Another one bites the dust

Just seven fish left today after I found the pleco floating on the top.

Why?

Why are they dying?

I spoke to a fish expert and he was baffled too.

We are going to Falmouth (in my shiny new Puma with its CD player!) for the weekend, so fingers crossed the remaining few will be alive when we return on Monday.

Still, I hope I am not as sad as this guy!

Alas, poor comet

Yes, the other fish died; unceremoniously flushed down the toilet.

There are just eight left now (sniff).

This is probably my favourite news story of the year:

"A WOMAN was left in shock after a herd of runaway cows trampled over her car.

Barbara Epps, 52, was driving to work when the herd 'came out of a garden and flew over the car and crashed on to the road on the other side'.

She said: 'Some came over the bonnet and others went right over the roof. I can still see their faces smashing into the glass as the windscreen shattered.'

Mrs Epps, from Quedgeley, Gloucestershire, was treated by ambulance staff for shock but did not suffer other injuries. Her car was said to have been 'mangled' during the experience.

It is thought the five or six animals had escaped onto the A4173 towards Edge, in Gloucestershire, from a nearby field. None of them was injured.

The police spokesman added: 'Possibly they might have been in some kind of panic with the car introducing itself into their midst.'

The incident comes just two months after a woman in nearby Bristol was left terrified when a runaway cow ran over her car, leaving it damaged beyond repair."

I will look out for crazed beasts driving my new car home tonight - we are passing Epping Forest on the A406!

Pray for a little one

Believe it or not, I actually shed a tear for one of my fish this morning.

I was siphoning out one third of the water to pour in fresh (an activity recommended to be carried out weekly) when the little bugger was sucked into the tube and came out the other end.

Oh yes, you may laugh but the poor little thing got damaged on the way and his guts were hanging out his side. There's worse: he wasn't dead.

Obviously, I couldn't bring myself to kill him so I left him in a big bowl to die in the kitchen. Oh, it was so tragic. I felt terrible inflicting such a horrible death on such an innocent little thing.

And to make things worse, this came after I found my blue shubunkin floating dead on the surface for absolutely no apparent reason. He wasn't bloated, or covered in fungus or anything.


And to make things even worse another fish was floating around listlessly, looking for all the world like he'd be literally belly-up by the time I get home.

I'm not sure I can handle the emotional rollercoaster that is fish keeping.

Talking about aquatic disasters, my poor old Other Half has been diagnosed with a perforated ear drum after someone kicked him in the head in the swimming pool!

All this has rather overshadowed the excitement I felt earlier this morning when I secured myself a new car - a shiny black Ford Puma - in what is possibly the deal of the century. I pick it up tomorrow night.

Another slow news day

Bored, bored, bored. It is 6pm and I am yet to do any work!

I have been amusing myself by applying for a job at The Guardian, looking for a new car on t'internet (a Ford Puma) and looking at other people's blogs: this fella Andrew's in particular.

I also Googled and Yahooed "wyebird". I am number one on Yahoo but only second on Google. Who is this other wyebird? Well, at least they have good taste in computers.

Damn t'internet

This blogging malarkey was nearly scuppered today by a series of technical glitches that left us without t’internet for most of the day.

And did that day drag, or what?

As I did the Sub Standard crossword (a pleasure usually left until tea time) I wondered what on earth we did to amuse ourselves at work before the interweb was invented.

And to be honest, I really can’t remember. I think at News Plopper , we mostly argued the toss across our desks, or stared out of the window.

If anyone can remember what office workers used to do, please
email me and let me know.

The weekend was great. Friday night piss up in Brighton half watching Master And Commander on a big screen on the beach, Saturday night piss up camping on VHBB’s land in Borough Green, and Sunday the Other Half came home from a teambuilding weekend in Tunbridge Wells so we had .. um .. things to catch up on!

A bit of culcha, innit

We enjoyed an evening of high culture last night at the Globe Theatre, watching Romeo and Juliet. It was the first time either me, or the Other Half, had been inside the building and it won’t be the last.

It is great. The area in front of the stage is standing only and the circular walls have three or four tiers of seating in the form of wooden benches. Luckily, we were seated half-way up and under cover as a localised monsoon blew over during the show, soaking the crowd. Also, the play was three hours long so, despite giving you a slightly numb arse, it is definitely worth splashing out on a seat.

While we were waiting for the performance to start, Elizabethan-style musicians played and, apart from the rustle of plastic macs, it was almost like we had time-travelled.

I really enjoyed the show. Juliet was quite fiesty and Romeo a bit of a geezer. Admittedly, the only other version I have seen starred the Leonardo di Caprio so I don’t have much to compare it too, but I thought it was a good effort. Lots of laughs (although I get the impression from critics that this is not quite the idea), acceptable performances and wonderful costumes.

During half-time, or should I say the interval, we stood in the courtyard outside and tried to image how different London would have been in Shakespeare’s day.

I imagine it would have stunk. I mean, the air in the toilets alone would have been enough to peel paint ...

A cunning plan

I can be so thick some times. My chiropractor said I should simply tell the physio I no longer see him and get her to treat me anyway.

Why didn’t I think of that?

The Other Half sent this to popular humour magazine
Viz today:

"Profanisaurus entry Chavsport n - Pastimes indulged by those who wear tracksuits but don't actually do any sport, e.g. Supermarket sweeps, smacking children and running away from the police."

Tee Hee! But not to be confused with Jewish chavs in America, innit!

National health my arse

Gaaa. The National Health. What a joke.

I spent years trying to get my GP to take my miserable back seriously and stop prescribing me ibruprofen.

It got to the point where I had to rope my MP in to get anywhere and even then the doc said there was an eight month wait for physio, WHICH WOULD "BE NO USE" TO ME, despite the fact I couldn't stand up straight.

He also bullied me into agreeing to surgery before anyone had even looked at my back by repeating, Paxman-like, "Will you consider having surgery" five or six times until I said I wouldn't rule it out if necessary.

When I finally did get to see a consultant he took one look at me, said I had a congenital birth defect (!) and that there was a wait of two years before I could have a MRI scan to find out what it was.

Bam! Five minutes later and I was thrown back onto the street.

But anyway, surgery was not an option and, having tried private physio, osteopathy, yoga, hot baths and everything else I could think of, I went to a chiropractor.

Hallelujah! The man is a miracle worker and I am now on the mend but my bank balance is about a grand lighter.

So, why am I moaning? I finally got to see a NHS physio this morning - about five years after I first asked the GP for a referral - and she said: 'Yes there is lots of things I could do for you but I won't treat you while you are being treated by another practitioner.'

Why do I pay my national fucking insurance? The Other Half has been on at me to write to John Reid about the shoddy treatment at the hands of these quacks. I think I will ask for a refund.

So, to leave this posting on a happier note - here's a cute picture of the puppy dog I will get one day. It's a Boston terrier.

Long train running

It is less than a year now until we get married, and while we are undecided on where to go for honeymoon - Tuscany or Greece - one thing is sure: a few months later we are going to take the train all the way to Hong Kong.

This is the plan:
Royal Victoria DLR to Canning Town; Jubilee Line to Waterloo; Eurostar to Brussels; train to Poland or Germany and then on to Moscow. From there we pick up the Trans-Siberian Express
Beijing via Ulaanbaatar. We will then make our way down China to Hong Kong, arriving in Central on the MTR. After a few days there, we will head to Japan, New Zealand, Oz and Peru.

I am exhausted just thinking about it!

Apparently it is best to get a Chinese Trans-Siberian train rather than a Russian one but either way, we are going first class, baby.

We plan to get off in Mongolia and catch the following train to China, which will be three days later.

I want to go riding with the famous horsemen, espcially after catching a glimpse of desert life watching The Story Of The Weeping Camel.

It follows a family of camel herders living in the featureless Mongolian scrubland.

It was quite a remarkable film as the people were not actors but it was a proper story rather than a fly-on-the-tent-wall documentary.

Plenty of close ups of camels giving birth - legs hanging out the back of a female camel giving birth and lots of goo.

Summer starts here

It was Fawcett Friday as F Senior announced her engagement (congratulations!) and F Minor returned from Baghdad in fine condition. We gave her a proper war hero's reception in Mr Lawrence.

Saturday was a trip to the past – the Hulcott Village Fete. If there was ever a blueprint for all village fetes, this must be it. Crappy prizes were handed out on the tombola stall, youngsters were Bowling For A Ham (roll a ball through a hoop and win a lump of pig), old dears selling bric-a-brac and an old-fashioned steam organ. There was even a coconut shy, for god's sake.



At one point an old Morris Minor drove by and I felt like I was an extra in Heartbeat. But in Bucks, not Yorkshire.

The highlight of the day had to be the dog show. All the villagers' dogs were entered into contests such as 'prettiest bitch', 'owner who looks like their pet' and 'waggiest tail'.

Only one man took it seriously, bossing his wife about while she tried to control a mean-looking Alsation.

The Other Half's parents' dog came third in 'most handsome dog' class while an Alan Partridge-style commentary was provided by a 'local' competing to be heard over the steam organ thingamy.

It was nice to be part of a proper community event, where practically everyone in the village came together to raise money for the village church. A far cry from what passes for community in Silvertown.

And the rural niceties continued into Sunday, when we had a round (is it a round? or chukka? or frame?) of croquet in the Other Half's parents' chocolate-box cottage garden.

I won. Yessss!

In It For The Money Tour

As the planes circled towards Heathrow and rain-heavy clouds gathered, 50,000 people waited expectantly for the return of 60s legends Simon and Garfunkel.

Jo, Sarah, Steve and I made our way into the open-air arena with a bag full of food, and high hopes for the evening with 'old friends'.

As we waited in the fading sun, we tried to remember at least one song from The Everly Brothers’ back catalogue but failed miserably. There were, however, some rather excellent renditions of Unchained Melody and You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling by the Righteous Brothers, which were obviously the wrong set of siblings.

Anyway, at 8.30pm, S&G came on stage to huge cheers and, without even so much as a 'hello London', they went straight into a wobbly version of Old Friends.

They proceeded to belt out all their greatest hits – Mrs Robinson, The Boxer, Bridge Over Troubled Water etc etc with a great guest appearance by their teenage heroes, The Everly Brothers.

They sang Wake Up Little Suzy, All I Have To Do Is Dream and Bye Bye Love – of course they did, we said remembering now.

Garfunkel still looked creepy and Simon just looked old. Very short, and very old. So small, in fact, it looked he was playing an oversized guitar as he adopted the School Of Rock power stance – legs as far akimbo as their tiny length could manage and guitar ‘shooting’ at the audience.

And as for being friends, they weren’t fooling anyone. Not once during a two-hour set did they look at each other, stand closer than two metres or smile in each other’s direction. No shared joy at the delight they were bringing to the crowd.

They told a little anecdote about how they met during rehearsals for a school play – Alice in Wonderland. Simon was the White Rabbit and he made great pains to remind Garfunkel that his role as The Cheshire Cat was 'just a supporting role'.

But despite their not connecting with each other at all, together they brought together people of all ages and from all walks of life. There were mums and grown up daughters swaying, couples in their 50s cuddling and crying, groups of Japanese tourists and puff-smoking 30-somethings with girlfriends way more attractive than their own looks justified.

Everyone was singing along. Everyone knew all the words.

After a cracking set, S&G were cheered and whistled back on for two encores – first to play Cecilia and finally, sending us off into the dark night, Feeling Groovy.

Impress your friends

While shopping in Rotherhithe Tesco for picnic stuff for tonight's Simon and Garfunkel concert in Hyde Park, I noticed an extraordinarily fat woman with two chubster kids.

Now, I know one shouldn't judge others, particularly the overweight, but did she really think putting seven Muller jaffa cake corner ‘yoghurts’, litres of sugar-based drinks and NINE super-size (ten inch) sausage rolls in her basket was the way forward?

So instead of judging people, try this mind reading trick: ask someone to draw something outside of the room you are in so you can guess what it is.

Say these exact words (but not the words in brackets!): "Draw something not in the office (or wherever you happen to be) a person, vehicle, building. Make a sketch of it. (give them a short time to draw) Done?"

Create an atmosphere where they have to draw it quick and the chances are they will have drawn a car or van or bus. You can then say something along the lines of: "I see two circles, they are joined by a line … is it … is it a vehicle?"

Try it and email me with your results, and we can see if it works! I managed to impress one guy in the office today with my marvellous mystical skills.

Another great game to play is Scissors, paper, Stone with Saddam Hussein

Don't let the bastards get you down

Today is one of those days which drives me to fill out application forms to be a McDonald's manager, or similar.

There is this utter cock in the office - every place of work has one - who has on my fucking back for days now. Today I snapped in a really lame-arse and embarrassing way. But one day, I will tell the fucking fuck to fuck right off.

I wonder who the biggest twats in offices thinks the office cock is? Judging by the attitude of our one it's 'everyone else'.

So, for a bit of light in these dark days, I played with Pingu and looked up rude place names near where I live, such as Minges, Claggy Cott and Nasty. Just type in your postcode.

Power to the Polo

I picked up the old faithful Polo from the garage today where it had a new vacuum advance (?) fitted and the choke arm unstuck.



It goes like a rocket now, sort of, but the brakes are still shit so please, no emergency stops if you have a red F-reg mean machine on your tail.

And please people, just use your indicators more generally.

New today: The Sub Standard has started stapling it's crappy pages together in a desperate bid to increase its readership, presumably trying to emulate the more successful freesheet that is Metro. Don't be fooled. It is still a very poor read.

As I am having a fairly dull day, read about someone else's courtesy of the Other Half.

"Is this an attempt on the 'most simultaneous crimes' world record? In short, Man stopped for driving five mph down the wrong way of a one-way street, naked, watching child pornography downloaded off a stolen device. "

Coogan v Llewellyn-Bowen

Saw Around The World In 80 Days on Friday. It's very obviously a kids film but Steve Coogan put in a magnificent performance, even if he did look and act like Lawrence Llewellyn-Bowen.

To nick a line off the great Daniel Kitson - it had everything you need in a film, comedy, monks and kung-fu. But without the monks.

There was a very scary appearance by the Governer of California. As if the recent allegations about his wandering hands was just a bunch of silly women overreacting, Arnie played a super-greasy lecherous, misogenistic, Atomic Kitten-orange, strange-wigged perv in the film.

Why? (Arnie, if you are reading, an explanation please.)

On Saturday, the Other Half and I decided we were going to Newham City Farm on our way to Chav Town aka Beckton 'shopping village'.

Despite it smelling of animal piss, it was quite cute. There were peacocks, sheep, rams, goats and pigs. There was also a Kookaburra laughing its head off and lots of hens and ducks.



More photos:
Peacock
Ram
Laughing pig
Weird pig

No more work for a day or two

I will resist the urge to whinge about the fact our advertising sales team have been jetted off on a jolly to Portugal while us poor shopfloor types, the ones who make sure the gaps between the ads are filled with news and pictures, get … umm … we get …to come in, do lots of hard work and get verbally abused by our ‘superiors’.

Or, if you are Jewish, you get the rare honour of constantly being ‘teased’ about being a Palestinian-killing, wall-building, mega-buck princess by the deputy night news editor!

So I will not whine about these things and I will enjoy the wonderful weekend ahead.

Meanwhile, the Other Half has spent his day winning tickets to the Grand Prix at Silverstone for selling lots of paperclips and other office sundries. (It’s all go in sales. Perhaps I should change jobs.)

He has also been bothering councillors up north about their anti-vandal website, which, quite frankly looks like an open challenge to any little tyke with a spray can.

He said: "I rang them (pretending I thought they were promoting graffiti)to ask if they were giving out free sprays but the woman just said she'd get someone to call me back. She was probably his wife."

Is it coz I is past it? – Part II

More incomprehensible club news in today's Metro:

"Whatever you want to call it, London's grime scene has blossomed of late.
It’s taken the likes of Dizzee Rascal, Wiley and Shystie to lead the stripped-bare MC-led street sound out of the playground but it's been worth the wait.
There isn’t another form of British dance music that's currently chewing up and spitting out a more taxing and interesting earful than this."

And this one is just plain silly:

"Austro-German jazz and aeroplanes: two modern phenomena that are almost completely unfathomable yet can take you to enormous heights.
Only boffins really know how planes get off the ground, but visitors to Technique can at least get to grips with the groove Anschluss, in the shape of Peter Kruder."

London's grime scene – what’s that? Has Mr Trebus been reincarnated as a 'turntablist' in that imaginary place called Clubland?

And I really must take issue with the aeroplanes thing. Pilots get them off the ground, boffins sit in darkened rooms doing hard sums and dribbling over computer-generated women.

I suggest, rather than giving yourself tinnitus listening to loud music, go and see Fahrenheit 9/11.

Or Shrek 2!

Free ice cream for all

Hurrah for work! As the gales batter London town and the rain comes down in biblical proportions, it's free ice cream all round.

Hmmm ... nettle tea ... or Magnum original ... nettle tea ... or Magnum original ...

Some people had two and now feel sick.

I washed down a Magnum original with a refreshing cup of nettle tea.

Meanwhile, homes across the south east are left without power thanks to the UK's usual 'don't panic Mr Mainwaring' response to unseasonal climatic conditions.

The Dress

Today I made the biggest purchase of my life - my wedding dress.

After months of trying on every style and colour of gown known to man, or, strictly speaking, known to woman, I have chosen The One.

As The Other Half also represents a quarter of my readership, I shall say no more on the subject except 'Hurrah for me!'.

For the other three readers who may not be so thrilled with shopping information, here are the results of the What Would You Do For Money survey.

1. Lozza: 'I would DJ a five hour set naked for a hundred quid. Providing people danced.'
2. The Other Half: 'I will actually try to listen to you for an evening for £10,000'
3. Pete: 'I've never done anything interesting for money, apart from work. Which isn't interesting, it's just work. And they don't pay me enough'
4. Keevins: - 'I will touch your tits for a fiver'

Thank you all, even Pete who clearly got the question wrong!

Bat man

When it is cold, windy, damp and threatening to piss down again what is a girl-about-town (who forgot to take a coat or jumper with her) to do?

Yes, that's right, go on a bat watching walk in east London!

The Other Half organised for us to join Ken on a walk around Victoria Park on Friday night to see if we could spot some bats.

I have to confess, the pub we went to after work was warm and, apart from the shouty city boys, rather cosy and I didn't really want to go out and brave the English 'summer' in the hope of seeing some flying mammals.

However, once in 'Ackney I was glad I went. Ken turned out to be one of those infectiously enthusiastic people and he got all 50 of us (yes, 50 people turned up!) over-excited about searching for bats, even the fella at the back with a six-pack of Special Brew and 20 B&H.

And it was great. Heading into a deserted, locked park in the dark in London is actually really cool.

But the piece de resistance was Ken's bat boxes which detect the little critters' echo location noises and converts them into a sound like a wet fart. After about an hour, the bats appeared and guffed their way around the lake.

It was very cute. Cold, but cute.

Separated at birth?

Saddam Hussein and Matthew Kelly

Drinks and dinner in Canary Wharf with ‘Comedy’ Steve last night revealed some interesting social behaviour.

We were put off drinking in the bars at the entrance to the tube by the shit music pumping out of Smollensky’s, where men in suits were doing that funny dance - the one where they stand at 45 degrees on one leg and do the twist – with bored, overdressed too-beautiful-to-smile women.

So we headed up to Plateau where men in suits were hee-hawing about how much money they earn while the beautiful women blinded us with choking smoke from Camel fags. Do people really smoke Camels beyond their teens?

One very annoying bar tender later, and we left, which is a shame because Plateau is one of the best places in CW.

Observation = expensive, trendy bars attract nobs.

On to Wagamama in Jubilee Place. Bench tables, lots of glass, friendly service and a nice, if not predictable meal.

Observation = trendy but cheapo diner attracts reasonable people who want to talk to each other

And finally, a quick drink in Davy’s. Football on, lots of shouting by people with their backs to the screen. Some cheering by two Greece fans and many, many cheap-suited office workers.

Observation = Football attracts twats.

Overall, what I really came away with was that there is a clear social divide even in a place like Canary Wharf.

So what, you may say? So, nothing. It was just something I noticed.

What would you do for money?

Who hasn’t had that conversation at some time? The stupidest thing I ever did for money was let some twatty coked-up bloke touch my tits for £5. I was fully clothed, mind you, and it lasted about 3 seconds. Easiest fiver I ever earned.

Well, courtesy of Bill Drummond (formerly half of The KLF) you can now put your money where your mouth is, or you mouth where your money is, on his new website.

Some of the services on offer are hilarious. I especially like this guy:
‘Alibis!
Guilty? Innocent? It's all the same to me. For a fee of 500 pounds a time I will lie to the police about your whereabouts, and for 2000, I will perjure myself in court, and swear a testimony to a fictitious scenario of your choice. Easiest to contact me in advance of crime, and establish the deal. Emergency alibis also available.’

It’s almost as good as the ‘Classified Ads’ on The Framley Examiner.

To see if anyone is actually reading this blog, email me with what you would do for money and how much you would charge and, if anyone responds, I will post the answers next week.