Tuesday, December 21, 2004
Oh God I'm pathetic, aren't I?
One little comment, and a 10 star rating on BE, and I go weak at the knees (although I am sitting down, so it doesn't make much difference, and it could just be I've had my legs crossed for too long). Anyway I'd like to introduce you to the ever so nice SexxxyJon. He has a slight penchant for pink, somewhat biased music taste [Busted doing Hark! The herald angels sing? What next? V doing a rap version of Once in royal David's city?], and I'm trying not draw to conclusions.
[And would the cynic at the back please stop suggesting that he could have just given a ten star rating to every blog he came across on BE, in a carpet-bombing with hugs kind of way, solely in order to get people to think he's nice and link to him. Which would be a damn good idea. Might try it. Well, obviously I won't, because I'm me, and the most anyone ever gets is to be damned with faint praise, and I have to struggle not to use the word "fairly"].
Although it was somewhat worrying reading his blog, as I started thinking things I really didn't want to be thinking. Such as seeing that one of the songs named was by Billie, whereupon the dark recesses of my brain chime in with "I know where she lives." Which sounds worse than it is. The really worrying part of the resulting thought sequence involves Chris Evans and pair of cycling shorts [he on bike, me driving behind, unable to overtake. Not a nice view].
The other frankly disturbing memory stimulated by SJ's fascination with V undressing each other. Unfortunately in describing it, I'll have to admit to: A. Watching CD:UK, B. Watching when McFly were on, C. Watching when they were dueting (can ...hear the fingers... nine-ish people duet?) with V. D. Knowing that the combined total of the members of McFly and V is 9 (4 + 5 right?). E. Watching it long enough that they were nearly at the end. F. Not turning off in Tunbridge-Wellian disgust when one of V [dark hair, dimples, but not the stunned looking one] kissed one of McFly [round face, one of Tom, Dick or Harry, but I don't think McFly have a Dick between them], who was tied down by cables and a static microphone. G. Remembering all this.
As releasing such knowledge could seriously damage my chances of joining the Guild of Musical Fascists [founded in 1999 by the only member of Meanwhile back in communist Russia who left to do something more worthwhile], I refuse to incriminate myself, and you'll just have to go on wondering what this is all about. Oh who am I kidding? I've managed to confuse S Club 7 and Toploader before now.
Moving on [shall we? really rather rapidly?].
Isn't central heating great? Er... well, it depends. It would have helped if the guy who fitted it had mentioned at the time that the instructions are out-dated, that it can have three periods a day when it comes on, instead of the stated two. Although it explains why he was having fits trying work out why it was coming on for no apparent reason.
Oh of course the only problem with having heating after an age of not having it, is that everything is too hot, and we still haven't got the balance right. So one room will happily double as a crematorium, and the next is doing a fair approximation of the great outdoors. Factor in added complexity of the boiler being controlled by a thermostat next to the doorway of the only room in the house without heating, and it all gets a bit haphazard. But hopefully we will finally get it all sorted.
So the kitchen, which is the only room without heating, has now gone from the warmest room [when the oven was on] to the coldest. Which we can easily remedy by cooking. However, to do so we needed to move all the boxes which were gridlocking the place. That done we try tried cooking. Which we haven't done in a while, as most meals have been defined by their lack of preparation and cooking, the minimal washing-up created, and by their ability to be eaten whilst sitting cross legged on the floor. And by their abysmal interpretation of a balanced diet, what with them consisting of fish and chips, Chinese take-away, and fish and chips again.
Of course, only once we were safely into the weekend did we try cooking. And so only then did we discover that our man with the van had managed to disconnect the gas supply for everything but the new boiler. Not best pleased. But he came yesterday to reconnect it.
Oh and never help a new neighbour in distress (he'd tried bump-starting his car in reverse. Hence he was parked at the bottom of the hill). Especially don't be super-efficient and be able to diagnose the fault by engine noise alone (it's a very similar car to mine), and therefore know how to fix it. Why not? Because he then reappears, having been able to drive home, clutching a big tin of chocolates. Which is very nice, but when one's diet has been dire anyway, adding a heck of a lot of sickly sweet things into it doesn't help. I've been on a constant cycle of mini-sugar-rush and endless slump, complete with headache. Fun huh? I know, but someone's got to eat them and there are so many. Oh, and does anyone want a dozen of the strawberry ones?
And that has really made my day. Curiosity got the better of me (that's when it's not committing felinicide). Yes, I downloaded Busted doing Hark! The herald angels sing. Yes, I dissolved in fits of giggles. It's not helped by he of the great eyebrows (surely they must pupate soon?) not being able to hit the top notes. Oh hell, I think I might just investigate what else is in that treasure trove.
Oh, McFly better it. They don't even know the words. Deck the halls with boughs of folly indeed.
Be afraid. Be very afraid.
And another thing: Blunkett's mistress or vice versa or whatever the hell was going managing to sleep with the guy who writes the sketch in the Guardian? They live in very small world, don't they? Is there anyone in the world of politics who isn't within six sexual degrees from Blunkett?
And I thought I always did quite well in that adapted version of the Kevin Bacon thing, whereby one has to get to a celebrity from one's self. Knowing cousins, sons and sisters-in-law helps.
Vaguely connected 1:
Having been press-ganged into attending the Christmas party for my gym [even though I'm not rich enough to have membership of the gym, but instead use the swimming pool], I found myself talking to a bewildering array of people, including yet another cousin-of. It probably implies something about the people gathered that the longest running conversation was about where to get one's hair cut. But it was either that or talk to the man about his many Open University courses. I assumed he taught them, someone else assumed he took them. I think people actually got desperate enough to start asking the caterers for the recipes bits of the buffet. Which given that there wasn't much taste to any of the offerings, does rather imply they were looking for any distraction. At one point, when I'd been left to tend to some aged woman, and the conversation had collapsed to the point of us both saying "What? Oh sorry, I thought you said something," I very nearly asked the question I have only ever dared to ask once. Which is something along the lines of religion being a non-starter nowadays, and not knowing enough about sport to use that, which leaves us with politics, and asking about their views.
The only time I used that was at another stiflingly dull party, and every attempt at small-talk had failed, and the room was in near-silence. I don't think the hostess has ever forgiven me for making the rest of her evening dissolve into light-hearted arguments about the Euro. She is a bit controlling, and does not take it well when she loses control. In this instance she appeared to have forgotten that if one wants people to do what one wants, then one must give them something to do. But then she probably had down on her plan "8:30 - Light merriment."
Actually, it really does say something that there were so few attempts at jokes that I didn't even have to think about hamsters [my fallback whenever I need to smile and look like I mean it. If you ask nicely I might tell you the story, which you will then fail to find funny, and you will probably be highly offended].
Vaguely connected 2:
Having been over-ruled on the choice of television for the evening, I ended up watching the latest remade Miss Marple. Yep, Miss Marple on a Sunday night, and an ITV Miss Marple at that. One of the problems with an all-star cast is the incessant "Who's that?" which I usually much deride. But then there was the woman playing Mrs Protheroe, who I recognise from somewhere. I look up her name, which is Janet MacTeer, and it means nothing me [Oh Vienna?]. Cut to a fair while afterwards and then it strikes. Beatrice. As in Much Ado About Nothing, as in the wondrously powerful version of Beatrice I saw when I did the play the first time round at school. I'd forgotten her name but I hadn't forgotten her. Nor the orange. I cannot remember the theatre, other than it wasn't the Barbican, and that it had a bizarre amount of gold curlicues. I can hardly remember the rest of the cast, although looking up the faces I recognise Benedict. But I cannot even remember if it was year 8 or 9, which would be 92-94. But I remember her. So it's quite odd when she pops up in Miss Marple.
Anyway, this really is getting much too long, and having blazed a trail [ok, stumbled] from pre-fab bands to Shakespearean actresses, I think I have fulfilled my cultural remit.
A quick plug for another blog: Brom-man. A Welsh chemist, but not apparently the Welsh chemist I know, with slightly porous balls. Which reminds me. Exeter is closing chemistry. Fools. I've also just received the alumni blurb, which mentions this in passing [due to going to press aeons ago], and then proceeds to wow us with pictures of the shiny new halls of residence. Which happen to have been named after the previous VC, who happened to see no problem in his being paid to sit on the board of Total Fina Elf, who happen to happily deal with the Burmese junta government. The VC's answer for any criticisms was that he was a non-executive director, and therefore powerless [so powerless in fact that he could do nothing to stop himself being paid by them, or allowing them to trade on his name]. So, an interesting juxtaposition then. Although it is all capped off by the glorious thought that the new hall will be run by the wonderfully inept Domestic Services.
Continuing the round-up of the other open windows, and as it's nearly christmas, I thought it was about time for some Lego. Just don't shake you monitor to see if it really is. Also nicked from this blog, is this list of linguistic recommendations for the Internet writer. Useful, if only for providing something to react against.
I'm not sure what Tosska means in Russian, other than pretty damn artistic. Found via Flickr, he also works beyond photography. BTW yay for added functions in Flickr. Boo-hiss for one of them being date-taken as well as date-posted. Because now I feel I have to be accurate, but it's taking me ages to work through them and I cannot remember when some of them were taken.
Very, very boo-hiss for Flickr. My freebie pro-account has expired. They said that if that happened then my photo-stream would only show my last 100 photographs. They did not mention that these hidden photographs would be removed completely, and so they would not show up in browsing by tags or in the groups. Very unimpressed. Despite what their guide says, I cannot even access them. They insist they will not be deleted, and half the site still lists them, but whenever anything is opened then only the recent pictures appear. So whilst it tells me that I uploaded 16 photographs on 16th September, whatever I then click on then proceeds to tell me that I did not upload anything then.
I know it is a free service, and I know I have the option of paying, but that's not what irritates me (well it does, as they want more per year than the Tate or the National Trust wants). It is that they do not mention the changes. They mentioned the photo-stream limit, but did not mention that everything else is a subset of the photo-stream. As I cannot really afford to have yet another annual outgoing, without getting something in return, I simply won't bother. Flickr is a good idea, and nicely designed, but in return for money? I have to start wondering how much getting my own domain name, and associated storage would run to, which as I just said I cannot afford.
In case you think I'm being daft, what would you say the following sentence means? Your photo sets are treated the same, that is, nothing will be deleted.
It's just that one thing tells me that there 27 photographs in one of my three sets, and yet everything else insists there are only 6. Only 6 show up. Not quite nothing.
I think someone neglected to mention that the statement is only true for photosets beyond the 3 set limit (though quite how it could know which were the sets one intended to keep up, and which were not, is not obviously clear).
Ok so my indignant ranting doesn't quite taken into account the dire state of the dollar at the moment. I was working on one and half to the pound, but it apparently is nearer two per pound. But also part of me thinks that if I'm going to get a paid-for account, I'd do it in my real name so then I could add pictures of people I know. I was also being unfair over the Tate comparison, as I'm not a standard individual.
Anyway, I am a little pissed-off by this, not least because had the warnings been accurate then no way would I have let this happen.
Anyhoo,
PS. Quite a few of the early photographs are in the browser history, so hopefully I should be able to scavenge. It's either that or play battleships with 6 figure numbers, although I do know the probable range.
