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wWhat The...? |
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Ways to stay sane when you're bored out of your brain. Step One: Create a blog.
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wSaturday, August 14, 2004 |
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This blog's looking run down. It hasn't been dusted down in months, the decor's dated, even a radical content-ectomy isn't going to work.
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wTuesday, April 13, 2004 |
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If You Go Down In The Woods Tonight
Not far from the three Sodburies there was, until recently, a field planted with fluorescent light bulbs. This ingenious installation-cum-cow-trap was the brainchild of Richard Box. Dick is artist in residence at the physics department of Bristol University and Field was his latest piece of landscape art.
Apart from the obvious 'bulb' pun, planting fluorescent lights in a field is an unusual concept, even for a 'physical artist'. Box's love of bulbs apparently grew from spending rather a lot of time in the university's glass blowing workshops watching men, well - blow glass. Box's interest in fields also appears to have been an offshoot of his private passions. Of course, it was vitally important that he find a field with a line of pylons running through it: to transform the installation into a bona fide art work required the waste electro-magnetic emissions of high voltage overhead power cables. But I bet there are dozens of fields with pylons running over them, so why this one? The answer came somewhat by suprise.
Without realising that the installation had been removed four weeks earlier two friends of mine drove from London during the Easter weekend to see Box's Field. The bizarre thing was, they came back unaware that the artwork had been uninstalled. Having arrived at the car park, they set out along the half-mile path to the empty field, expecting to catch the shimmering spectacle as it came into view. Unbeknown to them, the path ran through a small but very popular copse where the only spectacles on display were adorning the reddened face of a middle-aged man whose crotch was being attended by a bald bloke in a cagool. Alarmed at this sudden rupturing of their artistic sensibilities, my friends abandoned their art-quest and fled the countryside immediately. Which is a shame, because I think there is something quite balletic about the furtive movements of gentlemen Sodburyites briefly revealing themselves in woodland shadows. Perhaps Dick can get his bulbs to light up using the waste emissions from a line of men.
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wSaturday, April 03, 2004 |
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A Turd In The Pan...
A friend of mine was called into school to see her son's headmistress recently. The son had been ratted on by his friend for pooing in a bush. The headmistress instructed the child, "Dogs poo in bushes - little boys poo in toilets".
According to a poo website I conslulted, an al fresco defecation falls into the scategory of 'garden turd'.
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wFriday, March 05, 2004 |
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Perce My Droghte To The Roote
I forgot to mention - I've got a job. And what better time to end three-and-a-half years of career drought, than spring, the season of renewal and rising sap. Finally the sweet liqour of job satisfaction is nourishing my dry old root. And when the season mirrors your mood you can't help but feel happy.
This job has a fixed term contract - just six months - so there'll be no redundancy, which kinda renders my blog title meaningless again. Maybe it could take on a metaphorical purpose. I mean, aren't we all heading for the big dole office in the sky?
"'Ave ya got yer blue book, yer red book, yer I.D., yer green form and, er, yer certificate?"
"Certificate? What - birth, marriage, divorce...?"
"No mate, the other one."
"Oh. The other one, yeah... So where do I go for a new life?"
"What d'yer want? We can offer yer an interview for Scorpion or Weasel this afternoon."
"But, I was hoping for Media Mogul or Minor Nobility at the very least. I used to be a Sales Executive."
"Bingo. Two-thirty alright?"
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wMonday, February 16, 2004 |
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Carried Away: Second, Final and Sextupley X-Rated Part.
For those who don't mind knowing, or who have short term memory problems, I know I cottoned on late, but the synopsis' of all the Sex And The City episodes can be read at www.hbo.com/city. All except the last one that is. They must be frantically writing-in Carrie's neck snapping incident.
I have a suspicion that all Bloggers secretly aspire to be Ms Bradshaw: not because we long to be decapitated by enormous peni, but because she is the high priestess of lifestyle voyeurism. Like Carrie, we all want to put a bit of ourselves on view. Which bit, of course, varies. But, whether it's actions, emotions or ruminations, we all see some value in going public with our privates. So, are bloggers keeping the cyber-public entertained with glimpses of lives they can love or loathe? Or are we just doing it for ourselves - wwwanking into the information black hole. How about Lady J - this is the point where Blog meets Bradshaw. But is she doing it for you, or just stimulating herself?
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wSunday, February 15, 2004 |
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Carried Away
The final part of the final episode of the final half of the final series of Sex And The City is soon to be gracing our screens. Of course, the storyline of the double bill finale is a closely guarded secret. So much so, that there are, apparently, three different endings, all of which will make it to the DVD no doubt. But how does that work on TV? Tune in at 10:00 for a happy ending, 11:00 for a sad ending and 12:00 for the XXX snuff movie ending? Speaking of which, pay a visit to www.whowouldyoukill.com. Here is one reader's plot twist which must surely be odds-on favourite for the midnight ending:
Who would you kill: I Would Kill... Carrie!
How: Carrie is having sex and mr bigs penis is so large it snaps her neck.
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wThursday, February 12, 2004 |
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Head In A Spin
Yeah, well. I lied. I needed more than a good sleep: sixteen hours in bed, eight very strong aspirin, four pints of water, two turtle doves and big packet of rich tea, to be precise. So I didn't update my blog as promised. And as well as fleeing my blogging duties, I have been berated for neglecting my domestic chores. I promised I would clean up our kitchen. I didn't. Jeez. My word is becoming severely devalued.
Maybe I can get a job compiling dossiers for the PM.
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wSaturday, February 07, 2004 |
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Well jolly my rodger. We just bumped into Ian Martin in Escape. And I promised him I'd be blog-active this week. Oh Lordy!
I'm wankered. Don't be annoyed. I just need a good sleep. I tell you what, I'll speak to you tomorrow...
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wSunday, January 25, 2004 |
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U.B. Or Not U.B.
I'm now the proud owner of a UB40 form. Except - damn it - it's not a UB40 any more. It's a JSA (Job Seekers Allowance) 40. The form is devoted to reminding us dolers that it MUST BE RETURNED and our benefits CANCELLED the instant we land a job. In the meantime I am to attend my local job centre every other Thursday at 11:30 on the dot.
The thing is, I live in Kilburn, in a conservation area. We have big old trees with birds and squirrels, we've got a neighbourhood fox, the people opposite have stained glass and prize-winning eucalyptus! But the powers that be saw fit to enrole me at Neasden Job Centre. On my maiden visit I heroically cycled up the dismal Dudden Hill (I'm trying to be a good doler and economise on travel) in the pouring rain with a double decker bus and line of cars snapping at my wheels. I had been determined to treat my dole-life as a positive, enriching experience, but when I set eyes on Neasden I couldn't help but feel a deep well of despair open up inside. Neasden is Hell's waiting room.
After the cursing, the crying, the appeals to God to deliver me from this evil, the nearly getting run over by cement mixer, I somehow found my way into a filthy underpass. I was lost and to cap it all the council, in their wisdom, had paved the cycle-way with ridged concrete slabs. I guess they were designed for extra grippiness in wet weather, in reality they became 'The Greasy Griddle', a dexterity test last used on the Crystal Maze but abandoned after three fatalities. My back wheel shot one way, my front wheel shot the other and my legs splayed out like stabilizers trying keep me upright as I did this crazy serpentine bicycle dance under the North Circular. At the top of the ramp on the far side I discovered that the Job Centre was nowhere in sight, so I asked a woman where it was. With a big buttery smile she pointed to where I’d come from and said, "first of all you go back through there…" I realised she had been watching my whole skidding-on-the-griddle escapade.
By the time I found my way to the Job Centre I was splattered in mud, soaked with rain, streaming with sweat and in the mood for murdering somebody. Inside I managed to find a gaggle of staff sat around having a pleasant chit-chat at the far end of the room. I made one of those impromptu megaphones with my hands and hollered across the empty desks, "I’ve come for my signing on interview". One of them pointed at the ceiling. I took this as a sign to go upstairs. Then I had a baffling exchange with one of the disconcertingly numerous security staff.
"I’d like to see Mr Keen."
"Mr King? No, there is no Mr King. I think he works down there."
Now I know why they spelled Mr Keen’s name (including his first name, which happened to be the same as mine) when I booked the appointment. So I carried on, down the room, round the corner, through the double doors, along the corridor to a distracted 19 year old sat behind a desk. "Av yer got yer letter, yer job seekers form, yer idenitity, yer owsing form, yer little blue book", she waved a copy at me whilst repeating "BLUE book," and finally, "whats yer name", which was written on all of the aformentioned documents. She typed a number into her computer and, as if trying to catch me out, inquired again, "PAUL? Hmm. Go and sit in the middle there and someone’ll call yer."
All the computers are kept in metal boxes fixed to the floor. The monitors are wearing metal collars keep them bolted to the desks. I now realise it's to protect them from the staff.
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wFriday, December 19, 2003 |
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To Redundancy - And Beyond!
My last in-office blog entry. THANK GOD! At last it's over. Ugh. I just remembered that I have to go for drinks with the other patients - sorry, my 'colleagues'.
Still, I guess it's time to put little old Blog into re-orientation therapy. Hopefully its spirit won't be broken, its spunk won't be compromised and its occasional voyeurs won't stop coming.
I've still not had sight of that UB40 yet.
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