You Could Not Make It Up

I was recently asked what the mood in my office was like, following The Team Meeting. "Resignation with a side of gallows humour" was the best answer I could think of; we've reached the point where when someone says "I find gallows humour helps me cope", someone else says "Don't say that too loudly, next week there could be an actual gallows".

We did laugh quite a lot recently though, when it turns out that this month is Health and Wellbeing month in the office. We were all given a piece of paper and invited to write down three things that would improve our health and wellbeing at work.

I had to remind myself that you should only quote The Thick of It among other people who've watched it, as I think I shocked a couple of people by remarking that my employer expressing concern for my health and wellbeing whilst proposing to make half my team redundant in three months' time is a bit...

Randomly Overhead Weirdness at the Olive and Bean

The Olive and Bean Cafe is one of my favourite hangouts. It inhabits the weird hinterland at the back of the Grainger Market, a strange mix of the posh - the Olive and Bean itself, the wool shop over the road, Cafe Royale round the corner - and the vaguely disreputable - the cheapie clothes shops, Poundland, and the infamous Black Garter pub. I rather like it (the cafe and the area) and can often be found chewing a panini there on a Sunday after church, alongside most of Newcastle's middle class.

Today I happened to be sitting on the big table in the middle, when two large, fresh-faced ginger-haired chaps dropped into chairs on the corner opposite. One was clearly a student, the other older, and they looked as though they might be related. The student fella was, apparently, also an organ scholar at Oxford. (I learned this from both their conversation and the fact that they'd left papers about an upcoming service on the table in front of them, and like many people involved in politics, I can read upside down). He had been doing a risk assessment for an upcoming service, which the older chap then proceeded to evaluate.

OLDER CHAP: "This really is very open-ended, isn't it? What they're asking? I mean, for risks, you could put 'Gas explosion', 'Meteorites', 'Terrorists running in off the streets with guns, bullets flying around'..."

YOUNGER CHAP: "Yes, it is a bit like that, they like you to put follow-on actions on there as well".

OLDER CHAP: "...'Strip-searching choristers', I suppose the associated risk would be 'grinning whilst strip-searching choristers'..."

I resisted the urge to chime in with "Volcanoes exploding...". At this point, a young woman in a dress and a knitted sweater with a picture of a monkey joined them.

OLDER CHAP: "Ah, [YOUNG WOMAN], you're going to be taking care of [YOUNGER CHAP] aren't you, I've got to go soon, show him round the town?"

YOUNG WOMAN (grinning): "No, I'm planning to eat him as soon as your back is turned."

OLDER CHAP: "Well, in that case you'll still be showing him round the town, albeit with him being inside you."

The young woman pulled off her sweater.

YOUNG WOMAN: "Did I tell you, I recently grew my armpit hair to raise money for research into polycystic ovary disease?"

At this point, I made an excuse. And left.

Pills, Thrills and Locked Doors

Collected my prescription the other day. You know how some people say “I’m a bit OCD?” I have to resist the urge to say “Oh really? Can you leave your house without checking the door is locked ten times, then having to go back into the house and check the oven is off five times, then repeat the process with the lock? Do you put your hand inside the oven in the morning to check you turned it off? If not then dude, you are NOT PLAYING IN MY LEAGUE, you just need to REMEMBER TO TURN THE DAMN IRON OFF”.

Anyway, the prescription is for the nice happy pills that make this go away, or least lessen it to the extent that I only need to check the lock five times, and sometimes not at all if it’s a good day. The worst aspect of OCD, by the way, is that you know perfectly well you have got it, and that what you are doing is ridiculous, and you are embarassed and ashamed about it, but this is where the compulsiv
e part comes in; it’s very hard to stop.

(This is why, if you know someone has OCD, unless they’ve told you it’s okay, it’s not a great idea to comment on how often they’ve checked the lock. There is nothing rational about checking. Most folks with OCD know perfectly well that the lock doesn’t get more locked if you keep checking it. That’s not the point. The point is that you’ll be terrified out of your wits later if you can’t remember whether or not you locked it. You know the feeling you would get just before you fell off a cliff? It’s that feeling.)

I have my happy pills, which is nice. Every so often I have a conversation with the doctor along the lines of:

DOCTOR: Have you considered coming off your pills?

ME: Yes, but I’m concerned about the side-effects. (A combination of feeling depressed and losing your balance to the extent that you can’t tell where the floor is, if you’re wondering.)

DOCTOR: Perhaps you could try it when you have a stable, relatively stress-free period in your life.

ME: I’ve just bought my first home, I’m working full-time and studying part-time, my employer has made me apply for my own job three times in 24 months, and is likely to do so again this Christmas.

DOCTOR: Why don’t I write you another prescription?

At least now I know where my prescription goes to; the Boots next door to the doctor’s surgery. Last time I forgot this, ran out, applied for more pills and turned up at the surgery desperate for the pills, only to be told “Sorry, we can’t give you a prescription because the system thinks you might be over-using them.”

It’s hard to convince people you’re not over-using drugs when you are clearly on the verge of replying “No, I assure you I am not, now GIVE ME MY DRUGS!”

The Yoga and Meditation Teacher With the Broken Back

This really happened: I walked into my meditation class on a Wednesday* and discovered that we had a new teacher. She was wearing what looked like a superhero costume of a two-layered green tank top, shorts, a grey thingie on her back that crossed over in front, blonde hair and a big smile, and the sort of toned arm muscles I don't have even after years of lifting weights.

Her opening line, in the sort of happy American accent that makes me think of sunshine and Florida** and people rollerskating before eating vegan pancakes for breakfast, was "Hi, just so you know, this is a back brace. I broke my back last week, but it's not as bad as it sounds".

The only thing I could think of to say was "That sounds pretty bad".

Fortunately, it was the kind of broken back you want to have, if you're going to break your back, where you crack a vetebra and think it's a muscle spasm that won't go away. She did the classic "Go to A&E, wait to see doctor, doctor suggests X-Ray to 'just make sure', doctor sidles back into the room holding the X-Ray and looking shell-shocked". Apparently when the doctor replied "You appear to have broken your back", she burst out laughing, which... seems fair.

Apparently it's healing up just fine, and the brace will be off soon.

Maybe I should suggested she tell everyone it's a superhero costume. I'd believe that.


* I recommend this. Although sometimes instead of meditating on the teacher's "you are on a golden beach" theme, I find myself meditating on what it would be like to be able to breathe water and be immune to cold, and just snuggle down in the sand at the base of a beautiful reef in Beadnell Bay. I still remember that summer's day diving. Mmmm, calm. I think this means I want to be a seal.

** I have no idea if she is from Florida.

The Tales We Keep Telling, One: The Guy Who Pissed on the Fruit Machine

It's a funny thing, going to the pub with the same group of friends for years. You develop your own little mythology, mostly featuring around alcohol and, in my case, tales from sharing a house. I kind of miss sharing a house from the point of view of funny things happening, but I SO don't miss the washing-up wars, the continual need to creep round the house for fear of waking folks up when I get insomnia, and the general sense that at any point someone might comment on something I'm doing. (What do you mean, baking at half past midnight is weird? IT'S MY LIFE DAMMIT!)

Some tales we keep telling, of course, cannot feature here for reasons of not wanting to get folks (including me) in trouble. But I see no reason I can't immortalise a few of them, and here is the famous tale of the Guy Who Pissed On the Fruit Machine.

So for this, we need to go back at least five years (flipping heck, I've been in Newcastle a long time). Our little reading group, of which I am proud to be a member, was having its Christmas Do, and we chose to begin with drinks in the Union Rooms. The Union Rooms is the Wetherspoons near Central Station, and used to be our regular haunt until the Five Swans opened, which is nearer the Central Library and handy for the buses and Metro. We prefer Wetherspoons for several reasons: it does real ale, everyone can just about afford to buy a round without needing to take out a loan, and there's no background music. It also affords us the chance to be rude about the food on a fortnightly basis, which usually ends when someone points out that each fortnight we say this, and each fortnight everyone orders the same food and complains about it afterwards.

So, back to Christmas. It was 6.30pm on a Tuesday two weeks before Christmas, and at the Union Rooms, that means a minor level of chaos. We were at the main bar downstairs, and had just bought the drinks when we turned round and saw a guy stagger in. He looked at least fifty, grey-haired and dishevelled, and had clearly been on the receiving end of the stick of life. He also didn't seem to know which room he was in, which pub he was in, or possibly which planet he was on. He staggered into the room, stood just inside the doorway, looked around the room, then turned round and pissed on the fruit machine with a sigh of relief.

I can safely say that this isn't usual behaviour, even in the Union Rooms. As we watched, the manager dashed out from behind the bar, and dragged him away, pointing and yelling "Now look what you've done!" Security became involved, and the man was propelled outside the door. We wandered back over to our table, and drank our drinks.

As we turned round and headed to the door, we saw the same man, clearly not sure where he was or why he was there. As we watched, he staggered up to the door, clearly thought "Yup, that's a door, alright", and wandered back on in.

Right in front of the manager.

I wish I could do justice in words to the expression that came over the manager's face, but if I say that he reddened, his eyes bulged, his finger pointed, and the word "YOU!!"came from his lips at treble volume, you'll get the picture. Security became involved again, and we made our escape to Zizzi's without anyone micturating in our direction.

This tale comes with a short epilogue. Some months later my friend A, who was there on the night in question, was having a curry with some friends in Latif's. As they left, he heard a familiar trickling sound and turned round. It was the same guy, in the same jacket, this time pissing on a record shop doorway. Apparently this is a hobby of his.

Either that, or A is being stalked by a random pissing guy.

It's a great life in the Toon!

Haikus of Life

Anyone else ever find themselves composing little haikus in their head as they go through life? Just me? I hope not. The haiku is a marvellous thing. Here's one that did the rounds when I worked at IBM back in 1999 (we used to send these round on email, how anyone did any work is beyond me...)

Three things are certain: 
Death, taxes, and lost data. 
Guess which has occurred. 

Windows NT just crashed.
The Blue Screen of Death.
No-one hears your screams.

Charlie Brooker once described the TV listings in haiku format, like this (more here):

The National Lottery: Winning Lines (BBC1, Sat, 8.35pm)
Applause detonates
as bubblegum balls fall in line;
you have won fuck all.

The Weakest Link (BBC2, Mon, 5.15pm)
Disgraced, her target
eats ginger malevolence.
Now, the walk of shame.

Alas, mine are not as funny, and nor do they scan so well:

I do not know why
This bloody bag spills rice all over the kitchen
But alas it does.

Birds avoid feeder
Why? Observe, lurking in 
tree, the tabby cat.

Student pedestrians
Stumble blindly in front of cycles
Toddlers with Ipods.


Incidentally both of the blog posts I've referred to in random drunken conversations, "The Ethics of Ogling Pretty People (Star Trek Into Darkness)" and "Data vs. Information via Heart Attacks in Walker" will turn up at some point. The first requires me to do more research*, the second requires me to have more than 5 minutes to do some actual writing.

* Obvious joke, but it's coming up on 11pm and I'm too knackered to be original. 

Gym Guilty Pleasures

No, this isn't me.

I don't often blog about going to the gym, although I have done this 2-3 times weekly since I was about 14 or so. (Interesting fact: girls can do this more safely than boys as our bones stop growing earlier. I reached my full height about 13.)

I don't blog much about it because what appeals to me about it - the simplicity - doesn't generally make for a good blogpost. I like the gym because I spend much of my life employing the grey matter between my ears. The gym appeals because it doesn't require this in the same way. Let's face it, it works as follows:

1. Pick heavy thing up.
2. Put heavy thing down.
3. Repeat until step (1) is no longer an option.
4. Eat.
5. Sleep.
6. Repeat.

Actually, brainpower is involved, but in a different way. It's closer to meditation than brainwork; when I do my exercises, I mentally picture the muscles I'm using and try to focus on using only them, not any others. It helps if you picture them as being in bright colours, like those big wallcharts of people with their skin off that used to freak you out aged 12 in biology class at school.

This usually works, but not always, and sometimes you get distracted by annoyances and guilty pleasures. Namely:

Gym Annoyance 1
People who don't throw their bottle caps in the bin, but instead leave them lurking in the bottle holders on the treadmill. If you can run 2 miles, you can walk 5 metres and throw your damn bottle cap in the bin.

Gym Guilty Pleasure 1
Noticing that someone has left the machine that you are about to use on the correct weight setting for you, and you don't have to fiddle about with it.

Gym Annoyance 2
People who sit around for ages on the bench or seat for the equipment you want to use, staring at the football, then, when you ask, say "yes, sorry, I'm still using it". No you're not! You're watching Everton lose to Man U!


Gym Guilty Pleasure 2

When the someone in Guilty Pleasure 1 was male. 

Gym Annoyance 3

People who don't put their weights away. Seriously. I should not have to lift 200+kg of weights of the squat rack machine so that I can do my exercises (which use about 60kg, max). This annoys both myself and one of the senior instructors at the gym to the extent of spitting. His solution is to make tannoy announcements about banning people from the gym if they can be identified on CCTV doing this. Mine, I fear, will be that one day I'll snap and hand out some gymnasium justice with a 10kg dumbbell.

Gym Guilty Pleasure 3

Watching the unfeasibly muscular lads in Annoyance 2 going on the treadmill and blowing up* after ten minutes, because they spend so much time building muscle they do no cardiovascular work at all, and thus cannot run for shit. 

I can't run that well either, although I can do 3km without stopping and am pushing for the 4km. And I can put my damn weights away.

* not literally, thank God - the brains would take FOREVER to wash out of the bottle holders.

All Done With Now

I had my interview yesterday, which was not without drama, as I fainted (literally, passed out) after the first two questions. Fortunately, they let me come back and take another run at it two hours later. I think it went well - but we'll find out for definite in a week.

If not, this may be the template I use for my leaving speech:

So, Here We Are...

It's nearly Christmas and I'm heading south for the winter. The job application is in, and all that remains is for me to wish Merry Christmas to one and all, post this picture I took at Enchanted Parks this year, and share with you a few choice quotes from the year:

On navigation, whilst my car full of drivers attempts to navigate the roads of the island of Gozo:
Driver, approaching roundabout: "Do I need to turn left?"
Navigator, after staring at the map for a minute: "You can if you want to."
From the backseat: "You've got the map, man! You tell him where he needs to go!"

On music:
My brother, whilst DJ-ing, opn being asked to play Scooter:
[pause] "Sorry, love, I'll burn this place to the ground before I'll hear that shit played in here."

On office politics:
From a friend of mine: "I'd rather be a bull in a china shop than a viper lying in the grass."

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

A Dude With A Shrub On His Head

I continue to attempt to move home. "Attempt" because I secretly have no clue how to do this properly, and am just making it up as I go along, in the hope that I will soon be in one place, with all my possessions, and with the lights, gas and electric all working.

Until then, when I may have time to write something, here's a picture of a man with a shrub on his head.

If Sherlock Holmes could have seen Newcastle City Centre, he would have congratulated himself on the accuracy of his observation that truth is always, always, stranger than anything you can make up (or words to that effect).

One of Life's Little Reminders

I normally abhor triteness, even when it happens in real life. I do not believe in fate for the same reason that I do not believe that God sits up there magically plotting a destiny for all of us, so that our only response to misfortune can be "God must have a reason". (Aged 15, a song that made a great impression on me was Chris Rea's "Tell Me There's A Heaven", and if you know my family's history, you'll know why his line "That every painful crack of bone, is a step along the way..." still makes me wince 15 years later.)

Wow, this post took a heavier turn that I expected. It began as follows. I was making my way home atop my trusty two-wheeled steed after a remarkably awful day at work. No amount of thinking "It could be worse" made an impact.

Until I saw the man dressed as an enormous pair of testicles (I swear I am not making this up) outside the Newcastle Centre for Sport, promoting the importance of men checking their bits for testicular cancer.

Like I said, I don't believe in cosmic coincidences. But I do believe you can take a lesson from your life's experiences.

Even if the lesson is just that no matter how bad your job is, it's still better than being dressed as a giant pair of testicles.

Overheard in an Italian Restaurant in Newcastle

"Oh yessa, we getta the people in here, sometimes inna fancy dress. Rocky Horror Show, that is notta so good. Too strange. Reminds me of thatta MP, found dead in... mysterious circumstances. Issa how his companion musta been dressed, she look at him, go "Oh dear, he has croaked it. Oh well, onna to next appointment". You cannot getta the hookers these days. Look at Silvio Berlusconi, evenna the prostitutes lie about their age these days, 15-year-olds looka 22! Strange man. Who wants coffee? Dessert?"

Overheard in a Coffee Shop in Newcastle

"So I was having this dream last night. We were out riding."
"Was it fun?"
"Yes. I was on the Patient Horse, you were on the Little Red Pony, your beloved was on the Giant Horse. Then I fell off."
"Ouch!"
"It was okay, I was just surprised. I got back on again."
"Excellent, that's what you're supposed to do."
"Then the zombies attacked."
pause
"Did you order the hot chocolate?"
"I'll go and do that."

Overheard in a Curry House In Newcastle

As I returned from the bathroom, somewhere around the sixth round of the evening...

"So which of these beer bottles is you?"
"None of them."
"None of them? They were ALL Filipino gangsters in a beach bar who you defeated using martial arts?"
"That's right. [pause] I'm the rogan josh."

Graffiti Philosophy

MotherOfCyclingDiver and I like to take photos of interesting things we see. Here's the results of an interesting exchange of photos of philosophical graffiti.

Spotted on a park bench in my home town:

and near the Cluny in the Ouseburn:

More tales of diving and Glastonbury will come soon, but I'm pushed for time, so it will probably be next week. Off to Bute at the weekend!

Verdict on the Election (Have We Got a Government Yet?)

The best possible one-paragraph summary of the UK election from the incomparable Armando Iannucci:

"Nnnyaaaaaghwooohaaooooororarararararghhhhhhh. That's the message the electorate gave on Thursday. A long, angry, discordant noise that eventually became silly. Hence the result."

Full article here.

And from my office, the following email exchange, names changed to protect the guilty:

LINDSAY: "The proceeds of the office election sweepstake have gone to Matthew, for guessing a hung parliament with the majority of seats going to the Conservatives."

OLIVER: "What, you mean you're not offering double or nothing at the next election in autumn?"

More reflections on my experiences as Wielder of the Mighty 30cm Plastic Ruler of Democracy last Thursday (yes, I was a Presiding Officer again) as and when I get time.

Charlie Brooker on Valentine's Day

This is a slightly late post, but I don't feel it should wait another year before I put this on my blog. Seriously, read that headline. Does it not make you rub your hands in anticipation?

If not, you are obviously a less angry and bitter individual than I. My hatred of Valentine's Day is well known to any of my friends unfortunate enough to be standing near me when it rolls around. My logic has always been (in public) that if you're in a happy relationship, every day is Valentine's Day and you don't need people peddling crappy cards, overpriced flowers and chocolates and every restaurant in your local area racking its prices up to remind you. If you're not in a happy relationship, it will shine an unwelcome spotlight into every crack in your relationship and make you want to cry. If you're single and unhappy, it reminds you only too painfully.

(And yes, the private logic is: I've passed six Valentine's Days single now, which I never foresaw coming, two of which were associated with events of sufficient emotional pain - not just for me - that just thinking about them makes me want to run for the vodka. Yep, I'm single and bitter. As that well-known philosopher Chad Kroeger once sang, this life didn't turn out quite the way I wanted it to be.)

Anyway, here's Charlie Brooker.

David Mitchell Talks Sense 2: Council Bin Collections

It's hard not to love an article containing the memorable line: "Well, keep your bins on the outside then, you moaning bastard".

David Mitchell Talks Sense 1: Pole Dancing

David Mitchell on pole-dancing:

Saga Of The Bunnies, Part the Second

I must be psychic. The saga of the bunnies HAS made its way into the local paper:













I'm still disappointed they didn't use my headline.