31st March 2005
Worth the oxygen? I think so today.
There are few days where I do something really clever. Today was one of them, probably the first day in a couple of years.
I came back from Birmingham yesterday armed with 350Mb of database back-up and the task of generating a pareto chart from 500,000+ records. I sat and messed with Access, Excel and then dropped down a level to a trusty SQL Query Analyzer from SQL-Server's Enterprise Manager.
I deconstructed some C++ code to retro-engineer the query that I needed to make the chart that I wanted.
After a few hours of fiddling and constructing queries that did mad joins, I am sat with a metaphorical cigar and brandy in the form of a Silk Cut and a PG Tips. Oh, and I'm looking at a beautiful pareto chart generated by VBScript.
Microsoft -- eat my shorts! Even with your mad access tools, all I ever need is vi and access to raw data.
I promised I would laud Virgin trains tonight, but I think I rock more at the moment. So there.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Thu 11:14 CST
30th March 2005
Brief summary of England
Hmm, how do I say this?
Owen was shite.
Beckham did OK.
If we play like that against a proper team, we're doomed.
Tomorrow, a surprisingly upbeat assessment of British railways. And the quality of their bacon butties. But that is tomorrow...
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Wed 15:34 CST
Overheard
In very much the same way that Natzoid caught a snippet yesterday, so did I.
"You know, we even get cockney asylum seekers up here."
Class.
I'm off to sunny Brum for the day. Maybe I'll be mistaken for a Northern asylum seeker and be given my very own two-up two-down and a large cash grant. Fret not though; post-match commentary will be provided this evening, subject to the wrong kind of rain not delaying my return.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Wed 02:05 CST
29th March 2005
On the road
No, not that one. Wigan Road. In which our intrepid chronicler of life in a Northern town records the Easter celebrations of Ashton.
I set out on my twice-weekly sojourn to Ashton this morning. The grass was dewy and it wasn't quite raining. Those who have experienced "wasn't quite raining" will know exactly what I mean. All in all, and it very definitely is all, it would be fair to say that the morning was, in as much as the weather here ever allows, pretty okay.
I tiptoed through the broken glass on the estate down to the main road. Nothing new there. Upon reaching Bryn Cross, I was faced with a bus-stop that had all of its windows shattered. Glass littered the road and pavement. The offending bricks lay amongst the shards of glass.
Now years ago, bus-stops had proper glass on them and were really easy to break. These days they are made out of some fancy schmancy polymer that is pretty darned tough. You need some pretty bloody determined and targeted missiles to break them. Evidently someone had the required grit and bricks.
I wasn't surprised by the gutted bus-stop. If I've seen it once, I've seen it a thousand times. I had the more or less obligatory shake of the head and moved on. As I got to the front of the remnants of Wally Bishop's (The Britannia), I noticed a van that has been there on the cobbles for a while with a 'for sale' notice on it. Every single glass aperture had been bricked through.
The train station is next to Wally's. I didn't even look. I'll check it tomorrow when I head to Birmingham.
The last time, I smashed glass (and it was accidentally with a cricket ball), I vaguely remember that it made quite a noise. To smash a bus-stop made of mad polymer number 91 must have made a noise, as would throwing bricks through vehicle windows. Why did no-one call the police? If I had seen someone doing that, I'd have made a citizen's arrest although given our namby-pamby nanny state penal code, the perpetrator would probably be awarded £10 and a weekend voucher for Pontins in Morecambe. Naturally, I would probably be jailed for failing to report when I last urinated or some equally heinous crime.
So, Easter celebrations in Bryn appear to be the symbolic smashing of all things glass. I wonder what that does symbolise?
By the time I walked back from Ashton, the council had cleaned up the glass at the bus-stop. The van is apparently someone else's problem.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Tue 05:43 CST
26th March 2005
Ooh doggie
I had the lovely experience of talking to Zoe tonight.
If the gorgeous Ms Luminous is ear-porn, Zoe is the European equivalent. Albeit a tad on the tipsy side, she does move things that previously might not have been moved. And she's lovely with it.
With that, I'm off to seranade angels with my snoring.
G'night world.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Sat 18:19 CST
I'm sorry but...
...before the Owen weenies start, he was useless. My two year old son could have had his hands tied behind his back, be asleep, with a 100 lb bag of sugar on each shoulder could have put that one in. Hell, the scum on my tea-cup could have scored it. It has about as much talent and vision.
What about that golden opportunity in the first half with only the keeper to beat? CLUNK. "This is Michael; there is nobody home at the moment, but if you'd like to move your goalkeeper three hundred yards to the left, I'll be happy to pretend I'm a striker."
And Heavens to Betsy (whoever she may be; I'm sure she's lovely). The captain's armband on a man who shouldn't even have been on the pitch. Send him back to Spain. As long as he's on the team, we can kiss 2006 auf wiedersehn.
Here endeth the lesson. Except to say that Rooney is a God. How the hell did he manage to stay upright for that feed? Incredible.
Oh, and I need to redo my Mars graphic with Owen lying down. He's dead good at falling over in't he peeps?
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Sat 12:24 CST
Call George W President
I have a few minutes to kill before I go postal in The Oddfellows, having just read a BBC report that states Michael "Couldn't Hit a Cow's Arse With a Banjo" Owen will be in the starting eleven for England. In order to not kill anything between now and kick-off I will tell you a frightening tale that the West needs to worry about.
It began as I was smoking a cigarette in my parents' garden yesterday afternoon. Nothing ominous about that then.
My father has a knack for pruning. I had observed that that he had been a little over-zealous in that there in the flower bed, was a rose bush in the form of a single stick, about 6 inches tall, yet about 3/4" in diameter. I joked with my mother that he had been a bit kind to that one. She immediately flew out to view the carnage that presumably had been inflicted late last year. All this sparked a spot of gardening.
Now just to put some kind of perspective on the situation, whenever my parents enter a gardening center, my mother heads off to the plants and pots and my father heads off to the kill XXXX department. Gardening, to him (a chemical engineer), is an art-form best practiced with the judicious use of toxins, be they fertilizer, weed-killer, ant-poison, man-traps or thermo-nuclear war-heads. We have long acknowledged that he hates anything that grows. However, I was not ready for what was about to happen.
In the course of the faffing, pottering, pootling and other-ing around, the shed door was opened. There they were.
Weapons of Mass Destruction.
My father has a stash of chemical weapons that make Sadaam look like an amateur. There isn't a single thing on this planet that he could not kill. I'm not sure whether the tubular object in the corner was an errant piece of drain-pipe or a bozooka but he's right in the flight path to Manchester airport.
And he has a beard.
Q.E.D.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Sat 07:50 CST
If there is Deity, let He or She show Themselves
Word up.
In a couple of hours time, you will see me in The Oddfellows. I do not, under any circumstances, want to see a certain underperforming Scouse Git walking onto the Hallowed turf of Old Trafford in an England shirt.
If he does, there will be casualties.
Do I need to say it?
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Sat 06:56 CST
23rd March 2005
I feel a change coming on
Tears on the sleeve of a man; don't want to be a boy today.
I was invited to Whitby for the weekend with friends but I'm thinking that I may decline. I'm a tad scared to look behind me because if it's cloudy, so will be my future. And we all know what happened last time that happened to someone. If you don't, I put it to you that you're ill-informed.
I'm not alone. I'm IM'ing. I have a very supportive grandparent and my parents are fine when my Ex isn't ruling the show. But I want alone now. I want a couple of days in North Wales or the Lakes where all I need to do is comply with my needs. I want to climb hills. I want to get up to the top of Snowdon and be so short of breath that my lungs burn so much that I cannot even think about a cigarette. I want to walk on heather with no-one else in sight and pitch a tent half way up a mountain. Just me, a tent, and a hip-flask. And a whole lot of dark.
I have a horrible suspicion that we're about to fail a huge test. My dreams lately have been of being back at University with people from numerous stages of their lives. We all fail. Inevitably. It looks like I have learned from my experiences and can repeat them exactly.
There's a bloke in the Oddfellows who is the spit of my grandad. Apparently he's 54 and so younger than my dad. His wife is in her late thirties and is as nice a girl as you can meet. They never left their home town and are happier than anyone.
Maybe I should have stayed here. A little ambition causes an awful lot of responsibility and then hurt. If I had the choice again, I'd have stayed, ignored the rest of the world and worked at the local Co-op. What the fuck did I learn at Uni anyway? Bollocks-all. I learned to sit in lunchtime beerville long before I hit Uni.
As my grandfather used to say, "You've got everything you need down Bryn Cross." Happen he might have been right. Happen that's all I have and all I ever will have again.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Wed 16:13 CST
22nd March 2005
Questions...(4)
Well, if you are pedantic, it's five really. Finally, Karen...
1) Madonna: past it or not? Discuss.
2) You're doing a tour of duty in LA when Michael Jackson appears in your rifle sights. Do you pull the trigger?
3) The lofty and dizzyingly beautiful Leigh or the dull and dreary ducks of York? Like I need to ask. Why?
4) Cite the reasons for the last three times you lost your temper in a "I really am ready to shoot someone" kind of way.
5) Most memorable moment of the New Year's Eve parties that we used to have? The answer must not include the word Pernod, because I know where that will go from there and this is a family show, pre-watershed.
I'm spent.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Tue 10:09 CST
Questions...(3)
Next up, Keith...
1) Ice fishing or hibernation? Where?
2) Name your favorite place to have visited? Why? And the place you would most like to visit that you have thus far not?
3) Strong beer or cocktails with fizzy sweet stuff?
4) Keith's 5 "must watch" DVDs that may have passed me by.
5) If you could magically acquire any single talent, what would it be and why?
Just Waaarrrtesse now...
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Tue 10:00 CST
Questions...(2)
Hoots Mon, Sacre Bleu, Wheers ma heet? Pam...
1) Les Bleurghs Bleus are playing at home against Scotland. What color jersey are you wearing? (Trick question.)
2) French engineering: inspired thinking or desperately useless twaddle? Discuss.
3) Friendly cockney market-stall holders: reality or an oxymoron? Discuss.
4) I have to do this one: Edinburgh or Glasgeeeeee?
5) If you could time-travel backwards, which century would it be to and why? Who'd you be on the look-out for and why?
Two more...
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Tue 09:00 CST
Questions...
for the ear-enchantingly lovely Ms Luminous...
1) Tea or coffee? (Remember your audience.) And milk? Sugar?
2) Hersheys or Galaxy chocolate?
3) Name your top three novels.
4) You are stuck on a desert island. You can take one person and 5 CDs. Who and what are they?
5) Name the one living person who you would most like to meet.
Next up Pam, but I need a brew and a smoke. Then Keith, that Henderson girl.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Tue 08:52 CST
A trip down Ashton
Just to keep you all up to date in my evolution from chrysalis to grumpy old man, I thought I would document this morning's rants observations of the Tuesday trip down t'fish-monger's for some Whiting.
As I turned into Bryn Street, I noticed that the traffic was backed up right into the junction with Wigan Road. I wondered whether there had been an accident or not. As we approached the turn to the market, I saw the source of the delay. Some senile old gimmer had stopped right outside the butcher's shop on double yellow lines, while his wife nipped in for a pie or six. Only there was a queue. Rather than going around the block, he just sat there with the whole place in gridlock. Naturally I considered making a citizen's arrest using all the reasonable force I am entitled to use as a UK citizen, with a nearby nine iron. I resisted the urge to ensure that he would never drive again and carried on around the corner. At this point, the dozey wazzock decided that he blocked Bryn Street long enough and pulled round the corner on to more yellow lines. Only now, he decided he had better park so as to not obscure traffic. On the frickin' pavement. The doddery old git nearly took me out. I turned and, in the style of the Paddington, accosted him with a hard stare, a head shake, an Italian "WTF?" hand-gesture and mouthed a Rooney-like "WTF?" all at the same time. Who says blokes can't multi-task?
I had just got over the rage when another senile old wrinkly pulled in front of gimmero uno and did exactly the same thing, nearly taking me out again.
I'm sorry, but I am firmly of the view you should need to retake your driving test every ten years. At the moment, my UK license is valid until 2039, when I am seventy. Utterly mad.
Anyway, having survived the danger of the pavement, I meandered around t'Fish-Monger's. I have remarked to myself before that the customers are all old people. No youngsters. Today it dawned on me why. They got to be old because they grew up eating fish. The younger generation thinks fish's sole (no pun intended) outlets are chippie's. They will not be on the market fish-stall when they are seventy. They'll not be in the chippie either. In fact, they'll not be.
Do I sound grumpy enough? Good.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Tue 08:20 CST
20th March 2005
My friends and other animals
I'm currently chez Henderson where I played a real game of Scrabble with Karen, Nev, Waaarrrt and his long-suffering lass. Karen does cheat. Not just online.
After my first ten brews this morning, I went around to the Waaarrrt's where he did his impersonation of the Galloping Gourmet Fat Bastard in the Kitchen and rustled up a meal that was assorted pieces of pig in various forms piled up with toast and salted butter. There was an egg in there somewhere. And we hate mushrooms with a passion so we fried some of the bastards. It was lard heaven. It should come as no surprise that Waaarrrt weighs the better part of a metric tonne. As the years go by, he is turning into Robbie Coltrane, complete with token Benson and Hedges fettish.
As the Waaarrrt loses his Waaarrrtishness, his niece is turning into what he used to be. I know, sad for one so young.
More updates and your questions later once my aorta has been scraped clean of black pudding. That's if I survive the trip back over the Pennines with Nev driving...I have nerves of steel, but Nev behind a wheel is like the Waaarrrt. Unthinkably horrific. I may purchase a hip-flask prior to departure.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Sun 08:54 CST
18th March 2005
Random factoids
Today's sweeping revelations:
-- I have lost my identity. I now refer to myself as Mrs Gorner's grandson.
-- The Windows dictionary should have a Lancashire extension so phrases like Ey-up and bollocksed do not need to be added.
-- I think Spring has finally sprung. Just after I get a decent winter coat.
-- The cost of razor-blades is outrageous.
I'll be back later to quiz Karen and her erstwhile sibbling the Waaarrrt. I may pick two others as well seeing none of you commie gits want to play. That is except Rita.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Fri 09:48 CST
It's like Hollyoaks but with more scandal
Yesterday, as I set out for the morning paper, a visitor and a very small accomplice were walking up the path to the door. The eighteen year old girl from across the street had a baby a couple of weeks ago. She's spent a lot of time over the years at my grandmother's house, presumably in search of some relative sanity.
After the obligatory awwwing at the little bundle, talk turned as to what had happened next door but one shortly before Die Fuhrer had arrived back from her annual invasion of Europe. To cut a long story short, it was the most incredibly intricate plot I could ever have imagined. J who was living with C, was having an affair with P whose cousin thought C was having an affair with S's brother...on and on it went. I could hardly follow the introduction of one character before another was introduced.
This conversation went on for a good half hour. My head was spinning.
Next up, it was who was in jail for what. Another good fifteen minutes.
The girl and her tiny daughter left. I got stuck into the safety of the Telegraph crossword.
As evening approached, I had rattled off the crossword, taken the Wonderdog out for her second trot of the day and was earnestly scanning the TV guide to see if there was any chance of me not being bored rigid all night. As is Die Fuhrer's custom, the evening started with a dose of the sickening Aussie soap Home and Away. I made myself some dinner to avoid the nasal voices. Once it had finished, the buttons were seized and manipulated to show Hollyoaks, where the story line at the moment consists of testicular cancer, an Italian restaurant and a bloke who had an affair, caught some galloping nob-rot and gave it to his long-time girlfriend. I think. Do you think I watch this tripe?
Barely ten minutes into the show, a mental string snapped and I could take no more soaps. Just the accents and awful acting was making my skin crawl. I had to think quickly. How do I find a reason to get out? Aha, the 'Boro game. "Channel 5 is not a very good reception and you'll miss the other soaps later in the evening. Tell ya what...I'll go down to the pub and watch it."
He shoots, he scores. Away I went down to The Oddfellows Arms again. J was in there with P. C's cousin was shooting daggers at her. N's brother (N being the guy who is currently being held at Her Majesty's pleasure) was doing the St Paddy's day Karaoke night. I got a pint and went into the tap room to watch the football.
If it's not on your screen, it surrounds you. As they say, there's nowt as queer as folk.
Now I need to think of a reason to be out from 6 until 7 tonight. I may have to try The Bath Springs. Get on down there and buy me a pint. But please check your baggage at the door together with your mistresses and criminal record. Thank you.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Fri 04:58 CST
17th March 2005
OK Rita, here ya go...bare your soul and succumb to the dark side.
1) Easy one first - do you think the Clintons have any redeeming features?
2) I assume you were driven into law? What drove you?
3) Arkansas and Kansas share the majority of letters. Why the difference in pronuniciation?
4) Do you think you could beat me at Scrabble? ;) And why.
5) Top five modern divas are...?
Have at it, and thanks for being a good sport!
Ooh, bonus question: do I join the local pub football team?
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Thu 16:02 CST
Happy St Paddy's Day
If you're Irish. And by that I mean if you were born in Ireland. You're not Irish if you were born in America to Irish parents. You are American. Just like I was born in England to an Austrian ergo I am English. And my kids were born in America to an Englishman so they are American.
Do us all a favor would ya? Stay home tonight and don't contribute to the cause. Even your own President and Ted Kennedy have finally got the message. Let's not celebrate because Gerry Adams in town. Let's not fool ourselves into thinking he is any less of an evil bastard than Saddam Hussein or Osama Bin Ladin. Revoke his visa. Send a real message. Either that, or slam him in Gitmo.
I know it's cliched, but over half of the "Irish Americans" I have met have never been to Ireland, do not understand the history and have no idea as to what the cause is. So don't embarass yourself by opening your mouth on the topic.
By all means, turn the river green, celebrate Irish culture and have a drop of stout, but do not pretend that Gerry Adams is a politician or that the Irish cause is not exactly what we are currently allegedly at war with.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Thu 10:21 CST
15th March 2005
Meme time
I don't usually do these, but unless you want a lesson in how to be a grumpy old man in Ashton, this is what you get for the moment...
Keith asked the following questions, I reply as unreliably as I feel like doing. I reserve the right to change my mind, but as a guiding mantra for your good selves, chant 'Kenny is right.'
1. Of all the countries you’ve visited, which two are polar opposites in terms of your opinion? Feel free to interpret that in any way.
I'd have to go with the US and Thailand. The wealth and speed of America is in stark contrast to the serene yet appallingly poor people of Thailand. I had toyed with the US and China, but China is just as capitalist as the US if not more so. In fact, I would say it is the least communist place ever.
2. Margaret Thatcher; Master politician, or silly old bint? Discuss.
Where was the "devil incarnate" option? Don't get me started on the myriad ways I would like to see her head positioned on a spike outside of Downing Street.
3. Is there something fundamental in Football/Soccer that Americans just don’t seem to get?
Yes. I'm not sure whether it's the fact that it's a round ball or that it is the most skillful game ever. I know the US cannot abide a draw and prefers scoring to watching really talented athletes.
4. Microsoft; Master software company, or the work of the devil?
A little of column A and a little of column B. You have to admit they have done more to ensure the masses adopt PCs than anyone else. They have driven technology forward and made a nicely integrated environment. On the other hand, they single handedly wiped out companies from the moment they were conceived.
On balance, I hate to admit it, but my opinion is more positive than negative.
5. Which five living people would you like to kick in the kneecaps?
Hmmm, delicious question.
Margaret Thatcher, although I'd sooner be armed with a chain-saw, several nukes and an Uzi in her presence.
Diego Maradonna. May his next shite be a hedgehog. And the one after that. And the one after that. You get the drift.
Jerry Adams, Martin McGuinness. Lying, cheating, manipulative evil gits who should be summararily knee-capped, shot and made into cat food.
Kylie Minogue. Horrid dwarf with all the sex-appeal of a sewer rat. She's partially responsible for the rise of Stock, Aitken and Waterman. And did I mention what a hideously foul midget she is?
OK - five people to be quizzed by me - step up. You may post your replies on your own blogs or, for those who just stalk, in the comments to your questions.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Tue 07:15 CST
14th March 2005
Riddle me this one
So, I sent out my invoice for last week's consultancy work today, and because I am on good terms with the people, I will have my murky paws on some moolah in the not too distant future. Being the kind of compulsive individual I am, I immediately started looking for cars. I get kind of stir-crazy when there are no wheels available to me. And being a good socialist hypocrite, I despise public transport.
Now, I like my cars as much as the next red-blooded, bacon-eating, tab-smurkin', testosterone filled chap, but in this case, it would be utterly ridiculous to spend anything more than a few hundred quid on a car. After all, there's a glut of 10 year old cars that have another ten years left in them. So off I vanish into the shark-infested waters of the Cyber used car sites in search of the YatesMobile whom we shall call Kenny for now.
Ideally I want an automatic 'cos I'm all American and lazy now. How am I meant to annoy the local plod by supping tea, smoking and putting on my make-up while shaving and changing my CD when I have gears to contend with? Sheesh. I don't know how you people do it.
Anyway, I was mightily surprised to find a potential Kenny adoptee in the form of a 1994 Rover 420 SLi in petrol grey. Yeah, I know. It's not purple but petrol grey is the new purple, and it means I will be camouflaged in this area of the world.
So "How much is Kenny?" I hear you cry. Answer: it's listed at a massive five hundred and ninety-nine quid, which I am sure I can get down to five hundred by waving a few crisp ones in their twitchy little faces.
Satisfied that I will be able to achieve my mission of buying a relative banger, I then started to think about insurance. Should be fine eh? 18 years of driving, no claims, a car worth 50 ten-spots and only third-party fire and theft required. What would you guess?
I didn't want to guess. So I headed over to the AA auto insurance site. I input my details and how long I have been in the country, blah blah blah. You know what came back?
£840.49 per Jimminy Cricketin' Limony Snicketin' annum.
What the Jumping Farmers' Wives has gone on in the UK over the past few years? In 1996, I had a brand new Celica GT 2.0 beast of a bastard of a car, and I was insured fully comp for £350 a year.
I haven't tried any more websites yet. I fear the language would be too much for my grandmother to bear.
Honestly, was I daft to assume that I could get third-party insurance on a hunk of junk for about £150 a year?
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Mon 12:01 CST
13th March 2005
Lazing on a Sunday afternoon
I did something that I haven't done for quite a while last night. It wasn't particularly clever really, but it needed to be done. As I said yesterday, I was feeling very down. When I get into moods like that, I need to be distracted or remove myself from company as it makes for an unpleasant atmosphere -- and I don't like to inflict my moods on anyone.
So I upped and offed down to the local pub to do some ear-wigging and people watching while nursing a pint or two. It was fairly early evening but the majority of incumbant customers were rat-arsed, having had a particularly taxing day of sixth round FA Cup fixtures. To give you an idea of how badly I was feeling, the Man Utd match was on the TV, and I didn't even switch the TV on...yes, that bad.
In the Oddfellows on Downall Green Road, there was a table of thuggy looking blokes. Crew cuts and earrings. Stubble and chunky rings. Track-suits and scars. All the accessories required to be the lads. Pints of Carling in hand. Loud, boisterous and very, very present.
I watched in amusement and waited for the inevitable pint spillage. But it never came. Instead, I witnessed something that I would never have imagined. Next door to the pub is a home for mentally handicapped adults. One of the guests of said establishment meandered into the pub, all five foot two and 100 lbs of him, clutching a crisp tenner in his hand as if it was the only one left in the world. He ordered his pint of mixed and was just about to hand over the orange jewel when one of my hand-painted thugs rushed over, paid for his drink and then rearranged all the chairs and people on their table to make room for the new guest.
The little fellow beamed. A random act of kindness from someone who would probably punch the living daylights out of a rival football supporter.
I left the pub more at ease than when I entered. Maybe the world isn't full of shites after all.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Sun 05:36 CST
12th March 2005
Ob-pictures
I could have a long lament about how deeply sad I am today, but I won't. Instead, have some pictures of Palmela Castle.
Enjoy.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Sat 11:09 CST
10th March 2005
Portugal trip comes to a close
So, I'm on my last night in Portugal. The engineer I have been working with here has been a great host. He picked me up from the airport on Monday and since then has gone out of his way to educate me about Portugal's history. Twixt lessons, I have worked my arse off. I knew I should have negotiated an hourly rate rather than a flat fee for the week.
I've been to a restaurant with genuine Portuguese musicians and singers live on stage sans microphones a few feet away from the dinner table. Their voices echo round the old buildings they sing in, as if microphones had never been a necessity and therefore never been an invention. Imagine a tuneful Edith from 'Allo 'Allo, probably about the same age, accompanied by an accordian and a twelve string guitar with the strings tuned to what I can only assume were fourths. Imagine sixty somethings dancing in traditional dress and dresses that flow with a twirl. All of that while you're reading the English translation of the menu.
I chose the "Roasted Kid" option from the menu although I was severely disappointed to discover that it meant roasted baby goat rather than flambed childer. Baby goats don't taste as good as baby cows, and they're bony little bastards. My advice is to stick with the veal.
Anyway, once I had got into the habit of politely clapping after each "turn", I concentrated on learning the ways and customs of Portuguese living, as is my routine when I visit a country for the first time. As an aside to all you budding globe trotters, this technique pays dividends; spend the first few days sussing out the manners (they will inevitably not be the same as yours.) Wait for the ice to break as you get in touch with national sensibilities. Show an interest in their history and observe. Ensure that you know thank you in their language and if possible, make sure you can at least fake it in their local accent (dropped syllables and syllable emphasis are not just for the English.)
Lisbon is very much like Northern Italy in its archictecture and layout. Madly thin winding roads through one way systems suddenly produce massive town hall squares with marvelously ornate churches. People walk around, duck into their favorite restaurant, buy you a drink because you're from outside of town. The age of the place is defined clearly by cobbled stones, castles on hills that were built to stave off North African Muslim invaders and the masonry and balconies that only France, Spain, Portugal and Italy can pull off.
I wish I had time to do some exploring, but unless I have been hob-knobbing at dinners or working, I have only had time to spend ten minutes at the Palmera Castle, just outside of Setubal (sp? pronounced Stubal). Not having worked in a while and having been under the weather for so long, going back to this level of activity has wasted me. I feel like I could sleep until Monday now. But I won't. I have another half day and then some travel back to Blighty.
More on Portugal when I am not watching individual electrons drip at a whopping 24Kbps. Oh yes, I live fast.
Ebrigado.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Thu 17:33 CST
5th March 2005
Whew - I'm poop-doggy-dogged
Well, what a whirlwind of a cyclone of a tornado of a day. The morning was a usual Saturday; a stroll down to Ashton t'market to buy some of Fleetwood's finest fish, freshly bludgeoned and carved this morning.
This afternoon however, I was a blur. Up and downstairs, running tests and analyzing numbers, forgetting things and having to work out what they were. I had thought it would not be a problem to finish all the consultancy work and head off down to the pub for a pint prior to settling in front of the TV. Only, it was a problem. Once I finished my (admittedly splendid) report on a measurement study, I then realised that I really should start keeping records of income etc. Me and Mr I Revenue already have an outstanding issue so I don't want to incur his wrath any more than I have to.
So I set out to create an invoice template and a spreadsheet of customers and all that jazz. I need a frickin' secretary assistant already. I HATE book-keeping. With a passion.
Anyway, it's gone bloody nine now and I am cream-crackered.
--
Before I go, I owe it to you to share this little exchange.
I was trying to retrieve a pound from the Kwik Save shopping cart when my cell phone started ringing, vibrating and generally slapping me with fresh cod. The caller on the other end was obviously on a very dodgy cell phone connection. I established it was my mother.
"Andrew, I'm in Asda. There's this fabulous cabbage. It was 30 quid but it's now 15. Do you want it?"
"It better be bloody fantastic for 15 quid. And why would I want a spectacular cabbage?"
"No, a cabbage. It's kind of tope colored."
"I don't know what color tope is, but I'm sure cabbages probably shouldn't be tope."
"No. You've misheard. I've got your dad one. Do you want one too?"
"I refer the right honorable lady to the question I posed some moments ago."
"Do you want it?"
"Should I?"
"Yes."
"OK, thank you. I think."
"I'll bring it round later."
"Erm...thanks."
A couple of hours later and she rolled up with said cabbage. Except it was a jacket. A tope jacket. Very nice it is too.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Sat 15:25 CST
3rd March 2005
Quickie techie Q
My laptop has a screen resolution of 1024x768. I have an application that requires a 1280x1024 screen. The laptop doesn't have the fancy virtual panning that my Tecra had.
Does anyone know of any shareware that will allow me to run my monster application (i.e. advertizes to apps that the screen resolution is higher than it is and lets me scroll around to get at the bits that I cannot get at at the moment?) And no, before you ask, this was written with a crap toolkit that didn't put scroll bars on Windows ports so I cannot let the app take care of it.
A blown kiss in the general direction of whoever can sort me out. Smooch.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Thu 17:16 CST
I hate it when good things happen
I started writing an ode to the Jobcenter the other day, but the experience was so totally unphasing and not unpleasant that I gave up. You cannot be really acerbic when there's nothing to feel unreasonably, irrationaly furious about.
But I am annoyed by my latest piece of news. On Sunday I'm off to Portugal for a week, doing some consultancy work. A very nice little earner, thank you. If I can get one week of consultancy a month, I'll be a happy bunny. In fact, when I informed the missus, she commented "at those rates, you can stay over there and just keep sending cheques. We didn't like you that much anyway."
So what is so terrible about this news? One word: Countdown. Five days of no Richard Whitely sliming microphones with puns that make you feel like drinking mouthwash and shooting kittens. Five days without the nauseatingly nice lady who sits in dictionary corner. Five days without wondering how much weight Carol Vorderman has lost. Five days without the tea-time teaser. Oh woe is me.
Realizing I had been neglectful in the packing of any kind of business dress shirt, I set out to acquire a couple of shirts. As luck would have it, I ended up in Leigh. Leigh is a place best left unexplored for those that are not native. If you aren't suicidal when you arrive, you will be by the time you leave. The town-planners were obviously coming down from a mushroom trip and week long bender when they designed the traffic system.
"Cough, splutter...Pass us a Capstan and top up my Bells will ya Norm? Bugger. I've just ashed on the George and Dragon - best knock that down. Hey, nobody's built anything on this 10,000 square feet here. What do you reckon? Sports stadium? Golf course? Asda? No, I've got it. We'll put a roundabout there. Quality."
So, fate took me to Leigh. I don't think I have set foot in Leigh for ten or more years. The town quickly reminded me why. As I wandered around in abject disgust, I noticed the shoe shop where I had been told one of the kids who I used to baby-sit works. I thought I'd pop in and say hello. Imagine the horror when I realised that little Miss "I don't want to go to bed yet" turns out to be my wife's age. Jesus H son of a bugger Christ. And his dancing dolphins. I'm frickin' old. Anyway, I said hello and got the hell out of Dodge waving two Asda white shirts acquired for the princely sum of 3 quid each freely in the wind. Bargain, almost certainly made in China where the workers were paid a penny or so.
So that's it peeps. I'm off to frickin' Portugal on Sunday. That gay purple Rover? Oh yes. If it's still here when my invoice is paid, who knows? I could be the coolest guy on the block. Natzoid, do you mind if I keep some of the cash for some leopard-skin seat covers and a set of furry dice? Actually, better idea; burberry seat covers. Oh yes. Oh yes.
Comments (), Permalink, Posted: Thu 10:38 CST
