Not that any of you miserable buggers ever would but could you please sponsor Bryony? I have. If just one of you opens your moth-eaten wallets, I will consider the bazillion hours of my life I have spent writing the code that facilitates this nadir of t'interwebz and its subsequent content worthwhile.

I shall be checking her donations page, so I will know who you are/aren't.

Caution -- serious post alert.

I have a few hours while Louis is at work and everyone else is out so I thought I'd bob on to t'interweb for a bit.

For more reasons than I care to list, it is now the official policy of gorners.com that all humor directed at the French cease. For a start our humor does not translate that well, particularly in print although Louis et al have found my bastardizations of the English language highly amusing -- to wit, "abso-bloody-lutely". In fact, if I get back to Ouge's (sp?) house before I leave, I must take my phone (to take a picture) with me where I will find it written on a whiteboard in his kitchen, such was the hilarity it caused. It is now the policy of Sepmeries, Reisnes etc that the word absolument be articulated abso-putain-lument. The education has worked both ways. I have discolored their English, while they have improved mine by explaining language constructions that I had never understood. I guess I am the more culturally rich from the deal.

Point number two -- you would not believe the houses here. Were I not the polite guest that I am, I would have photographed every last house I have been in. They are incredible. When I first hit the States, I was gob-smacked by the size and design of the houses. French houses here blow everything I have ever seen in my life completely out of the water. I visited two yesterday where my jaw literally dropped on to the beautifully tiled floors. They are built to be enjoyed, not just lived in.

I sat with Louis et al one night as he showed me what his house was like when he bought it. It was an old farmhouse that was decrepit. Over some years, he has transformed it into a veritable palace. He joined the house to the one of the many barns thereby creating not only what you would consider a banqueting hall, but a second storey (in some of it) where now exists the kids' bedrooms and my residence. During the course of the renovation, he took painstaking care to make sure he re-used anything that could be from the old buildings. So the tiles are original, the beams etc. As things progressed, he found newspaper cuttings and documents dating from the turn of the 20th century. Of particular note were a newspaper article from 1930 that predicted the second world war (only it is named the third world war), resistance propaganda, share certificates. Absolutely fascinating stuff. Alors, the photos of the house then documented his progress in renovating step by step as he altered things, added things, cobbled the courtyard, put in the staircase etc. Utterly amazing.

Which brings me on to point number three -- the community spirit here is palpable. In the US and UK, we live in an isolated state. Here, friends pop by at random intervals, pile in and children just be children together no matter where they are. There is no need to organize sleep-overs; the kids just arrive with the adults and everything just unfolds naturally. I would say it's like me pitching up to my parents' house. You pile in, say hi and then help yourself to the contents of the fridge etc. There are no Ps and Qs to be minded. I can only think of a couple of places in the UK where I would be at ease doing that; two of them are family (notably not my brother's house). I kind of do it at Albert Towers too, but that is because these people are family. Here the family is a subset of the village.

I noticed most of this when Albert and I hit Valenciennes many years ago but thought it was a one-off, a single data point if you will. Having many more data points from the last few days, it is conclusive.

If I lived here, I could not do what I do for a living now. The contrast between the pressure of work, the processes, the rigidity, the inexplicable drive for sterility and the laissé faire of home life would be enough to send me into deep depression. Hell, I'm guessing I would have a much lesser need to lose myself on t'interwebz for hours at a time. Like Louis, I would maybe check my email once a week rather than having my phone beep every thirty seconds and me scramble to get to it.

It's a different -- and orders of magnitude better -- way of life. The French paradox of eating, drinking and smoking too much yet living to a grand old age is not really a paradox at all. The extremist capitalist way of life in English speaking countries all over the world is the reason we have a need to have a French paradox -- we stress ourselves into an early grave by constantly monitoring everything we do.

The first thing I am doing when I get back to England is rearranging my dining room. At the moment, I have a huge dining table that I use as a desk and a smaller one that is nominally a dining table but which usually acts as a storage area for stuff in transit (BTW, I have explained how utterly marvelous the words "stuff" and "gubbins" can be in English) to/from any room in the house -- it's like a buffer zone. The smaller table will be used as the desk. The bigger table will be used as a proper dining table. Actually, let me correct that. It will be used as a table should be -- where when people come around, we can sit together and talk while the music plays with easy access to the kitchen. I already have a liberal policy in my house -- if you get through the door, help yourself (in French my best guess at the spelling is sèr toi). This small rearrangement will make that more obvious. At the moment when I have visitors, we usually end up in my living room on separate chairs/sofas listening to music and talking (since that is where my Mac Mini lives). I intend getting another one and syncing it across the house so I can do the same in the dining room.

Other changes will involve food. It dawned on me why it is that I am so crap in the kitchen and why I find food such a chore. It is because I let it stress me. I buy stuff and then never eat it because I am sat away from the kitchen. If I could do everything I can in my living room either in or in proximity to the kitchen, all would be good. Aussi, rather than worry about the "done" way of making stuff, just don't bother; follow your instincts. Food should not be a moment in time but a constant and steady intake whenever you damn well feel like it. If you feel like a smoke half way through, do so. I should eat more bread too. It's not like we cannot get decent bread in the UK anymore...it should be there and just torn into whenever. It should be a natural act to get in and tear off a piece of bread and munch it as you do whatever you need to.

For those of you who frequent chez Kenny, these are the new rules (in the loosest sense of the word). Unless we're watching a film, the dining room is where it will be at. And as the Vanquisher™ knows full well, there will be no asking, just a "sèr toi" attitude.

I know this sounds kind of twee (here goes Kenny again on a stream of serotonin), but travel does change your view on how to do things. Had I not traveled in my younger days, I would have completely capitulated to Wigan norms. Certain events in your life challenge your fundamental ethos. I can name every single one of those in my life and this has certainly registered as one. Due to events that I will not go into because they are deeply personal to Louis and his family, my stay here had to be altered somewhat but even though those events are very sad, I would not have had it any other way. It has been truly inspiring.

In short, the French have it totally right and I, for one, retract every single word I have ever muttered in jest that was aimed at them.

You have never lived until you have driven a 1968 425cc deux cheveaux.

Ran out of Silk Cut Silver yesterday and am now on Benson and Hedges.

Oh.My.God

Company brilliant, weather changeable, lifestyle enviable.

Wish you were here, not.

McKenny xxx

PS -- Good to see the standard of comments has been upheld at its all time low.

Is anyone else miffed after that sorry excuse for a goodbye? ("Au revoir, suckers!") It'll be handbags at dawn when you come back, Monsieur Kenny (incidentally, the French are really good at handbags, you might want to buy yourself a Kelly bag over there? I'm afraid they still don't make a Kenny bag; have a word with the folks at Hermes).

Not sure I'm up to "entertaining the masses"... Got the end-of-summer blues. Summer has been slowly slipping away from us -- with dream sequences, vacation plans, and questionable French (BTW, Waarty: red card, purple card, and chartreuse-polka-dots-on-orange card!) I'm guessing the "masses" consist of a handful of jaded characters still lurking around in a near-catatonic state (I count myself among them). On the plus side, we catatonics are easily entertained :^D

Maybe we need a lively debate. On a slow news weekend such as this, the only thing that caught my eye was the story about that footballer who went on strike. Ridiculous! Inconsequential, perhaps, but on top of all the other football scandals and general weirdness... has this not reached critical mass? I have to ask: aren't y'all sick and tired and ready to give up on football and start following... I don't know... gymnastics!?

I bet that if we put our heads together, we can think of several reasons why gymnastics is better than football (don't worry about Kenny going ballistic; these days he prefers petanque). I can think of a few points:

1) While anyone can play football (more or less), there is no way an Average Joe can accomplish anything remotely similar to a double Tsukahara back flip with 180 degree turn. Unless your Average Joe is being drop-kicked through a pub window by a beefy landlord (you can bet Joe won't stick the landing, though... stick TO the landing, maybe).

2) Potential for injury. We're all skeptical of footballers' injuries these days. But watch a male gymnast on the pommel horse: he is millimetres away, or a fraction of a second away, from smashing his gonads into the metal handles. Sometimes his timing is off, and... well, you can guess. Now that is a tough sport.

3) Absolutely no loud squawking through plastic contraptions allowed during gymnastics competitions.

4) When a star gymnast leaves her team, supporters know it's not for mercenary reasons (say, Barcelona offering her a billion squillion $), usually perfectly innocent reasons (for example, the girl has grown breasts big enough to change her center of gravity, which means no more balance beam, time to switch to modelling lingerie and swimwear. Somehow, the good-natured gymnastics fans manage to remain upbeat when faced with such setbacks).

I look forward to your insightful, pithy, sporting comments.

Get in. We have wireless internet! You may get something out of me after all.

All I can say is that this house is to die for, I had forgotten what a fantastic musician Louis is (piano as well as guitar) and Zoe speaks French absolutely perfectly (according to Louis). I feel inadequate on all counts, spiritually bankrupt. :)

Laterz. Off to play petanque.

This time tomorrow night I shall be sat with mi'old mucker Louis and the Zedmeister in Sepmeries. Have I packed? Well, no. What's hard about throwing your Macbook in a bag along with your camera and a couple of cables? Oh yes, don't forget your iPhone too. Clothing will be taken care of when I just tip the contents of the basket full of my clean clothing that has been sat on my dining table into a suitcase. Job done.

Rules of traveling -- check for passport, wallet, ticket reference and phone. Anything else can be overcome.

Speaking of phones, it suddenly dawned on me that my phone might not be activated for EU roaming so checked. It wasn't. A couple of clicks and a phone call. Voila. Kenny be a-roaming. One of the many joys of working for a mobile phone company is that, in general, you know a guy.

That does not mean that I am guaranteed to blog, check FB or Twitter. As far as I know Al Gore has never visited France so I guess they still connect via Minitel. I'm quietly hoping that I don't have to completely fuse all Louis' equipment by rewiring in order to get connected. I've gone cold turkey before and it is not pleasant. In fact, I once hard wired my modem cable into a German phone point in my hotel room. It was an arse of a job. I'm sure I'll find an access point somewhere so panic ye not Waaarty. I'm guessing I could just set up a bridge if things get too hairy. Photos will have to wait until I get back I think.

Well, behave yourselves while I'm away romancing les jeune filles. <knee-rub>

Mrs A, feel free to entertain the masses.

And don't even bother thinking about robbing my house. I've not fed the Vanquisher™ for a week so he's a bit visceral at the moment, and he is armed with the key to the gun-locker and tends to sleep with an itchy trigger finger.

Sayonara.

According to the wireless on my way into work this morning, Big Brother 11 came to a conclusion last night and that is the last they will be doing (with the exception of a two and half week retro starting around now). Imagine how pleased, smug and generally obnoxiously self-satisfied I am when I announce that I have never seen a single moment of it. Or any other "reality" TV.

Ten years of utter tripe on the TV and haven't missed a thing. Thank God for SVU and Spooks.

The last post has been pulled. It transpires that this was a fan-page post, not the real McCoy. It was a giggle while it lasted though.

The bank have just called. When they said it was a courtesy call from Lloyds TSB I thought "Wow. They've noticed that I've just drawn out £300 and bought 300 euros and have seen this as being anomalous behavior."

Ha.

"Dearest darling Kenny. We've noticed you have a large sum of money being deposited into your account tomorrow. Is it your pension payment?"

"Pardon me?"

"You know you have a large amount of money going into your account tomorrow don't you?"

"Yes."

"Is it your pension?"

"No. It's my salary and my bonus."

"Oh, I am sorry. We were just wondering whether you wanted any of that paid into your ISA. Because if you want to pop down to the bank we can transfer it for you."

"Listen lady, I'm off on my jollies on Friday. I intend paying off my credit card tomorrow then sodding off to France and having a wicked time without even thinking about money. When I come back, I will assess the damage, all my bills will have gone out and I shall probably go *online* to transfer the 49 pence that I have left into my ISA. How do you like those apples?"

Okay, I did not phrase the last sentence exactly as written above but it is the essence without the passive-aggressive gloss I coated it with. Mistake one: why on earth would she think it was my pension? Mistake two: assuming that because I was a pensioner I'd probably never heard of internet banking and preferred to go down to the bank and have a nice little chat wit't'chap while I um'd and ah'd about what to do with my winter fuel payment this year.

Bless 'em. Lloyds are not only the only bank I have ever seen eye to eye with, but they provide me with endless entertainment every six months.

T-3.

Whoever thought it was a good idea to build a mosque right on the very doorstep of ground zero seriously needs their bumps felt. I know our American cousins can be a bit over-zealous when it comes to patriotism (and fundamentalist Christianity) but this is one I would back them 100% on. It's unconscionable.

'Tis all.

The Waaart has harassed me into posting. I told him I was bereft of anything to say and he asked why that should make any difference, given that I have generally nothing of any import to disclose. I said the best I could come up would be my woeful attempts to pull the barmaid in the Tudor. So...

I was sat watching SVU on Friday night when a text message arrived from the Vanquisher™. I responded and said that we should have a trip to the Tudor on Saturday to indulge in the breakfast of champions and that I would iron my lamé jeggings just for the occasion. I was planning on doing a Reevesesque, "Now then Angela, now that we're going out..." while rubbing my legs. I was going to follow it up with a request for a bag of tomatoes, then do a desk-roll.

As it happens, I just ate my food and sat battering the Guardian crossword (having annihilated the Telegraph earlier in the day) while watching Wigan get thumped by the ponces in blue (well, black on this occasion). At about two minutes to six, my teeth started tingling. I texted the Vanquisher, who was sat about a foot to my right with a message that said "Any second now...". He looked kind of confused and then it dawned on him. Less than 20 seconds later (and I kid ye not), she walked through the door, a picture of a northern angel.

Other than a few brief words and buying her a drink, that was it. Another monumental success there, Kenny. Happy now Waaarty? I have proved by contradiction that your Kenny/christmas tree combo theory is the product of your delusional mind and not an iota more.

BTW, in an effort to learn to cope with disappointment on a galactic scale, I have signed up to go watch Wigan's next home game. I await, with relish, the recalibration of my expectations from life.

Whichever brand of frozen lasagne I had for my dinner last night will never be eaten again. I blame the cheese for the most off the wall dreams I have had in a long time. I'm not going to go into detail because I can't remember too much but...

I was dating a girl I used to work with in the US. A friend of mine from my current job (in Leeds) and a friend from my first real job (who is now in Santa Cruz) were drug-dealers and I had let them down for some reason, so they were chasing me all over to get me alone so they could knife me or shoot me. It all culminated in the upstairs of a pub in Lowton (which had an upstairs but was not part of the pub) but it was on the corner of a road in Binghamton, NY. Me and my date erroneously walked into said pub (even though I knew I was aiming for another one (which is in St Albans) and I left her alone to hit the bathroom, whereupon I was assaulted by the two friends and a third unknown assailant. My two friends vanished, leaving said third thug to do the business.

Thankfully as we got to the inevitable point where I was to be stabbed, Rachel Burden woke me up on the radio. Thank you Rachel.

Analyze that. And don't eat the wrong cheese.

T-10 until Kenny becomes Le Kennée and French fathers start polishing their guns.

The Albert clan is back from Penzance, moy loverrrs! (Yes, they really say that over there; it only means "darlings"...)

The pasties were good. The landscape was lush: great big bushy hydrangeas growing by the side of the road like weeds, large drifts of agapanthus and crocosmia, lots of blackberries... The fishing could have been better: Young Albertine caught a couple of mackerel (they seemed quite impartial about it) but the following day got stung by some weever fish (not the impartial type: they don't take kindly to being stepped on, and they have poisonous fins). Lobster pots yielded only undersize lobsters and crabs that our host/boat captain/Chief Crustacean Wrangler had to throw back in the sea (I hope to see those crustaceans again next year, on a platter; they had better start putting on some weight).

Anyway, I now know how to gut and fillet fresh mackerel, roll it in a bit of seasoned flour and quickly cook it in some butter (have not tried it as sushi, Kenny, but it would work).

Unfortunately it took us 10+ hrs to drive the 440 miles back home... We tried to amuse ourselves by finding the weirdest village names on the way. Worthy of mention: Ventongimp, Shortlanesend, Hewas Inn (no Hewas Outt, though). My personal favourite: Mousehole (a lovely coastal village, pronounced "Mausol"; I sincerely hope a rich local character kicks the bucket and is interred in a mausoleum in Mousehole -- they need a Mousehole Mausoleum). But by the 9th hour of driving, the only way the kids and I could keep Evil Albert awake at the wheel was to sing to him... He is still twitching, poor thing (on the plus side, he now knows most of the songs from The Aristocats).

Oh, and the prize for Most Obnoxious Tourist Attire goes to the guy with incredibly red ears I spotted in St. Ives, whose XXXL shirt displayed the technicolor message: SEX, DRUGS, AND SAUSAGE ROLL (the horror...)

...Le Kenny.

I'm as chuffed as a whippet 'bout piles. I got chatting to mon ami Louis on Facebook this afternoon. I will be visiting him in Sepmeries (just south of Valancienes) for a week at the end of August. I have got the time off work and will be booking the flight this evening.

Louis has sent pictures of his home. I am the most jealous man alive at this moment in time. He described his job situation too, which sounds about the best deal I can possibly imagine. I bet I pitch up and his wife is absolutely drop-dead gorgeous as well. Typical. It's fair to say that I want to be Louis. In fact I think I have always wanted to be Louis.

Apparently to pass my last test at being an honorary Frenchman, I have just to master driving a "deux chevaux" (Citroen 2CV6). I know the theory since my father perversely bought one when I was a kid and I have never failed to drive anything within a couple of minutes so I'm guessing my French citizenship awaits me.

He's told me to pack lots because I will not want to come back. In fact he's trying to talk me into moving over to France to teach English. He's also lining up a meeting with the gorgeous Ludivine while I'm there although I am expressly forbidden to hit on her due to the fact that she is now married with kids. And here I was thinking France was liberal on that score. Zut alors, or some such.

Coincidentally, and only marginally relatedly, I have just looked up and seen that I have a copy of Love and Louis XIV by Antonia Fraser staring at me ominously. Maybe I should stop reading about how clever-clever Peter Mandelson is and re-read that in preparation for my trip.

The cunning part of this plan is that I fly into Brussels so there is the potential for a dinner with Zoe and Quarsan although they don't know it yet. I shall email them the moment I have hit post on here.

As you can tell I'm really excited, giddier than Graham Norton's wardrobe staff. I am away to book the flights.

I have not heard from the Vanquisher as to how his day in court went. He is either:

a) In contempt of court (which I predicted).
b) Sequestered.
c) Paralytic in the nearest pub to Bolton Crown Court.

None of the above would surprise me. I might try to call him before I have to start breaking computers remotely.

My cousin got married in Lake Garda this weekend. A great choice of venue. For those of you who are family, the link is here.

All the best to the both of them.

Well the last few days have been positively sterling. I have dined twice at Little Tokyo in Manchester. Many fish have paid the price, as has a cow. On Thursday, after I had annihilated my sashimi platter, I wanted the beef sashimi but they had run out -- apparently this stuff takes loads of preparation. Yesterday I had beef sashimi for a starter, a sashimi boat for my entree and then finished it off with another dose of beef sashimi. I know ranting about food is tedious and I am not famed for my love of eating but you absolutely have to try beef sashimi. It is visceral pleasure. Obviously I am not speaking from experience but I think I'm on safe ground when I say that it is quite probably better than sex with Angelina Jolie. The Vanquisher will attest that I was bordering on ecstasy as I ate it. I meant to take a picture but my lust overcame me and by the time I remembered, I was having a post-coital cigarette.

Tokyo Season is the best restaurant in Manchester, period. If you live anywhere near here, you must go there.

What else? Oh yes, of the oh-too-many highlights of a corking couple of days, there's the blatantly obvious (from the LATEST section) news that the Tudor barmaid is back and is twice as gorgeous as I remember.

And to round off the weekend? Utd kicking some Nancy-boys from London off the park to claim the first silverware of the season. It doesn't get much better.

If all of the above three events had happened simultaneously I fear there would have been just a puff of smoke remaining where once there was a Kenny.

If only the joy would last. Night-shift tomorrow -- how did I manage to fall for that? Still, it could be worse: the Vanquisher is on jury duty starting 9am tomorrow at Bolton Crown Court. My words of advice on avoidance were to wait until the defendant enters the court and shout "Don't worry Kev, I've got it sorted." With that image in his head, I am sure that I will end up having to pay bail money to get him out of the tombs for contempt. Shame he'll have to wait until Tuesday morning on my way home -- I'm sure he'll meet some nice chaps in there.

I hope you all had a ripper too and that your coupons had not expired.

The only reason I can come up with for being up at this time of day is that I'm quite looking forward to today. In many respects it's the same as any other day in that I need to transport my ass to Leeds and back. In one respect, though, it is unique. I'm staring down the barrel of a double sashimi day. It's a Kenny first. Lunch at Little Tokyo in Leeds with my favorite PM followed by dinner at Tokyo Season in Manchester with my old CEO.

What's not to like? Ah yes, the fact that I have had about five hours sleep. The Beckmeister arrived last night and proceeded to draw on anything that didn't move (and some things that did) so it would have been rude to call an early one. I am slowly amassing a portfolio of the Beckmeister's bizarre doodlings.

Anyway it's two doses of God's own food served the way it should be and Bryony day. I couldn't ask for more. Well I could but it would not be answered. If only I were awake.

Today I am mostly pretending I'm 16 again and rocking away to the Psychedelic Furs while pretending that I understand what the hell I do for a living.

Oh, and I am coming to terms with the reality that I have no idea what I do for a living and that I am working overnight next Monday. I say working, I mean am making myself available to login into systems that break so that I may break them further.

Root password?
Check.

service network stop
Check.

rm -rf /
Check.

Looks like I'm prepared, non?