughout the broadcasts. The worst thing is you cannot escape the bearded wazzock. Change channels and he's sat on some interview sofa being Bill Feckin' Oddie and making me self-combust. Try another channel and he's doing a voice-over on a commercial. You just cannot rid yourself of that dirty feeling when you inadvertently get "Billed".
All ye in favour of nuking him and the endangered species he rode in on, please say "Aye".
And those in favour of making Kate Bush the monarch, please say "Oh-aye." I'd have proposed Amy Winehouse as well but I'm not sure she sends the right message to our misguided commonwealth cousins.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Sun 19:53 GMT, by Kenny
Demobbed
I got my release papers from my sojourn into hospital yesterday morning. I grabbed a brew and started reading through loads of blood analysis and other tests. I had no idea what half the words meant let alone what the associated number should be, with the exception of a couple. That said, a little knowledge has never stopped me from having an opinion so I ooh'd and ahh'd sagely as I read the gobbledy-gook. I made a mental note to ask the doc what the hell it all meant.
One thing that did surprise me was the following:
Primary condition: Neuropathy (chronic ataxia), Myopathy, Haemachromatosis
Psychological problems: Nil
Cognitive problems: Nil
Other (unrelated): History of depression, morbid fear of needles, lumbar scoliosis
Have they got the right guy? No psychological problems? I allowed myself a small snort, guffaw and then fought off a giggle; I really have got them fooled!
I then put the letter away for future analysis.
Later in the evening, I had the misfortune to be watching Casualty on the box. Don't ask me why. I say watching but I was really finishing off the crossword when I was rudely yanked back into reality by the phrase cardio-myopathy. I was like a dog hearing a squeak. My ears must have stood up on end. The patient they were treating apparently had cardio-myopathy, had taken a couple of AD pills with some vodka and had kiffed it as a result. Gulp.
I say gulp out of an obligation to say gulp. There was no gulping involved at all. If it was one of my family who had been diagnosed with this mystery *opathy, I'd be worried sick but because it's me, I'm kind of non-plussed about it. I'm more disturbed about the number of holes they poke in me in the quest to isolate a potential course of treatment. There is nothing more unnatural than having a piece of metal jabbed into your [insert suitable site here]. And there is nothing more unsightly than bruised arms that look like I've been using smack for years.
I suppose I really should find out what this cardio-myopathy is as it seems to be top of the medics' hitlist at the moment. Having just looked it up on WebMD, I now wish I hadn't.
Guess ISle juSt TaKE hArt inn thE faCT thAt i'm SaYne anD donT HaVe anEE lufniNg diFFycultEAs.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Sun 10:08 GMT, by Kenny
18th January 2008
Kennyword
I had a couple of hours to kill this afternoon so I thought rather than be selfish and tittilate myself in some mind-numbing act of egotism, I'd spend those precious moments entertaining the crossword buffs.
Have at it Stan, Waaart and anyone else who fancies themselves. It's nowhere near as fiendish as Stan's mind-boggler from before Christmas.
Might be back in a bit with a fresh brew and a clean palate.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Fri 17:20 GMT, by Kenny
17th January 2008
The road to Wigan Pier
I sprang out of bed with my usual Thursday gusto this morning. Wey-hey, it's Bryony day. As the leap concluded, my left foot made contact with the floor on that outside bit of the foot that I call the side flange. Much fecks and b*llocks'ing ensued. I then limped downstairs to brew my first gallon of tea and indulge in that wonder of the modern world, the first cigarette of the day. En-route, I noticed that the paper had not arrived. You just do not that do that to me, on a Thursday of all days. More cursing as I opted to get a brew down me and get my bedraggled arse up to the newsagents to manually pick it up -- aside; I hate anything manual nowadays be it cars, work etc.
Just as I was about to leave the house, some frumpy looking lady arrived in an MPV and delivered the Telegraph. I quickly scanned the headlines and went for the Bryony piece. There's not a lot you can say about it apart from nod your head and agree. I started writing a tirade on the subject but pulled back before I hit the post button, mostly because this is a subject that incenses me from all angles. Suffice to say, it's a problem that needs nailing at every level of society. Having read the reports of the exploits of some of our most revered household behind their palacial front doors, it's not just the slums that feel it -- it crosses all sections of society and, quite frankly, it should cross none of them. Enough said before I run my mouth too much.
Having read that, I set about the crossword and blasted its puny arse into a footnote in tomorrow's paper. As the last clue went in (anyone beat 15 minutes?), the phone rang asking whether I would chauffeur drive the maternal unit into Wigan. I reluctantly consented. It's a short drive into Wigan, but boy did it open my eyes.
All roadworks appear to be permanent features in Wigan. They seem to be artistic statements. Were Rodin around in this time, I swear he would be contracted by Wigan MBC to monitor the asthetics of (or design grandiose) digging expeditions. Hint Rody-baby: you'll either find coal, or coal shafts, not oil.
Also, I have to say that the standard of driving in the UK is even worse than I remember. Signalling is very definitely passe. Knowing the width of your vehicle must now be a criminal offence. Common sense must always be trumped by right of way thus ensuring gridlock. In order to maximise the amount of traffic on any given road, you must drive no further than 1 foot away from the car in front -- 6 inches is recommended in urban areas.
Now I get to the bit that really inflames me. I went and topped up my little motor yesterday. From just under half full to full cost me £32.85. Yikes. And all you yanks over there whinge if it touches $2 a gallon. Over here at the moment, your'e looking at £1 a litre at minimum which I guess works out as being over £5 ($10) a gallon or thereabouts. That said, running this car will still cost me less than my season-ticket train fare.
In less stressing news, I received a message via Friends Reunited the other day. I know some people love it and some people loathe it. I just take it as what it is...I can get in touch with people I have lost contact with if I want to, and they can do the same. No harm, no foul. Anyhooo, the message was from a lass who used to be in the same form as me at high school and then was at the same college as me. I last saw her at a reunion in 1995, so it came as a bit of a shock. She's texted me a couple of times and I have tentatively agreed to pop round tomorrow night for a brew and a natter. Normally I don't do the nattering but I'm sure I'll get into the swing of it with her -- she was always a very shiny happy person. It will be good to get all the gossip from her (she's never left the area so is still in touch with most of the old lot whereas I stayed in touch with a couple at most).
So a night of reminiscing awaits. In the meantime, I have gadgets to fiddle with. I still haven't mastered the B&W camera problem!
Sorry there were no Orwell references.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Thu 15:34 GMT, by Kenny
16th January 2008
Geeky question - ignore if you wish
Okay, now I'm done fiddling with my new motor and working out all the cool and groovy features and buttons, I have been posed a problem that I cannot get my head around:
I have a Fuji F45fd 8.3MP digital camera. My father has the SLR equivalent of my camera. I have a 19" LCD TV in my bedroom. Pater has a 42" LCD TV and a 36" CRT TV. When viewing pictures or videos on the LCD TVs, the feed is in black and white, however if we plug them into the CRT, voila, color.
The connectors for both cameras are the same; USB to standard component inputs.
Any ideas anyone?
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Wed 14:52 GMT, by Kenny
15th January 2008
For you to lust after
I promised so...
Sorry about it not being on a beach, but we are experiencing unseasonable weather at the moment. It's only going to deposit a weeks worth of rain today. Might as well not bother for that poxy amount.
MCK is now christened McK. You may "oooooh" and "ahhhhhhh" in the comments.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Tue 15:31 GMT, by Kenny
13th January 2008
Well I'm a-talking 'bout the Midnight Kenny
Okay everyone, calm down. I know you're all on edge, clutching at little voodoo dolls, crossing what's crossable and looking for signs in the tea-leaves. No matter, Kenny here to update you on the mobility factor. And this time I'm not talking about my legs -- I can hear the sighs of relief interrupting the panting of anticipation.
I went out determined to acquire a "Jap Jeep" as one of mi'learned friends termed it. By that, I meant the RAV4 automatic. However I had a sudden burst of common sense. Boo for boring Kenny.
Rather than buy a toy SUV (which would have been tremendous fun granted), I happened upon a bargain that would save me on petrol, insurance, road-tax and whatever other guzzle-taxes our fair maid Gordon inflicted while still ensconsed as the incumbent at the Treasury. How shall I put it? Let's just say it isn't exactly a chick-magnet or a flagrant display of mid-life crisis. I like it though. It's automatic, nippy and small enough not to really be able to transport anyone other than myself and one passenger around (it does have rear seats but I wouldn't like to be my height in the back). Most of all, it only has 6000 miles on it and it's a Toyota. My experience with Toyotas has been nothing but good. As the same mi'learned friend says, it will probably still be going at 600k miles given its manufacturer.
Apparently it sports Toyota's new VVT engine. You may all exhale in shock and adoration at this juncture. Go on, do it. I know you're all in awe.
I gushed at the salesman when he told me it had a VVT engine. Since he was a scouser, I thought he'd said VTO engine. "Wow," thought I, "a vertical take off car, just like a Harrier Jump Jet -- that will so help me out when I'm blocked in at the local store. Man, the girls will be crying, begging me for a VTO while I'm trying to bore entertain the masses to tears by blogging." Bloody scousers...can't even pronounce Ts properly. Anyway, I have a VVT engine, whatever one of those is. It sounds like a TLA to me, it has nuts, bolts, belts and injectory paradiddles, gubbins and trancklements all inside its beautiful midnight blue pearlescent exterior (I had to mention that as I'm sure all the female readers will want to know its color -- I include myself in that particular demographic as I have long since lost interest in my HP or thrust factor -- particularly if it is pertaining to cars, oo-err missus).
Gone are the days where I would ask for torque ratios, twin carbs, whether it had an overhead camshaft or not and 0-60 timing.
Now, those few of you who remember that hallowed vehicle, White Lightning (my first ever car), will be troubled to discover that Kenny has a new beast of freedom which shall be christened Midnight Cowboy by 17:00 tomorrow. You may see photos of the beast by the end of Tuesday so you know what to avoid. And no, there are no planned journies from Middlesbrough to Nottingham (via Loughborough, Coventry or Swindon) with the Waaart dangling out of the passenger window waving his sweater and pointing at it while screaming "PULLOVER" to the car in front.
Now I'm mobile, I'm planning what adventures I can have this time around. I'm kind of looking at 2008 as a renaissance year for me -- out with the old and let's get on with it. Make hay while the sun shines and all that guff.
Let me see...well, I suppose I could drive myself to the hospital and drive to work ASAP. Hmmm. I could make policemen paranoid by following them for miles on end. That might be fun -- why have I never thought about that before? I could chase tornados in the West Midlands, armed only with a Japanese car, a Japanese digital camera and a Ninja suit. I could dangle my keys provocatively in coffee shops and coyly ask passing pretty girls if they fancied sampling a VTO with a mischievous look in my eye. That sounds far more like it.
You may all now relax until Tuesday (busy day tomorrow with docs and Harrier Jump Jet delivery) whence you may be visually introduced to Midnight Cowboy. Kenny advises that you don't stress too much in the meantime -- just grab a beverage of your choice and breathe deeply. Now count slowly back from one hundred. When you see the word "picture", you will awake and will not remember any of this post until you are stunned by MCK's beauty as I have already TLA'd it.
I will of course have to fuzzify the license plate in the picture(s) so as not to attract groupies.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Sun 19:21 GMT, by Kenny
11th January 2008
Latest obsession
I have this horrible feeling that I have OCD or something. I was thinking about returning to work the other night while wishing all manner of evil on my legs and trying to get to sleep. I'm not allowed back to work until January 27th so I have time (for once) to sort myself out a car prior to returning to work. The plus points are as follows:
-- I will not have to pay £450 a month in rail fares
-- I will not have to get up at 05:30 every weekday
-- I will get home before 19:00 every weekday
-- I can go places when I want to
-- My legs won't be taxed by the mile walk from work to the station and back each day
-- I'll be able to drink my own tea en-route rather than the pants that Transpennine Express inflict upon you for £1 a cup
With that in mind, I'm back to looking at cars. Requisites: relatively cheap automatic car that I like.
Enter, Mr OCD to say that this is what I want:
Oh yes!
It meets all the criteria I have and I have always wanted one of these babies. My last car in the UK was very nearly a manual version of this, but the then Missus poo-poo'd in favor of some asexual nothing of a family car that was about as shite as they come -- as you went around a roundabout, it would cut out, the alarm would go off and the power steering would switch itself off. I'm amazed I'm still alive. 'Tis only down to my bitchin' driving skillz that I exist to have this OCD.
Any other recommendations? I'd love to have been able to bring over my Oldsmobile Bravada but there are three problems: it's left hand drive, it would cost a fortune to insure and Nski has probably sold it by now. I suppose parts would be expensive too.
Anyone ever driven one of the Honda mini-SUV things? Any good?
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Fri 16:07 GMT, by Kenny
10th January 2008
It's Thursday!
Apart from being the maternal unit's birthday today, it's also B-day (Bryony day).
Maternal unit has done well this year. Firstly, I remembered and secondly, she got a card and presents. I can't recall the last time that happened.
Having been so diligent in my remembering ways, I woke up about as jovial as I ever manage to be. I only swore twice before limping towards the kettle. It's a really cool kettle...when you switch it on it lights up in this weird aqua blue light. A tad trippy for me first thing, so a third curse was proffered in the form of a "What the f***?". Having established that Mulder rand Scully were not needed, more blasphemy poured forth as I realised that Frosty levels were at dangerously low levels and I would have to leave the house at some point during the day.
No matter, I had Bryony's op-ed column waiting for me in the letterbox. With more bad language (this time in a "f***ing A" positive sense), I settled down out back (where what I can only assume was armageddon was taking place) to smoke a cig, sup my tea and read the paper. Straight to the B op-ed column. Sadly, it was about Sarkozy. It points out his foibles but it kind of left me a bit hollow. Maybe it's because I have no interest in French politics, the EU or European morals. I don't know why anyone is shocked by Sarkozy's overt dalliances, after all isn't it de rigeur for French politicians to have at least one mistress? This is probably why his opponent lost the election. A female president with a mistress -- too raunchy for the average French voter methinks.
Alors, I suppose I shouldn't expect to be enthralled by every column B writes. I'll mark this one down as the exception that proves the rule.
Anyway, happy bidet Lilliano (even though you won't read this because your IP is blocked).
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Thu 15:44 GMT, by Kenny
8th January 2008
In praise of the gadget
Nope, not my usual techno-gadget babble, but about one of my heroes, the one and only Fad Gadget (aka Frank Tovey) who died in his forties in 2002 from a hereditary heart condition.
My brother and the Flip-Flop bought me a compilation of all his greatest hits for Christmas. He didn't have many hits; in fact he didn't have any. But there is a staunch following of his underappreciated insanity that manifested itself in possibly the weirdest and most compelling music of the 80s and early 90s.
His first single was called Back to Nature. He recorded it in a closet at home with an eight track and an analogue synthesizer. I bit the first time I heard it and have not regretted it for a moment.
In fact, Fad Gadget was so good (read wrote such simple music) that the band that we had at sixth form covered the utterly classic Ricky's Hand. Seeing only I could sing as badly as the Gadget, I got to do vocals on that one. I also got to play power-drill. If you know your Fad Gadget, you'll know why (I know Flip-Flop, Waaart and the man from the paper-clip factory all know his stuff). Incidentally, there is only one surviving copy of the gig where we played Ricky's Hand and even that one might be dead by now (not by overplaying I might add) -- it was last seen somewhere near Newcastle I think.
The Gadget kind of peaked when he released Flag and Gag before shuffling off the Fad Gadget name and releasing a different side to his musical taste under the guise of his real name, Frank Tovey. Amongst the classics of his vastly under-rated career was an album of old anthemic working-man's music titled Worried Men In Second Hand Suits which saw him covering the likes of 15 tons, Sam Hall, Black Lung Song etc. It was a swing from one end of the musical spectrum to the other.
Thanks kidder and Das Flippen-Floppen -- I've been on a right trip down memory lane this morning.
If you're under 30 or don't have a sibling with taste enough, you'll not know who the hell I am talking about. Soz.
I will now away to smoke and bathe (not simultaneously) prior to today's little jaunt down to the docs to have my 5 prescriptions re-issued at vast expense to moi. If I'm lucky, they'll put a month's worth on one prescription therefore saving me over £100. I should also have my latest blood test results back -- gulp. If I have what they think I have the treatment is a bit agricultural and uncomfortable. Nay matter. What doesn't kill you is supposed to cure you -- I'd like to meet the feckwit who came up with that sweeping generalisation and poke him in the eye with a sharp stick.
Toodles.
PS: The Telegraph crossword was put to the sword despite being the most fiendish swine since that Auraucaria in the Grauniad back in August 1986 (I still have nightmares about that bastard, but we did eventually give it what for).
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Tue 12:46 GMT, by Kenny
7th January 2008
At 50% and rising
Morning team; life energy low. (10 points for anyone who can provide me with the source of that little gem).
It's a lie actually. Life energy is not too bad at the moment. I made it into Wigan under my own steam and went to see the nice chap about the old pins and all. I've booked a haircut as well, just in case I am mistaken for a hippie (rather than the bourgeois capitalist pig that I like to pretend to be) and am targeted as potential road-kill to feed the starving masses.
Now, where was I? Okay, yeah, you're right, I wasn't.
I'm still having problems with my wireless router. I received a new box a while ago but can I get the damned WEP key to work? Can I hell. The WEP is printed on a label stuck to the underside of the router. Unfortunately it contains 4 characters that could be either 8s or Bs -- the font is so bad you just cannot tell. That gives me 4! combinations to try and life is too short for that kind of malarchy. I guess I'm going to have to get in on a wired connection and reset the WEP key. Dull, but necessary.
I know I promised hospital stories but I'm starting to think better of it. I'll stew on that one a while. In the meantime, at midnight on new year's eve, I missed the celebrations because I was reading. I looked up from my book as the staff came pounding in wanting everyone to sing the usual with the patients, only to find that I was the only person in the room apart from the nurses. The rest had legged it outside to watch the fireworks from nearby residential houses.
I am pretty confident that at that moment in time, as Big Ben struck twelve, I was the only person in the world who was immersed in a book on meta-physics. Just call me the life and soul of the party. Having finished a particularly mind-blowing chapter, I retired chez Kenny's bed and cursed whoever invented gunpowder -- I bloody hate fireworks.
Anyhooo, I have my Kenny physio work-out to be done if I am ever to walk more than a mile again. And I'm frickin' starving so off I am a-buggering. Back later. I've not trawled the news sites for a while looking for something to rip the proverbial out of, so I may have a bash at that post hair-shearing dehippification.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Mon 13:23 GMT, by Kenny
5th January 2008
No hospital stories today`
...however, I will express my shock and horror at the speed at which BBC news presenters are jumping ship like proverbial rats on crack. In the last few weeks, Dermot M (can't spell his surname) has moved to Sky, Natasha Kaplinsky has moved to Channel 5 and Declan Curry is to go elsewhere shortly. These three come hot on the heels of Jane Garvey's departure -- presumably none of them were happy with the BBC downsizing exercise (which is going to hit the news department particularly hard) and made quick-style for the nearest exit.
While it allows the next generation of jouralism/anchor, it's a real shame to lose such talent. They'd better not get rid of Kate Silverton or my 38 year long love affair will be over with the BBC I mean, not Kate Silverton -- that is only a 3 year affair). What the beanies have failed to see is that news is one of their flagship products. What they *do* see is a need to have wide coverage in news and entertainment -- how many people honestly watch repeats of mindless twaddle on BBC3 or BBC4 on TV? Yeah, probably 5% of viewers have tuned in so far.
They are trying to build a profile B company rather than a profile A. Some smart-arsed MBA will tell me the two models can co-exist and I will chortle into my tea while munching on large amounts of chocolate. If they carry on down the profile B path, be warned; they are doomed. Remember -- you heard it here first.
--
BTW -- I noticed in my comments that K had posted -- K? Is that who I think it is? As in the K I mentioned in that post. If so, hi K and no doubt I'll see you soon (got to see big N on Monday morning).
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Sat 21:48 GMT, by Kenny
3rd January 2008
The Kenny Supremacy
Well, what can I tell you about the last three weeks? I have a novel's worth of material. And the best part? This is not the end of it by any stretch of the imagination. I have weeks more to come.
First, though, I would like to thank Stan for watering the plants and generally keeping house. He really shouldn't have bothered with the installation of the gazebo and hot-tub, grateful though I am.
Next up, I'd like to thank Bryony for her piece on spending Christmas in hospital not being too bad. I concur. I cut that piece out of the paper and pinned it on the notice board for all to see. Some of the more "difficult" inmates patients didn't agree, but they were mostly at the lower end of the evolutionary spectrum -- it did please the staff though. Bryony is right. When these carers could be sat at home with their families, instead they are tending to your every need and making fun for people who may not have too much to look forward to. I still have my gifts of wallet, socks, scarf et al from the staff there.
Where do I begin?
The morning that I was due to be admitted I received an email from Nski:
well taken care of by my boyfriend. Fiancé, really - we plan to marry when his deployment is over next spring
and
In fact, we'll be adding one more baby to the mix come next summer
I did a double-take, smoked and felt strangely relieved. As soon as the divorce papers arrive, I think I'll order my mail-order bride. No not from Asia. I'm thinking more St Albans The Horn. Hey Lauren, once they repair the tracks at Rugby, I'll front you a first class seat to Manchester :).
Well, I knew I wouldn't be allowed to take my laptop in so left it snuggly idling away chez moi. I tried to sneak my phone in so I could at least text people or give them the odd bell here and there but that was quickly whipped off me. Hmmmm -- no communication for the duration other than visitors.
The melee of characters involved led to some serious hilarity and the occasional confrontation which is presumably why phones and cameras were not permitted. I'm proud never to have seen Big Brother but I bet where I was would top the ratings for months.
I can't do it all justice in one post so I'll try to get week 1 down over the weekend. I'll give you the main cast:
J -- Retired Head of Faculty at a nearby university (M)
O -- International outlaw, originally from Holland (F)
B -- Painter and decorator (M)
C -- Secret itself (M)
Q -- Who knows? Madness personified (M)
R -- Ex-army (M)
G -- All round handyman and driver (M)
P -- Psycho recent parolee with a pride in having beeen sectioned second to any I have ever seen
Stay tuned and I will try to do it all justice.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Thu 18:04 GMT, by Kenny
