Thursday, April 19, 2012
Rattus rattus
Frank Costello: Fucking rats. It's wearing me thin.
***
I had to be up early the other day to let the asbestos removal people in. We're having asbestos removed from the building at the moment - just one of those things that needs doing, I suppose.
Our building is situated on a little close off a side street and doesn't attract much foot traffic, other than wrong turns. Therefore, I was a bit surprised to see a young couple, a boy and a girl, come running up our close and dive into the hedge at the end. I was even more surprised when a police car pulled into the close, made a quick three-pointer and left.
There's somewhat in't, I thought.
A minute or two later, the asbestos guys arrived, full of the story of a failed mugging they'd just seen out on the high street. According to their story, a young couple had been attempting to waylay 'a big African' (disclaimer: he was probably one of those Africans from Jamaica) who, finding himself unable to escape their attentions, had filled the lad in. The couple had then fled, the lad bleeding rather a lot from his nose apparently.
Having heard all this, I decided I would go and investigate the hedge at the end of the close. Pocketing my phone, I headed to the front door to find two policemen outside.
"Hello there, sir. Is it all flats in here?" asked policeman #1 airily, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for the filth to roll up on your doorstep first thing in the morning and conduct an impromptu housing survey.
"Ye-es," I replied levelly. "But if you happen to be looking for two fugitives, I should tell you they ran down there and jumped into that hedge." (Here, I indicated the direction and foliage accordingly.)
The policemen thanked me and went and investigated the hedge. No sign. They then called in a dog squad and a chopper, made a bunch of noise and then suddenly departed. Either they'd flushed their rabbits out of one of the neighbouring gardens and caught them on the street or, as seems more probable, they'd just decided to go for an early lunch.
Quite a bit of excitement for one day, I thought, putting my feet up in the living room and listening to the sounds of asbestos being ripped none-too-delicately out of the walls. At this point, the biggest, greyest rat I've ever seen scuttled into the room, had a quick look at me, turned around and scuttled back out.
I don't think he was any more pleased to see me than I was to see him.
***
I had to be up early the other day to let the asbestos removal people in. We're having asbestos removed from the building at the moment - just one of those things that needs doing, I suppose.
Our building is situated on a little close off a side street and doesn't attract much foot traffic, other than wrong turns. Therefore, I was a bit surprised to see a young couple, a boy and a girl, come running up our close and dive into the hedge at the end. I was even more surprised when a police car pulled into the close, made a quick three-pointer and left.
There's somewhat in't, I thought.
A minute or two later, the asbestos guys arrived, full of the story of a failed mugging they'd just seen out on the high street. According to their story, a young couple had been attempting to waylay 'a big African' (disclaimer: he was probably one of those Africans from Jamaica) who, finding himself unable to escape their attentions, had filled the lad in. The couple had then fled, the lad bleeding rather a lot from his nose apparently.
Having heard all this, I decided I would go and investigate the hedge at the end of the close. Pocketing my phone, I headed to the front door to find two policemen outside.
"Hello there, sir. Is it all flats in here?" asked policeman #1 airily, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for the filth to roll up on your doorstep first thing in the morning and conduct an impromptu housing survey.
"Ye-es," I replied levelly. "But if you happen to be looking for two fugitives, I should tell you they ran down there and jumped into that hedge." (Here, I indicated the direction and foliage accordingly.)
The policemen thanked me and went and investigated the hedge. No sign. They then called in a dog squad and a chopper, made a bunch of noise and then suddenly departed. Either they'd flushed their rabbits out of one of the neighbouring gardens and caught them on the street or, as seems more probable, they'd just decided to go for an early lunch.
Quite a bit of excitement for one day, I thought, putting my feet up in the living room and listening to the sounds of asbestos being ripped none-too-delicately out of the walls. At this point, the biggest, greyest rat I've ever seen scuttled into the room, had a quick look at me, turned around and scuttled back out.
I don't think he was any more pleased to see me than I was to see him.
Labels: IMPENDING DOOM, MOMENTS, NATURE
Friday, May 27, 2011
Blood on the tracks
An interesting employment opportunity has had me spending rather a lot more time on trains recently. I spotted a train called ‘The Virgin Invader’ at Euston last night and sniggered duly.
-- Rewind, last Thursday --
As our train zooms through Milton Keynes Central station, there is suddenly a nasty juddering, rattling sort of a sound and we slow swiftly to a halt. I suspect that someone has just put an end to their misery. Furthermore, I suspect mine is just beginning.
An announcement: there has been ‘an incident’ at Milton Keynes and our driver is ‘in no fit state to continue’. We are stuck, some two hundred yards past the station, and we are going nowhere fast.
Most people in the carriage have likewise concluded that the ‘incident’ must have been a suicide. “What a pity,” they lament: “if only he’d waited for the next train.”
The woman across from me is talking into her phone about ‘the selfish bastard’ who’s just brought our journey to its hiatus, all the while shovelling crisps into her face. I haven’t had dinner and wouldn’t mind a crisp. She doesn’t offer me one.
I am tormented by jumpers and Walkers. Later, more fortunate trains thunder past and on into the oblivious night, unhindered by the torsos of the broken hearted.
-- Rewind, last Thursday --
As our train zooms through Milton Keynes Central station, there is suddenly a nasty juddering, rattling sort of a sound and we slow swiftly to a halt. I suspect that someone has just put an end to their misery. Furthermore, I suspect mine is just beginning.
An announcement: there has been ‘an incident’ at Milton Keynes and our driver is ‘in no fit state to continue’. We are stuck, some two hundred yards past the station, and we are going nowhere fast.
Most people in the carriage have likewise concluded that the ‘incident’ must have been a suicide. “What a pity,” they lament: “if only he’d waited for the next train.”
The woman across from me is talking into her phone about ‘the selfish bastard’ who’s just brought our journey to its hiatus, all the while shovelling crisps into her face. I haven’t had dinner and wouldn’t mind a crisp. She doesn’t offer me one.
I am tormented by jumpers and Walkers. Later, more fortunate trains thunder past and on into the oblivious night, unhindered by the torsos of the broken hearted.
Labels: IMPENDING DOOM, MOMENTS, TRAVEL
Monday, March 28, 2011
A mug's game
A few weeks ago, something entirely unprecedented happened: I took a punt on a horse and it actually won. Proud was Dan as he swaggered into William Hill to collect the Saturday night beer kitty.
On the back of that, I decided to throw a few quid at the Cheltenham festival and see what came of it. Nothing outrageous, just a few pounds a day and cash my winners at the end of the week, see if I break even or even (heaven forbid) turn a profit.
First day, first race: winner; second race: winner. My goodness, I thought, how long's this winning streak going to last?
My answer came in the third race of the day when my chosen jockey dismounted his horse rather prematurely (not to mention spectacularly) and got trod on a few times by the rest of the field.
This setback notwithstanding, my spawny luck just about lasted the week and I made a profit of around £40, enough to pimp my new dive with a Playstation 2 (second hand) and a copy of Grand Theft Auto 3 (likewise).
***
Dan zooming across the Callahan Bridge from Portland to Staunton Island in a stolen sports car, suddenly realises he's made a classic 'Brit abroad' mistake and is in the wrong lane.
Wow, that's dangerous, I thought, somebody could have got hurt...
***
GTA3 is a very addictive game, but I'm more worried about the potential consequences of my Cheltenham success. The Aintree festival is looming and I may find it hard to stay out of the bookies.
Gambling is a very slippery slope and, as far as I can see, there are three stages:
1. You've got a pound change left over from your shopping so you spend it on a scratch card.
2. You take a punt on a horse you like the look of.
3. You're sitting in a piss-stained bamboo hut in the middle of some god-forsaken jungle, holding a gun to your temple with hordes of locals, screaming with bloodlust, wagering large sums of money on you blowing your brains out all over the wall. Your best mate is sitting the other side of the table with his underpants on his head and he can't stop crying.
Just before pulling the trigger, you recall that pound change in the shop and experience a moment's sadness, wondering what life would have been like if you'd bought some Jaffa Cakes instead. Then you remember that the price of Jaffa Cakes has gone up and they now cost £1.09.
You shake your head briefly, and pull.
On the back of that, I decided to throw a few quid at the Cheltenham festival and see what came of it. Nothing outrageous, just a few pounds a day and cash my winners at the end of the week, see if I break even or even (heaven forbid) turn a profit.
First day, first race: winner; second race: winner. My goodness, I thought, how long's this winning streak going to last?
My answer came in the third race of the day when my chosen jockey dismounted his horse rather prematurely (not to mention spectacularly) and got trod on a few times by the rest of the field.
This setback notwithstanding, my spawny luck just about lasted the week and I made a profit of around £40, enough to pimp my new dive with a Playstation 2 (second hand) and a copy of Grand Theft Auto 3 (likewise).
***
Dan zooming across the Callahan Bridge from Portland to Staunton Island in a stolen sports car, suddenly realises he's made a classic 'Brit abroad' mistake and is in the wrong lane.
Wow, that's dangerous, I thought, somebody could have got hurt...
***
GTA3 is a very addictive game, but I'm more worried about the potential consequences of my Cheltenham success. The Aintree festival is looming and I may find it hard to stay out of the bookies.
Gambling is a very slippery slope and, as far as I can see, there are three stages:
1. You've got a pound change left over from your shopping so you spend it on a scratch card.
2. You take a punt on a horse you like the look of.
3. You're sitting in a piss-stained bamboo hut in the middle of some god-forsaken jungle, holding a gun to your temple with hordes of locals, screaming with bloodlust, wagering large sums of money on you blowing your brains out all over the wall. Your best mate is sitting the other side of the table with his underpants on his head and he can't stop crying.
Just before pulling the trigger, you recall that pound change in the shop and experience a moment's sadness, wondering what life would have been like if you'd bought some Jaffa Cakes instead. Then you remember that the price of Jaffa Cakes has gone up and they now cost £1.09.
You shake your head briefly, and pull.
Labels: IMPENDING DOOM, PSYCHE, THE CREDIT CRUNCH
Friday, March 18, 2011
Ill tidings and the lowest ebb
I am, for the time being at least, looking after a new property in Islington. It is a bit of a state, to put it mildly. All the carpets are soiled. Somebody has been trying to grow a fern in the sink of the upstairs bathroom. When I went in the kitchen the other day, the light bulb exploded. Didn't just go ping! and stop working - exploded.
I was shipped into this place on very short notice. The urgency of my situation was made apparent when someone attempted to break in through the back window on my second night here. From time to time, I think I hear voices in the house, panic and start legging it up and down the stairs like a startled cat.
Someone I know asked me yesterday if I am a Christian; I replied that I am not. She told me that sometimes she prays for people she knows and that recently my face has been popping into her mind during prayer. She also told me that she isn't crazy. I believe her.
I've spent much of my week in the bookmakers, not so much in the expectation of improving my fortunes as accustoming myself to life at the sphincter end of society's great tract. And tonight I finally reached the lowest ebb of my life thus far when I found myself reading the instructions on the back of a pot of baked beans.
In honesty, I'm actually quite enjoying all this - it's like indoor camping. There are a lot of people in real trouble right now.
***
Via text
HE: Btw, is everyone you know in Japan suitably accounted for mate?
ME: If by 'suitably accounted for' you mean 'all dead and floating to Canada', then no, I don't think so.
***
Levity aside, the destruction in Japan is awful, beyond me. 人生はこんなにはかない、なんて。
I was shipped into this place on very short notice. The urgency of my situation was made apparent when someone attempted to break in through the back window on my second night here. From time to time, I think I hear voices in the house, panic and start legging it up and down the stairs like a startled cat.
Someone I know asked me yesterday if I am a Christian; I replied that I am not. She told me that sometimes she prays for people she knows and that recently my face has been popping into her mind during prayer. She also told me that she isn't crazy. I believe her.
I've spent much of my week in the bookmakers, not so much in the expectation of improving my fortunes as accustoming myself to life at the sphincter end of society's great tract. And tonight I finally reached the lowest ebb of my life thus far when I found myself reading the instructions on the back of a pot of baked beans.
In honesty, I'm actually quite enjoying all this - it's like indoor camping. There are a lot of people in real trouble right now.
***
Via text
HE: Btw, is everyone you know in Japan suitably accounted for mate?
ME: If by 'suitably accounted for' you mean 'all dead and floating to Canada', then no, I don't think so.
***
Levity aside, the destruction in Japan is awful, beyond me. 人生はこんなにはかない、なんて。
Labels: IMPENDING DOOM
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Good old life
The axe fell on number 244, the strange, spacious flat where I've idled away more than a year. In several sweaty trips, I moved my stuff to another property just around the corner - a total journey of about 25 yards.
The new place already having occupants, I'm in a spare room. No bed, so I had to buy an airbed. Internet reception not so good, so I have to spend a fair amount of time at the local net cafe.
It is also fairly spidery: a human accidentally consumes on average 100 spiders during their lifetime. I've probably managed that in the last week.
***
Went into the net cafe yesterday to plan my Tuesday morning business IT lecture. My Google account wasn't working.
It seems my mail address had been compromised and all of my contacts consequently spammed. I'm convinced this is down to spyware on one of the cafe's machines. Gritting my teeth, I changed all my passwords and got on with my research as best I could.
Sadly, this turned out not to be easy: a collection of loutish foreign students were in there getting drunk and being loud and obnoxious. Giving the research up, I went home and sat in bed practising new songs on my ukulele.
***
In its early stages, insomnia is almost an oasis in which those who have to think or suffer darkly take refuge.
Sidonie Gabrielle Colette
***
At four in the morning, the phone buzz interrupts my fitful dozing. It is the mum - apparently my car has had its windows smashed, presumably by someone who didn't get any valentines.
The silver lining to this particular nebula is that the malefactors have been apprehended by the brave boys in blue and are, I unworthily hope, getting a taste of egyptian democracy in the cells.
I send a quick text of acknowledgment to the mum and settle back onto the airbed, which promptly explodes.
Both bed and I exhale loudly as I am lowered reverentially to the floor. I'm now so downtrodden I can't even manage a curse. I shift my bedclothes onto my exercise mat and make the best of the remaining hours of darkness. It will take more than life to kill me.
The new place already having occupants, I'm in a spare room. No bed, so I had to buy an airbed. Internet reception not so good, so I have to spend a fair amount of time at the local net cafe.
It is also fairly spidery: a human accidentally consumes on average 100 spiders during their lifetime. I've probably managed that in the last week.
***
Went into the net cafe yesterday to plan my Tuesday morning business IT lecture. My Google account wasn't working.
It seems my mail address had been compromised and all of my contacts consequently spammed. I'm convinced this is down to spyware on one of the cafe's machines. Gritting my teeth, I changed all my passwords and got on with my research as best I could.
Sadly, this turned out not to be easy: a collection of loutish foreign students were in there getting drunk and being loud and obnoxious. Giving the research up, I went home and sat in bed practising new songs on my ukulele.
***
In its early stages, insomnia is almost an oasis in which those who have to think or suffer darkly take refuge.
Sidonie Gabrielle Colette
***
At four in the morning, the phone buzz interrupts my fitful dozing. It is the mum - apparently my car has had its windows smashed, presumably by someone who didn't get any valentines.
The silver lining to this particular nebula is that the malefactors have been apprehended by the brave boys in blue and are, I unworthily hope, getting a taste of egyptian democracy in the cells.
I send a quick text of acknowledgment to the mum and settle back onto the airbed, which promptly explodes.
Both bed and I exhale loudly as I am lowered reverentially to the floor. I'm now so downtrodden I can't even manage a curse. I shift my bedclothes onto my exercise mat and make the best of the remaining hours of darkness. It will take more than life to kill me.
Labels: EVIL, IMPENDING DOOM, MOMENTS, SELF PRESERVATION
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Solitude - a cautionary tale
My flatmate is moving on to greener pastures, leaving me to cope with the various ghosts and spectres of the apartment by myself.
As I ready myself for a return to a solitary life, I came across the cautionary tale of a Greenland fur trapper in The Adventurer's Handbook.
***
An old trapper, Gustav, had taken on a young assistant, Olav, for the season. Olav was excellent company, being naturally lively and talkative. Sadly, however, he lacked the robustness of constitution required for surviving a Greenland winter and, after a month or two, he fell ill and died.
Trappers being, by necessity, fairly unsentimental, Gustav buried Olav and carried on with his work. The trappers had been completely isolated and a ship to collect their furs was not expected until the following summer.
After a while, Gustav grew to miss his erstwhile companion's gay banter so, with no other prospect of company, he dug Olav's body up and sat it a table in his cabin.
Naturally, dead Olav wasn't nearly as talkative as live Olav, plus Gustav was overwhelmed with shame. So he buried the body again. Whereupon he felt terribly lonely again. So he dug it up again. And so on.
Suffering from a terrible guilty conscience, Gustav became convinced that his companion's spirit was haunting him, so he dug the body up one last time and shot it through the head, then buried it again.
When the ship arrived to collect the season's haul of furs, the crew found Gustav quite agitated and, hearing that his companion had died, they took Gustav and the sadly abused cadaver back to Denmark, where Gustav was charged with murder on account of the apparent gunshot wound Olav's head.
***
There is, thankfully, a happy ending to this tale: an autopsy bore Gustav out in his claim to have shot the body after death. The murder charge was dropped and Gustav instead found himself in an insane asylum.
As I ready myself for a return to a solitary life, I came across the cautionary tale of a Greenland fur trapper in The Adventurer's Handbook.
***
An old trapper, Gustav, had taken on a young assistant, Olav, for the season. Olav was excellent company, being naturally lively and talkative. Sadly, however, he lacked the robustness of constitution required for surviving a Greenland winter and, after a month or two, he fell ill and died.
Trappers being, by necessity, fairly unsentimental, Gustav buried Olav and carried on with his work. The trappers had been completely isolated and a ship to collect their furs was not expected until the following summer.
After a while, Gustav grew to miss his erstwhile companion's gay banter so, with no other prospect of company, he dug Olav's body up and sat it a table in his cabin.
Naturally, dead Olav wasn't nearly as talkative as live Olav, plus Gustav was overwhelmed with shame. So he buried the body again. Whereupon he felt terribly lonely again. So he dug it up again. And so on.
Suffering from a terrible guilty conscience, Gustav became convinced that his companion's spirit was haunting him, so he dug the body up one last time and shot it through the head, then buried it again.
When the ship arrived to collect the season's haul of furs, the crew found Gustav quite agitated and, hearing that his companion had died, they took Gustav and the sadly abused cadaver back to Denmark, where Gustav was charged with murder on account of the apparent gunshot wound Olav's head.
***
There is, thankfully, a happy ending to this tale: an autopsy bore Gustav out in his claim to have shot the body after death. The murder charge was dropped and Gustav instead found himself in an insane asylum.
Labels: IMPENDING DOOM, TALES
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Two weeks until the marathon
The marathon is now but a fortnight distant and I am into the "taper" stage of my training, during which I run less and eat cheesecake like it's going out of fashion.
In truth, the cheesecake-eating bit is not conventional marathon training, but is a handy crutch for me as Edwin and I have sworn off alcohol until we are safely finished in Loch Ness.
A bottle of whisky which I bought the other day sits unharmed on the kitchen shelf, taunting me. Time for some more cheesecake.
At this stage in proceedings, it's not uncommon for runners to get paranoid about injury and illness: What if I get a cold? What if I tear a hamstring? I managed to do myself a bit of damage the other day while performing routine DIY surgery on my foot with a kitchen knife. Perhaps I should be more cautious.
I forced myself out of bed for a 5k race this morning, which went a lot better than last night's jog (ie. I didn't have to do an emergency stealth poo round the back of King's Cross station). There was also a big gorilla at the finishing line, giving out high-fives to runners.
As I was collecting my bag, the gorilla removed its head to reveal the rather hot face of a university student.
"That's not a gorilla!" I shouted indignantly. "That's just a man in a gorilla suit!"
The race organisers tutted and shook their heads at this intelligence. I'm sure one of them muttered the word "wanker".
Two more weeks.
In truth, the cheesecake-eating bit is not conventional marathon training, but is a handy crutch for me as Edwin and I have sworn off alcohol until we are safely finished in Loch Ness.
A bottle of whisky which I bought the other day sits unharmed on the kitchen shelf, taunting me. Time for some more cheesecake.
At this stage in proceedings, it's not uncommon for runners to get paranoid about injury and illness: What if I get a cold? What if I tear a hamstring? I managed to do myself a bit of damage the other day while performing routine DIY surgery on my foot with a kitchen knife. Perhaps I should be more cautious.
I forced myself out of bed for a 5k race this morning, which went a lot better than last night's jog (ie. I didn't have to do an emergency stealth poo round the back of King's Cross station). There was also a big gorilla at the finishing line, giving out high-fives to runners.
As I was collecting my bag, the gorilla removed its head to reveal the rather hot face of a university student.
"That's not a gorilla!" I shouted indignantly. "That's just a man in a gorilla suit!"
The race organisers tutted and shook their heads at this intelligence. I'm sure one of them muttered the word "wanker".
Two more weeks.
Labels: IMPENDING DOOM, SELF IMPROVEMENT, TALES
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Black Wednesday
I awoke to find the heating had gone off. This is not unusual: my pillow rests against the trip switch in the back bedroom and I do tend to flick it on and off with my nocturnal headbanging. Call it poor roomscaping if you will.
I went to turn it back on. Nothing happened.
The mum announced we had a power cut and she was off to Cirencester. If you think this a bit extreme, I should point out that she had a prior engagement.
She suggested I might like to go to Wetherspoon's for breakfast. I said, rather pointedly, that I'd sooner empty the salt cellar over my walking boots and try to bite through them.
She departed soon after.
A phonecall came from the brother while I was buggering around under the stairs, checking the fusebox. He was ill and wished me to go shopping for him.
I got in the car and started the engine. The windows fogged up.
I wound down my window. It made a wicked clunk! noise and dropped away at a 45 degree angle.
I tried to wind it back up. It made a tortured sound that suggested the glass might shatter and lacerate everything north of my shoulders.
I left the car at the garage and went shopping on foot.
A new window motor, it turns out, will cost £200 and take two weeks to deliver.
It is Black Wednesday and nothing is as it should be. If I have a worse Wednesday this week, I shall be very surprised.
I went to turn it back on. Nothing happened.
The mum announced we had a power cut and she was off to Cirencester. If you think this a bit extreme, I should point out that she had a prior engagement.
She suggested I might like to go to Wetherspoon's for breakfast. I said, rather pointedly, that I'd sooner empty the salt cellar over my walking boots and try to bite through them.
She departed soon after.
A phonecall came from the brother while I was buggering around under the stairs, checking the fusebox. He was ill and wished me to go shopping for him.
I got in the car and started the engine. The windows fogged up.
I wound down my window. It made a wicked clunk! noise and dropped away at a 45 degree angle.
I tried to wind it back up. It made a tortured sound that suggested the glass might shatter and lacerate everything north of my shoulders.
I left the car at the garage and went shopping on foot.
A new window motor, it turns out, will cost £200 and take two weeks to deliver.
It is Black Wednesday and nothing is as it should be. If I have a worse Wednesday this week, I shall be very surprised.
Labels: IMPENDING DOOM
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Preparation, part deux
An e-mail from the half marathon tomfoolerisers advised all entrants to write their name and an emergency contact number on the reverse of our race numbers (I'm number 14.)
I scribbled in my name, the house number and Follow me on Twitter! dangmckeown to be on the safe side.
I also stuck in a Japanese proverb on the face of the number:
Daikibansei: great talents mature late
In order to be fully prepared for the rigours of taking on fluids on the run, I did a few laps of the block taking plastic cups of squash off the front wall: not a great success.
First time: I threw half the drink over Joe, who was lining them up, and lost most of the rest up my sleeve.
Second time: I managed to get 50% of the drink in my mouth and 100% in my face.
Third time: I took the cup on the run at full speed with a deft pirouette, drained the contents, then threw up as I was running down the road.
I scribbled in my name, the house number and Follow me on Twitter! dangmckeown to be on the safe side.
I also stuck in a Japanese proverb on the face of the number:
Daikibansei: great talents mature late
In order to be fully prepared for the rigours of taking on fluids on the run, I did a few laps of the block taking plastic cups of squash off the front wall: not a great success.
First time: I threw half the drink over Joe, who was lining them up, and lost most of the rest up my sleeve.
Second time: I managed to get 50% of the drink in my mouth and 100% in my face.
Third time: I took the cup on the run at full speed with a deft pirouette, drained the contents, then threw up as I was running down the road.
Labels: IMPENDING DOOM, SELF IMPROVEMENT
Friday, October 23, 2009
Preparation
With two days to go until the Coventry Half Marathon and 120 big ones riding on me making it round in one piece, I have finally embarked on a training programme.
Happily, it designates the last two days as rest days.
Happily, it designates the last two days as rest days.
Labels: IMPENDING DOOM, SELF IMPROVEMENT
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Calling time on David Wilshire, MP
Last Sunday, I got home at 4 am and awoke a few hours later to find I had the flu. Burning the candle at both ends: never wise.
I slogged through Monday's lesson, got home and went to bed at 9 o'clock.
I woke up eleven hours later to the very real possibility of being late for the Houses of Parliament trip our lecturers had planned. I burned some rubber and, 45 minutes later, found myself sniffing and coughing outside the Palace of Westminster with my school chums.
We wandered through the place guided by a rum old cove called Michael. Jim Cunningham (MP for Coventry South) came past us in the corridors of power. He didn't recognise me from last year's Earlsdon fun run, and I refrained from shouting "Vote Nellist" at him.
At the end of our tour, we had a special sit-down session with David Wilshire, MP for Spelthorne, and one Robin Knight, journalist.
Mr Wilshire, a former Tory whip and infamous champion of clause 28, keeping mention of homosexuality out of our schools, is a bit of a different political animal to myself. Little did we realise at the time that he was 48 hours away from getting his.
Robin Knight was apparently once drugged by the shady Soviets in an attempted to cause mischief. (Story here.) Having recently read the tale of Jeremy Wolfenden in Sebastian Faulks's The Fatal Englishman, I'm already quite confident that, whatever my journalistic future holds, I don't fancy the Russia desk.
Unsurprisingly, a fair few of the questions for Mr Wilshire revolved around the parliamentary expenses scandal that flared up again this week with some MPs being instructed to repay expenses claims.
Mr Wilshire had a few bon mots on this subject:
"Some of my friends are being pilloried over a packet of biscuits, or a pork pie, or a tin of dog food.
"Is it fair to drive someone perilously close to a nervous breakdown or suicide over a packet of biscuits?"
Of course, the above is small beer. Most voters couldn't really give a hoot how many biscuits or pork pies their MP goes through. Or how much dog food they eat, for that matter.
Of more account is something like Mr Wilshire's second home: why an MP whose constituency lies in the commuter belt and who attends less than half of votes in the Commons needs a London flat at the taxpayer's expense is beyond me. Gallingly, he seemed to think he was really thrifty for not claiming for the cleaning bill.
Mr Wilshire was bullish about the business of MPs being told to repay expenses, asking us how we'd feel if, at the end of working a year for £24,000 someone told us they'd worked out it should have been £20,000 and demanding we pay back some money.
"That's not the case though, is it," said one dissentious voice which, after a brief glance around the room, I was horrified to discover had come from myself.
"You're not being asked to repay your salary, you're being asked to repay your expenses. Your expenses are not the same as your salary, not in any job."
Robin Knight, journalist, suppressed a grin which my paranoia put down as amusement at my petulant outburst. It was only afterwards that I considered he might have enjoyed watching my torpedo hit the HMS Bullshit.
I was dead wrong, in any case: Mr Wilshire's expenses were the same as his salary. Two days after we met him, it emerged in the newspapers that Mr Wilshire had paid over £100,000 from his office and staffing allowance to a research company owned by him and his wife.
It was subsequently confirmed that Mr Wilshire would not be standing in the next general election.
I don't know if he was aware, while he was glibly telling us that black is white, or while I was haranguing him, that his time was running out.
I'm guessing the Spring intake of students on our course will have to sharpen their claws on someone else.
I slogged through Monday's lesson, got home and went to bed at 9 o'clock.
I woke up eleven hours later to the very real possibility of being late for the Houses of Parliament trip our lecturers had planned. I burned some rubber and, 45 minutes later, found myself sniffing and coughing outside the Palace of Westminster with my school chums.
We wandered through the place guided by a rum old cove called Michael. Jim Cunningham (MP for Coventry South) came past us in the corridors of power. He didn't recognise me from last year's Earlsdon fun run, and I refrained from shouting "Vote Nellist" at him.
At the end of our tour, we had a special sit-down session with David Wilshire, MP for Spelthorne, and one Robin Knight, journalist.
Mr Wilshire, a former Tory whip and infamous champion of clause 28, keeping mention of homosexuality out of our schools, is a bit of a different political animal to myself. Little did we realise at the time that he was 48 hours away from getting his.
Robin Knight was apparently once drugged by the shady Soviets in an attempted to cause mischief. (Story here.) Having recently read the tale of Jeremy Wolfenden in Sebastian Faulks's The Fatal Englishman, I'm already quite confident that, whatever my journalistic future holds, I don't fancy the Russia desk.
Unsurprisingly, a fair few of the questions for Mr Wilshire revolved around the parliamentary expenses scandal that flared up again this week with some MPs being instructed to repay expenses claims.
Mr Wilshire had a few bon mots on this subject:
"Some of my friends are being pilloried over a packet of biscuits, or a pork pie, or a tin of dog food.
"Is it fair to drive someone perilously close to a nervous breakdown or suicide over a packet of biscuits?"
Of course, the above is small beer. Most voters couldn't really give a hoot how many biscuits or pork pies their MP goes through. Or how much dog food they eat, for that matter.
Of more account is something like Mr Wilshire's second home: why an MP whose constituency lies in the commuter belt and who attends less than half of votes in the Commons needs a London flat at the taxpayer's expense is beyond me. Gallingly, he seemed to think he was really thrifty for not claiming for the cleaning bill.
Mr Wilshire was bullish about the business of MPs being told to repay expenses, asking us how we'd feel if, at the end of working a year for £24,000 someone told us they'd worked out it should have been £20,000 and demanding we pay back some money.
"That's not the case though, is it," said one dissentious voice which, after a brief glance around the room, I was horrified to discover had come from myself.
"You're not being asked to repay your salary, you're being asked to repay your expenses. Your expenses are not the same as your salary, not in any job."
Robin Knight, journalist, suppressed a grin which my paranoia put down as amusement at my petulant outburst. It was only afterwards that I considered he might have enjoyed watching my torpedo hit the HMS Bullshit.
I was dead wrong, in any case: Mr Wilshire's expenses were the same as his salary. Two days after we met him, it emerged in the newspapers that Mr Wilshire had paid over £100,000 from his office and staffing allowance to a research company owned by him and his wife.
It was subsequently confirmed that Mr Wilshire would not be standing in the next general election.
I don't know if he was aware, while he was glibly telling us that black is white, or while I was haranguing him, that his time was running out.
I'm guessing the Spring intake of students on our course will have to sharpen their claws on someone else.
Labels: DIPLOMACY, IMPENDING DOOM, SELF IMPROVEMENT, WORDS
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
"The worst idea in a long, proud history of bad ideas"
Eamonn, bless his cotton socks, volunteered us for a slot performing at Murphy's bog-standard Irish bar on the 14th.
My initial reaction was one of horror. This was followed by curiosity, followed by horror again, then stabilised itself as morbid curiosity.
Here's the blurb from our facebook flier:
Ever been to a Murphy's gig and gone away thinking "I could have done a better job"?
Eamonn did after the last one; you may very well do after the next one.
Like a latter-day Simon and Garfunkel, we're going to be arguing the toss about musical differences and experimenting with facial hair.
We'll also be playing a rock-solid set, packed with classy tunes, and providing some top-quality banter.
Hope to see you there!
Mick advised us to aim for about 15 songs, which we may actually just about be able to manage. Band practice has brought us closer than ever and provided some wonderful insights:
ME: Did you know that if you shake your hand, hundreds of thousands of bacteria fly off?
Shake hand at his face to demonstrate. He is unfazed.
HE: Yeah, well- did you know that if you keep your toothbrush in the same room as your toilet, you eat a lump of shit every year?
ME: Do you keep your toothbrush in the same room as your toilet?
HE: I do now.
My initial reaction was one of horror. This was followed by curiosity, followed by horror again, then stabilised itself as morbid curiosity.
Here's the blurb from our facebook flier:
Ever been to a Murphy's gig and gone away thinking "I could have done a better job"?
Eamonn did after the last one; you may very well do after the next one.
Like a latter-day Simon and Garfunkel, we're going to be arguing the toss about musical differences and experimenting with facial hair.
We'll also be playing a rock-solid set, packed with classy tunes, and providing some top-quality banter.
Hope to see you there!
Mick advised us to aim for about 15 songs, which we may actually just about be able to manage. Band practice has brought us closer than ever and provided some wonderful insights:
ME: Did you know that if you shake your hand, hundreds of thousands of bacteria fly off?
Shake hand at his face to demonstrate. He is unfazed.
HE: Yeah, well- did you know that if you keep your toothbrush in the same room as your toilet, you eat a lump of shit every year?
ME: Do you keep your toothbrush in the same room as your toilet?
HE: I do now.
Labels: COMRADES, IMPENDING DOOM, WORDS
