a note for first-timers

If it's your first time here and you're new to blogs, the first post you'll see is the most recent so that's where you should be ending, rather than starting. Otherwise, carry on...

Please, feel free to comment - you know you want to.

inaccessibility

Is this thing actually working? For the last few days, I've attempted to view my blog but it continues to not let me do so. God only knows what the problem with it is. Perhaps it's the work computer, perhaps it's some issue with the Blogger servers.

Whatever the case, it needs resolving - I need to do some writing!

phones for me

I had a phonecall from The Carphone Warehouse yesterday offering me a new phone free of charge so long as I commit to another year on my contract with T-Mobile. They're also throwing in a Bluetooth handsfree kit for nothing and, considering my current one is falling apart, I figured it was worth a seven-day-trial.

So, I'm sat here waiting on them turning up with that little lot so I can charge it up and use it this evening when I go out. Apparently the camera's got a flash and it can also capture video - that could make for an interesting addition to the Baby Otter arsenal. It's got an FM radio and can play MP3s too, so it seems to have all the bits and bobs you'd expect from any self-respecting phone these days. Oh, and it's Bluetooth-enabled, which will help with the handsfree kit.

Rich and I are off out tonight in London. At the moment it's looking like it'll be Piccadilly but who really knows, eh? Anywhere with a good atmosphere; that's not too crowded; isn't occupied by sleazy, icky people; guarantees service within a minute of being at the bar; offers free drinks all night; allows entry without a collar; holds coats free of charge; provides proper grooming facilities with an on-site, free-of-charge hairdresser and beauty salon for which there is no waiting time; and will order us a cab home will do just fine. Failing that, a dancefloor and some decent music. It's very much an either-or case as far as I'm concerned.

I'm bored again. And now I don't even have anything else to talk about. I might be more inspired when I get my phone, though I doubt it'll be even vaguely useable for a good few hours with a dead battery. Hmmmm... the tedium will continue unabated for a while yet then.

I need a biscuit or something.

the wanderer returns

Actually, I've not really done much in the way of wandering - not physically anyway. I have, however, found my mind wandering plenty - more often than not to a distant land some fourteen hours and twenty-three minutes away (according to the flight schedules).

Today I'm bored. I mean thoroughly, utterly, entirely, completely bored. If there was a World Championships for boredom I could at least console myself with the fact that I'd be getting in some good training at the moment in preparation for a tilt at a spot on the rostrum - but there's not. So there's not even an interesting aspect to being bored - how disappointing. *sigh*

I've been at work now for two hours and twenty-one minutes today and I've still not taken my coat off. Subconsciously, it's probably because I'm hoping I can casually sneak out when I head off downstairs to make tea or visit the restrooms (today that word will take on a new meaning - I'll be taking enormous care and attention to ensure that my hands are as clean as clean can be, even if it takes an hour before I'm satisfied), but in reality it's because apathy kicked in as soon as I arrived at my desk and I just couldn't be bothered to take the bloody thing off. Okay, I'll do so now... wait there.

That was hard work. I think I probably ought to go downstairs now and make myself a cup of tea for some respite. I'll see if anyone else wants some too - that ought to take up a wee bit more time.

I shall return...

inappropriately titled "the Disney brand"

I'm thinking that, perhaps, I should have been given the nickname "Disney". My emotions these days seem to be a bit like that, if not my moods: A couple of days ago I was miserable; today I'm not - far from it.

But enough about my emotional rollercoaster - I'm here to speak more about LA (the one in Tenerife). I probably shouldn't have mentioned Disney and LA in the same post - you'll all be thinking of the wrong one now. Ah well, concentrate and you should be fine.

I spoke to Rich last night and he approved of the tale about the first night there, even recalling the ickiness of the four free shots. But he wants more. He got a bit of a reminiscent fix from reading of our adventures and now wants another hit. Pretty soon, I think, he'll be a junkie and, when the true stories run out, I'll have to start making stuff up just to keep the poor guy from crashing back down to Earth. Seriously - he'll vividly remember when we scaled Everest on that holiday by the time I'm finished here.

So, let me tell you of the cast of characters we encountered over there:

Emily
The first morning we were there we were supposed to be up at ten (I think) to meet the Reps and other people that were on the same package holiday thing as us. I say "package holiday" but it wasn't really like that - we still had to pay for all the activities they had planned for us, which was nice.

Anyway, in the lift on the way down to this meeting, we met a couple (both in their forties, I guess) and had a wee chat with them, unaware they, too, were going to the meeting. And there was us thinking it was a variation on the 18-30 theme! It turns out that they were there to gain information on behalf of and pay for the future activities of their daughter - Emily.

You know, I don't remember actually seeing Emily with normal hair but I'm sure we did the first time we met her - it's just that her braids became so "Emily" that I've forgotten how she looked without them.

Emily was an addict. She didn't look like your typical addict but she was. She liked to feel out of control, though it was apparent to us that it also scared the shit out of her - not literally, fortunately. I remember one night she, Rich, some others, and I were out and she had us wait for her on a street corner while she went off to buy drugs from a guy who'd done his best to pick a fight with me in a club the night before. The police turned up and yet still she stood there paying for whatever shite it was she was going to smoke/snort. Fortunately for her, the Police in that LA seem not to be the most efficient or observant.

"Not for shit, mate" was her response to most things she didn't agree with. This was both amusing and annoying all at once, though it became much more the former when we got back from LA and Rich started dating a girl from the same part of the country as Emily who also favoured that particular ism. Serves him right for making me do that Gas Chamber, I say!

Remember why Disney was christened Disney? Well, on that basis, she would have been an even stronger candidate for that nickname. She was a sweet girl most of the time... but she could turn at the drop of a hat and then cry about it. Madness. Still, she had braids. And "not for shit" would she change them.

Personally, there's not much I would do or exchange for shit, but perhaps that's just me. Maybe I don't yet understand the true value of the brown gold. Is it to be a future currency, I wonder?

Bugs
Rich, you probably ought to explain about Bugs seeing as you knew her much more intimately than I did, or wanted to. Silly boy. *tut tut*

There's not a whole lot I can really say about Bugs. It's a harsh name for her, I guess, because she didn't have that much of an overbite, but it fitted well enough. And when you see who's up next you'll see better why that is.

Rich and Bugs,
sittin' by the sea,
kay-eye-ess-ess-eye-en-gee.

Rich and others,
playin' drinking games,
this one's 'bout flu-id ex-change.

Ohhhh yes. And that was how it ended. They got together at a Foam Party - both parts of that sentence turned out to be bad things: the first because... well... because (Rich, help me out here. Explain.) and the second because the pair of us (along with the bulk of the people that were there) ended up getting some sort of chest infection that knocked us all for six - and it all finished when one of the drinking games, which involved ten guys and ten girls in two teams (five of each in each) sitting on a flight of stairs and passing alcohol of some description from the top to the bottom via their mouths, was participated in by a certain young man who answers to "Rich".

You see the blue text a bit further up? Repeat.

Daffy
See? This is why Bugs was really Bugs.

In this instance she actually did look like Daffy Duck. In-so-much-as someone can look like a cartoon character (don't get me started on Roald Dahl here!) anyway. She really did.

And, with a thick Mancunian accent, she almost quacked too. Without meaning to offend anyone from England's second (or is it third? Or fourth?) city, the accent isn't the easiest to understand at the best of times - and this wasn't the best of times.

Both Bugs and Daffy were nice enough but they were the people that tag onto a larger group of people. That, in itself, is perfectly okay - it's just when the tags start moaning about where the luggage is going that things can get a little less... errr... okay.

More to follow... but I've got to go and check out a car. Come on, Wombat - lunch.

the real slim wombat

Guess who's back, back again.
Wombat's back, tell a friend.
Guess who's back, guess who's back, guess who's back, guess who's back...
[ Na na naa ]

Yes, she has indeed returned. Hurrah! I missed not having her around the office and she never has her bloody phone charged up on so it's not like I can even call her and say, "I'm bored. How's your back?" or something.

Mind you, she's in a meeting at the moment so I can't send her an email and say, "I'm bored. How's your back?" either. Actually, the way we write emails it would be more like "I'mbored.How'syourback?" Clearly, it makes it more difficult to read like that - perfect for when someone's looking at your monitor from their own desk in an attempt to work out what you're saying and whether it's about them.

the perils of "Wankitoff" Vodka

First let me explain the title and set the scene for this little story, being recounted to you at Lee's request:

I was in Tenerife - in Playa de Las Americas to be more precise - for two weeks from the end of September to the beginning of October in 2003. When I'm having to spell out the year instead of saying "last year", it makes it seem like a very long time ago. Anyway, I went there with a friend of mine, Rich, and, ten minutes after getting to the hotel and throwing our suitcases in the room, we were out in the moonlit (and streetlightlit) Tenerife night.

We managed to get beyond the first person touting for business but the second guy was a Scouse scally and there was no escaping him - he followed us for a hundred yards making more and more outlandish promises of free drinks he'd get for us all the while. We succumbed to "Buy one get one free on the first three drinks plus four free shots."

So, we get to the bar and, true to his word, we get three "Buy one get one free" vouchers each and he lines up eight shots on the bar for us. Five are green and three are orange. Shit. I thought we were going to get shots of something palatable, but this looks like a series of urine samples. Are we expected to identify which of the bar staff has Diabetes? We had them anyway. And they tasted pretty much how we expected them to, based on their appearance - they're some sort of schnapps, we're told. "Shit Schnapps.", came my response.

And then we sampled the "delights" of the local Vodka. Generally, when he and I go for a night out we'll have Vodka at some point during the evening and, since Tenerife, we now ask for "Smirnoff and..." just to be on the safe side. In fact, neither of us trust that the words "Red Bull" will actually mean Red Bull to the person behind the bar - it could just as easily mean "cheap substitute that makes the fluid in the glass look and taste like piss". At least Red Bull only looks like piss - it loses that taste after two or three cans. The Tenerife version keeps its taste throughout the night.

I think we christened it Wankitoff Vodka on the second night - I think I need to give him the credit for that name actually - but we knew right from the first taste that there was something very, very wrong with it. I don't think I managed to finish my first drink.

Fortunately, a young Geordie lass walked past us with a tray of Vodka Jellies and off I went to investigate this new phenomenon - I'd not seen them before and they looked a damn sight better than what was in my glass at the time. I found out later that this departure from the table was much to the annoyance of a group of girls who'd been flirting with us (albeit through a window) up to that point - we met them in a club later on when the digital cameras had made their debuts in Las Americas (shall I call it LA from now on to add to the confusion? Yes, I think I will) and I tried to get a photo of them with Rich.

Evidently we'd "Had our chance earlier". "But there were Vodka Jellies!" I protested. She didn't seem to understand the significance of this and off the six of them trooped, so thoroughly disgusted, it seemed, that we'd not made our move earlier - I hadn't recognised the opportunity to practice my glass shattering skills (but that's another story) at the time. Shame.

Vodka Jellies still contained the same Wankitoff stuff but at least the taste was cancelled out by the sweetness of raspberry (I think) jelly. Somehow I managed to get chatting to two Irish guys, who I distinctly recall raised the subject of waste disposal on an industrial scale, and, between the four of us - with a little bit of help from the aforementioned "Geordie lass", whose name escapes me - we managed to get through a couple of trays of the stuff. I guess that was about forty or so.

"We're off to a club... wanna come with us? Our girlfriends are there... and his ex, and some other girls." said one of the Irish guys when the Vodka Jelly supply ran out. "Sure!" we said eagerly, "Where is it?"

The club was fifty yards away around the back of the bar we'd just been in. Somehow during that journey, Rich and I managed to get distracted - I won't tell you who or what caught our respective eyes, but she was clearly strategically positioned to intercept those of us already under the influence of Vodka Jellies - and we had a couple of Gas Chambers before we went to the club. For those of you that don't know what a Gas Chamber is, they set some spirit of some sort alight on the table-top and then cover it with a glass. A straw is then inserted under the glass and you suck through the straw to get a gaseous version of whatever shite they burnt. It's potent and makes you cough. Not a good idea.

We went into the club and, without any effort at all, found the two Irish guys and their girlfriends (and ex girlfriend and other female friends). We were made to feel welcome, despite our wide-eyed Jesus-what-the-fuck-was-that-we-just-inhaled? states and got down on the dancefloor. By that I mean we danced, rather than saw the sticky, beer-soaked linoleum as an appropriate resting place.

The cameras came out and photos were taken. The "incident" with the sulks occured and then I decided I needed to perform an evacuation procedure from the front so I headed outside to the "rest rooms". I have to call them that, these days, after it was pointed out to me that "She's in the toilet." makes it sound like she's clambered in there, presumably for a wash.

What was needed to be done was done and I even remembered to wash my hands in spite of the level of alcohol in my blood and I gave my face a quick plosh (my mum's word, though it seems to be used elsewhere too) and off I headed for the club again. Remember, now, that the rest rooms are outside. There are two heavy doors to encounter on the way in to the club - made from glass and metal with a pole handle running almost the full length of the door.

The first door proves to be no problem and in I go. Somehow, however, I manage to open the second door right into my face; right onto my forehead. Of course it hurt, but my immediate instinct is to have a quick check to see if anyone noticed that little episode and, satisfied that it was witness-free, I open the door more carefully and head for the area of the dancefloor I'd vacated just five minutes previously.

Ten minutes go by and my forehead is inexplicably hurting. By this time, of course, I've put the incident with the door behind me seeing as noone happened to see it so I'm not expecting my forehead to hurt. What the Hell is going on? Did someone hit me?!

I go up to a girl behind the bar and ask her if there's any sort of mark on my forehead that she can see. "Ohhhhhhhhh yes!" she says, in a tone that suggests it's an unmissable mark, "There's a mirror at the end of the bar..." I go and have a look in the mirror and there's a thin trail of blood from just above my right eye, down along the the bridge of my nose (just inside to the right, in fact) and just not quite as far as my lip. Lovely. I could see where the barmaid's tone had come from.

As with all such situations, I sobered up at once and headed off to the rest rooms to clean up. I washed it. And it bled. I washed it again and put some tissues on it to stem the blood. It still bled. In the end I simply got it to a point where the blood was only trickling a tiny wee bit and armed myself with enough tissue to keep it in check but not so much that anyone would see it and think I had a cold or an urgent need for a wad of toilet paper.

So that was my first night in Tenerife. It took me all of three hours to injure myself and I still have a little bit of a scar from it. People were saying I'd need a stitch or two but I'm sure that would only have resulted in a sideways scar too - so I didn't bother. Besides, it's nice to have evidence for what happened. And, Rich, it's better the way I tell it - "He walked into a door!" just doesn't have the same appeal as a tale to be told.

this post has been given a "12" by the Posts Classification Board, meaning you should leave it twelve hours before eating afterwards

Inquisitor:"Why do you have to leave early?"
Me:"To have my ears waxed."

Yes, I did say that. And felt quite the fool. I immediately had this image of driving into a carwash and having a seventeen-year-old lad come at me with a bottle of Turtle Wax and a cloth to give my ears a good buff. Not a nice image, I have to say.

Anyway, I did go and have my ears syringed (rather than waxed) today - well, one of them anyway - and it was, somewhat surprisingly, a really really unpleasant experience. I had them syringed back in November by a beautiful lady, but this time it was a forty-something Irish woman who was rather too keen for me to return should I ever feel the need to have her perform an aural version of a colonic irrigation on me again. I've never had a colonic irrigation, incidentally, and if the syringing of my ear today is anything to go by I'd rather take my chances with a box of prunes and hope for the best.

Still, at least now I can hear the clicking of the keys as I type somewhere in the region of 0.4% better. So that's a good thing. Sort of. Actually, it's a good thing in the sense that it does at least mean there's no shite (of any sort) in there now.

I do hope you weren't sitting at your computer reading this expecting to tuck into that cream cake you've had in the fridge since you got back from the shops and had been saving for just the right moment when you were all relaxed. I think I may have killed that mood, I'm afraid. Apologies.

I shall henceforth refrain from talking about icky stuff. Hmmmm... what's that on the bottom of my shoe...?

it's a trust thing

Am I alone in thinking that buying a sandwich from a newsagent for lunch is a risky business? There are certain ones you can be fairly sure won't come back up within an hour or so - a loaf of bread, for example - and others that you'd only ever pick up if every other shelf (including the one sporting Liquorice Allsorts) was empty and you'd just been told by God that you had to have something to eat in the next three minutes or he'd smite you.

The ones I won't go near are those with any sort of meat whatsoever. I don't know why but I don't generally regard tuna in that same category but anything else is off-limits. I won't touch anything that describes itself as "Spicy" because God and the creator (of the sandwich) alone know what's gone in there - and possibly the doctor who carries out the subsequent autopsy.

Oh, and I'm still wary of ones claiming to contain "Salad" after that "Egg Mayo & Salad" disgrace.

I'm bored now but I did some good work earlier today. When I say "good" I mean that in the sense of solving problems with the code rather than popping down to the local soup kitchen and helping out. Not that good. Okay, I did some work earlier. Fine.

But, as I said, I'm bored now. I guess I should probably do some more work of the evil variety (hey, if it's not good it must be evil, right?) instead of being on here - but the Devil's not going to be able to find too much work for these hands to do seeing as they're typing and, thus, not idle. Not until I finish typing at least, which will be around abooouuut... now.

what a small world

I just hit in the top-right corner a few times and was taken first to a Norwegian blog, then to one that told me I'd need to install the Japanese language pack to see it properly - like that would help me understand it. I guess it'd be posted by someone from Japan then. Next was one in Brazil and, finally, one in The U.S. Virgin Islands.

Good luck with being able to understand any part of any of them - none of them are in English so I was completely lost. Still, it was interesting to see how widespread this blogging community (am I a part of it by virtue of having this?) really is.

the head-bobbing thing

You know when your eyes are really heavy and they keep trying to close? And your head starts to fall forward and, as soon as you realise you're getting close to nodding-off, you suddenly open your eyes and look straight ahead again instead of at your feet? You know that feeling? Well, that's what I call "the head-bobbing thing". It's horrible, isn't it?

I was like that on the way in this morning - it's even worse when you're driving because you know that staying awake and alert is an absolute necessity. Not nice.

It's not the reason for me being so tired because I barely woke for it but I had a phonecall at about one this morning on my mobile. It was on the other side of the room and I only woke at the very last ring so I didn't manage to get to it before the other person hung up. It was from a withheld number (why do people do that?) and it looked like I'd had two such calls. And there was no voicemail. *sigh*

If that was you then let me know and/or call me back. And be quick about it. And don't withhold your number this time... or there'll be repercussions.

"salad"

Wombat now has less than half an hour to turn up - she's been sat in the carpark for long enough now. Surely!

If you go to a shop to buy a sandwich and you find "Egg Mayo & Salad" on one of the labels, you pretty much expect it to be egg mayonnaise and salad between a couple of slices of bread, right? I'd have thought so too. The term "salad", it seems, can now be applied to slices of sausage. Did you know that?

I'll have to be careful the next time I order a Caesar Salad from somewhere. I'll need to just make sure by saying, "Caesar Salad please... and hold the sausage." Or does that sound a bit too suggestive? The waitress might get the wrong idea on that one. Hmmm... I think I'd best just take my chances and fish out any bits of sausage I come across and leave them in the ashtray.

I did, in fact, find an "Egg Mayo & Salad" sandwich that contained, somewhat surprisingly, egg mayonnaise and, what I must now call, "traditional" salad. I bought some cookies too, but I've not started on those yet. I think I might have some now actually...

vindication

At the start of December, shortly after I got back from The States, I was informed at work that there was something very wrong with the software we write here. I had a look at the problem and concluded very quickly that the problem was, in fact, with old data that had been entered before several fixes were made.

Fatkins was adamant that it was the code and I maintained that it was the data and/or configuration but that the code was perfectly okay - I wrote most of it in the first place and it worked fine under all circumstances but this particular instance, where there was old (shitty) data involved.

It turns out that I was entirely correct. Remarkable. I'm wondering whether I should wade in with an "I told you so" and, if so, how best to phrase it for maximum impact; or whether I should just sit back and smile knowingly to myself that I was right all along. For now, it's the latter...

Wombat - she actually said as much just now, though not to me. "We stuck with the same version because it was the data." were, though paraphrased, her words.

Right, I'm off to smirk for a bit.

work without Wombat

I know she's only two and three-quarter hours late now but I'm starting to give up hope of her leaving the carpark and venturing into the office. I guess I have to face up to having lunch on my own today - and not even lunch down the pub. That, at least, would have made the day a little more bearable.

Wombat, when you read this I shall expect you to turn round in your seat, look at me with sorrowful eyes as tears stream down your cheeks, and make a full and public apology for your absence.

At least I got a couple of emails from Sally. Yay! Oh, and the coffee was shite, Sally, really shite. Clenched paws are gonna start flying soon methinks. Or coffee-filled mugs at least.

I'm yet to break the news to Wombat that we need to re-Christen Disney (because he's certainly not reminiscent of "The Happiest Place on Earth"™) so I think I'll have to think of a new name for him before I do so. Would "EuroDisney" work, Sally? I don't think anyone is under the illusion that that's an especially happy place. Oh, the reason for mentioning that here is that it was he that made me the mug of shite coffee.

work is for losers. I lost.

Well, the holiday is over. Of course. All good things must come to an end, they say, and not being at work is most definitely a good thing. A very good thing.

Wombat (H), it seems, has elected to postpone her torturous return until the last possible moment. In contrast, I thought the traffic would be horrible (are the schools not open today?) so I left early and got in even earlier. Not than I left; just than I needed to be. It took me fifty minutes of being bored, replying to the one new email for today - the others were appearing on this computer for the first time but had appeared on my one at home over the festive period - and generally hearing about everyone else's Christmas before I decided to bail out and climb aboard the boat to Blogsville.

Dinky just turned up. I thought it might have been Wombat but she's still doing the sensible thing and sitting in her car instead of at her desk. It wouldn't surprise me if she was actually in the carpark and contemplating just starting the car up again and driving home. I'm considering it myself. Seriously considering it.

It's been a few days since I wrote on here, has it not? Actually, this is my first entry of 2005. I've spent the last few days sailing the Caribbean (a place name I always struggle to spell - two r's feel right, but look far from it), blowing other vessels out of the water - or boarding them and stealing all their stuff - and pretending to be Captain Jack Sparrow. I've even done the voice on a couple of occasions, though there's unfortunately no option to customise the look of your character. Shame.

Oh, you think I'm talking about playing a game on a computer rather than actually doing it? How mistaken you are, people. How very mistaken. I was really there. I did woo several Governers' daughters. I did marry a Dutch one and then seek for a way to divorce her (or commit bigamy) so I could marry a French one. I did personally see to the demise of nine of the most notorious pirates ever to sail the Caribbean waters, as well as a host of other less (in)famous ones. I did find several lost cities and I did go treasure hunting and find several different X's.

So there. You've been told. Ha!

Wombat's still not in. Perhaps she really has turned the car around and gone home. She could be caught in traffic, I suppose. Or she could be taking today off for some reason - I think she got back from her Christmas in another country yesterday. Or she could still be sat in the carpark considering her options. Either way, she's not here. Not fair.

Much more importantly than not liking being at work today is what it means for my sleeping patterns: since I have to get out of bed at six thirty (or so), I can't really be on the phone to my young lady until much past two - that's even more unfair than Wombat not being in. I'm wondering whether it's better to go to bed earlier (no mean feat) and wake up at about five to speak to S. Whether I continue with my current strategy or adopt the new one, I'll not be getting much more than about four hours of sleep each night - plenty for a twenty-six year old otter, wouldn't you say? I have Saturday and Sunday mornings to replenish my slumber supplies in any case.

Right, I'm supposed to be working. At work. What a strange philosophy that is. It's not my philosophy but I guess it's the one I have to adhere to, at least for the time being, so I'd best finish for now and get a wriggle on. Little doubt I shall return ere the day is out...