Last night, at around 2.30am, I finished an essay. Yes, I've completely betrayed my own people by suggesting that indie music is "chauvinistic" (Dear 2011:8), and yes, I do still have several more pieces of work to cross off my Kill Bill-style essay deathlist, but one must celebrate small victories.
I'd started the Cultures essay on Monday, which Cliffey and I had designated a "work day" - that is, one more or less entirely spent in my room, doing essays and stuff.
It got off to a shaky start - for some reason we decided that the best way to kick our motivation into gear was to play a couple rounds of Pokémon Snap - but once we had actually started (at around 11:30am, two hours later than we had promised ourselves we would) it proved quite useful.
For me, I mean. Cliffey used up a lot of time trying to decide what question to do, and subsequently reading an academic journal that had practically nothing to do with the one he had chosen. Bless 'im.
But yes, I managed to get about half of the essay done that day (the Destiny's Child probably motivated me - for the first time ever we listened to the entire album), and I decided that I would polish off the other half by the end of last night.
What was I doing in between? I was in Penarth, of course, and now it's time to explain that title.
I was at Sarah's house after spending the day in Sturff. We'd just had a barbecue* courtesy of Mr. Macleod, and we were enjoying a film called Ondine (in which Colin Farrell catches a woman while out fishing) when we were summoned to the front of the house to help catch a baby rabbit that had darted under one of the (parked) cars.
It was a tiny little black thing, and much debate ensued as to whether or not it was wild - the general consensus being, I think, that pet shops would never be allowed to sell such a young rabbit to clumsy humans like us.
After a bit of a chase, one which led us to the back garden, we managed to corner it. It was hiding behind some sort of outdoor boiler, so rather than scare the poor thing half to death trying to grab it, we opted to barricade its exit and leave some lettuce in a cardboard box so that he would have food and shelter for the night. Sarah even put down a trail of lettuce to lead him in.
We checked the next morning, but it seemed that he had scarpered. The lettuce was untouched, and there was no sign of Mr. Bunny.
So here's hoping he's okay. I'm wearing my rabbit onesie at the moment as a sign of solidarity or something.
Joel.
* I was recently astounded to find that the word 'barbecue' doesn't even have a 'q' in it! Mind-blowing stuff.
Thursday 28 April 2011
Monday 25 April 2011
Yorkshire & Merseyside
Apologies for the lack of updates over the past week but last Sunday I was taken away from my cosy Cardiff comfort and driven Oop North to attend my cousin Fran's wedding.
The following morning my dad took me into Halifax to have a look 'round town. There wasn't much, although we did stumble upon the Halifax Piece Hall, the world's oldest remaining cloth hall and, coincidentally, the setting for one particular scene from Brassed Off .
The wedding, then. It was lovely (even given the slightly cheesy choices of music - Bryan Adams anyone?) and they had a very nice day for it. After nigh-on two hours (!) of wedding photography it was just about time to eat, and boy did I - I had the lasagne and the curry, followed by half of someone else's curry and some sticky toffee pudding. And yet even with all that food inside me, I still managed to get up and do a song or two with Jonathan's band. I was a bit out of practice on the drums, and I went into Mustang Sally on my horn in the wrong key (C# instead of C#m, what a fool!), but I'm pretty sure I managed not to ruin the wedding.
For Leg 2 of our trip we headed to Liverpool to visit my grandparents. Usually we would have stayed with them but this time we thought we'd mix it up a bit and stay in a flat in Toxtet, which, as Wikipedia puts it, "continues to suffer from poverty and urban degradation" as well as being "blighted" by "civil unrest" and "vehicle crime".
The flat was lovely. I was on an airbed in the living room, which sounds like I was slumming it but actually worked in my favour because I could watch American Pie and Burn After Reading from under my duvet.
We visited the many charity shops of both Widnes and Liverpool, and I picked up a couple of CDs for cheapz (Lene Marlin for £1 anyone?), but eventually was glad to come home.
Which is where I am now. Much has passed since I got back - parties, hoagies, Easter - but I've got a work day booked with Cliffey today (having decided it was about time I hit the essays) so I'd best get cracking on that.
Joel.
Not that I'm complaining. Upon our arrival in Wakefield we were greeted by a rather delicious buffet, featuring ham, tuna pasta bake, salad, rolls, profiteroles, pavlova, and many other delicious treats.
And the hotel we were staying in - and indeed where the ceremony was being conducted the following day -wasn't too shabby either, especially since, as far as I was concerned, it was all expenses paid.
The first night was spent in bed watching Brassed Off on Film4. I received a text or two from my elder cousin Jonathan trying to coax me down to the hotel bar but this was roundly ignored.
The following morning my dad took me into Halifax to have a look 'round town. There wasn't much, although we did stumble upon the Halifax Piece Hall, the world's oldest remaining cloth hall and, coincidentally, the setting for one particular scene from Brassed Off .
The wedding, then. It was lovely (even given the slightly cheesy choices of music - Bryan Adams anyone?) and they had a very nice day for it. After nigh-on two hours (!) of wedding photography it was just about time to eat, and boy did I - I had the lasagne and the curry, followed by half of someone else's curry and some sticky toffee pudding. And yet even with all that food inside me, I still managed to get up and do a song or two with Jonathan's band. I was a bit out of practice on the drums, and I went into Mustang Sally on my horn in the wrong key (C# instead of C#m, what a fool!), but I'm pretty sure I managed not to ruin the wedding.
For Leg 2 of our trip we headed to Liverpool to visit my grandparents. Usually we would have stayed with them but this time we thought we'd mix it up a bit and stay in a flat in Toxtet, which, as Wikipedia puts it, "continues to suffer from poverty and urban degradation" as well as being "blighted" by "civil unrest" and "vehicle crime".
The flat was lovely. I was on an airbed in the living room, which sounds like I was slumming it but actually worked in my favour because I could watch American Pie and Burn After Reading from under my duvet.
We visited the many charity shops of both Widnes and Liverpool, and I picked up a couple of CDs for cheapz (Lene Marlin for £1 anyone?), but eventually was glad to come home.
Which is where I am now. Much has passed since I got back - parties, hoagies, Easter - but I've got a work day booked with Cliffey today (having decided it was about time I hit the essays) so I'd best get cracking on that.
Joel.
Saturday 16 April 2011
Pasta Pun Parade
In my last blog I briefly mentioned the story about the Italian man (who, as it turns out, is actually Canadian) who was killed after being dragged head-first in a pasta-making machine. I promised to go a little further into it, so here goes.
(N.B. Some of you may be concerned that the tragedy inherent in this story will be diminished by my usual jokey, not-taking-anything-too-seriously outlook. I would like to say in response that my heart goes out to the man's family and friends, and that I shall do my best to keep within the boundaries of good taste. I just hope I canneloni.)
The man, whose first name was apparently Justin, died from injuries received after his shirt got caught in the machine. It's hard to believe that such a gruesome and tragic accident could come from sacchetini mistake, but you know what they say: life's a bitch, and then you ditalini.
But the plot goes thicker. Reports indicate that the incident is being treated as a suicide, after it came to light that the man's wife had recently left with their two children and gotten pretty much everything in the divorce. Poor Justin died lonely, broken-hearted, and with barely a penne to his name.
Also of note is the fact that the deceased had recently been turned down for promotion. He had repeatedly been recognised as the factory's most productive employee and this fact seemed to ensure his progress up the career ladder.
And yet the promotion went to another candidate. It was a woman, and murmurings on the factory floor would seem to indicate that she only got the position because the board had been told by the equality folks to hire at least one.
As you can imagine, when Justin learned that he had been turned down, he damn near blew a fusili. The following day he brought a claw hammer to work and went to town on the woman's car. Onlookers wryly observed when he was finished that her shiny new Porsche was "al dente".
But I digress. The suicide ruling will come as a relief to factory bosses, who were until recently worried that this man's death would lead to questions about their health and safety protocol. Alarmingly, Justin is not the first employee to get sucked into the pasta-maker, and while Justin was the first victim unlucky enough not to escape with his life, it has been suggested that as many as 20 of the factory's emplyees have received injuries at work. And that's a pretty frightening tagliatelle.
In spite of this, family members have decided not to press the issue with the factory (very restrained, I thought; I'd have given them a pizza my mind), and instead to celebrate Justin's life. "Nothing will change the fact that he's dead," said his brother. "We're just glad that he's gone to a better place. I'm sure he's gnocchi on Heaven's door as we speak."
For the factory's remaining employees, though, moods remain tortellini. Everyone feels unsafe; they are all scared that, any day now, they could fall victim to an accident just like Justin's, all because their employer's health code is sub-par...
...mesan. Unions have threatened to strike; one anonymous spokesperson claimed that "this is the scariest thing to happen to food workers since the fatal malfunction that claimed five lives at a German sausage factory in 2002, and that was one of the wurst food-related disasters of all time."
Maybe I've gone a bit far(falle) now. To sum up, then; Justin's death is a tragedy beyond compare, and I cannot imagine how hard it is for his loved ones to come to terms with his untimely demise.
But hey, rather him than Dolmio.
Joel.
(N.B. Some of you may be concerned that the tragedy inherent in this story will be diminished by my usual jokey, not-taking-anything-too-seriously outlook. I would like to say in response that my heart goes out to the man's family and friends, and that I shall do my best to keep within the boundaries of good taste. I just hope I canneloni.)
The man, whose first name was apparently Justin, died from injuries received after his shirt got caught in the machine. It's hard to believe that such a gruesome and tragic accident could come from sacchetini mistake, but you know what they say: life's a bitch, and then you ditalini.
But the plot goes thicker. Reports indicate that the incident is being treated as a suicide, after it came to light that the man's wife had recently left with their two children and gotten pretty much everything in the divorce. Poor Justin died lonely, broken-hearted, and with barely a penne to his name.
Also of note is the fact that the deceased had recently been turned down for promotion. He had repeatedly been recognised as the factory's most productive employee and this fact seemed to ensure his progress up the career ladder.
And yet the promotion went to another candidate. It was a woman, and murmurings on the factory floor would seem to indicate that she only got the position because the board had been told by the equality folks to hire at least one.
As you can imagine, when Justin learned that he had been turned down, he damn near blew a fusili. The following day he brought a claw hammer to work and went to town on the woman's car. Onlookers wryly observed when he was finished that her shiny new Porsche was "al dente".
But I digress. The suicide ruling will come as a relief to factory bosses, who were until recently worried that this man's death would lead to questions about their health and safety protocol. Alarmingly, Justin is not the first employee to get sucked into the pasta-maker, and while Justin was the first victim unlucky enough not to escape with his life, it has been suggested that as many as 20 of the factory's emplyees have received injuries at work. And that's a pretty frightening tagliatelle.
In spite of this, family members have decided not to press the issue with the factory (very restrained, I thought; I'd have given them a pizza my mind), and instead to celebrate Justin's life. "Nothing will change the fact that he's dead," said his brother. "We're just glad that he's gone to a better place. I'm sure he's gnocchi on Heaven's door as we speak."
For the factory's remaining employees, though, moods remain tortellini. Everyone feels unsafe; they are all scared that, any day now, they could fall victim to an accident just like Justin's, all because their employer's health code is sub-par...
...mesan. Unions have threatened to strike; one anonymous spokesperson claimed that "this is the scariest thing to happen to food workers since the fatal malfunction that claimed five lives at a German sausage factory in 2002, and that was one of the wurst food-related disasters of all time."
Maybe I've gone a bit far(falle) now. To sum up, then; Justin's death is a tragedy beyond compare, and I cannot imagine how hard it is for his loved ones to come to terms with his untimely demise.
But hey, rather him than Dolmio.
Joel.
Thursday 14 April 2011
Mario Party for the Soul
So after the events described in yesterday's entry, Meg and Tim joined the fray and we got our Mario Party 2 Drinking Game awn. Tom and Cliffey watched but didn't participate, but for a few practice rounds of Bumper Balls.
Tim complained about a third of the way through the 35 turns that the game didn't get you drunk enough. We told him to hold his criticisms 'til a little further on; he was, after all, winning at this point and as such hadn't had all that many fingers.
He later complained that I wasn't drunk enough - I had invited him and Meg on the proviso that they would witness me inebriated, and I guess he felt he wasn't getting his money's worth. By this point I was in the lead, and he suggested that had we been playing a different game - one where I didn't have the advantage of nearly 10 years' experience - I might be drunkerer. I responded by pointing out that when playing Death for your soul, you don't get to choose the game.
Which seemed profound at the time but in morning's cold light it just seems pompous. And I'm not so up on my mythology so it might not even be accurate.
After the game, when we were all nicely drunk (including Tim, oddly enough), we just sat around and, well, spoke for about four hours on such deep and meaningful subjects as how much we would have to be offered to receive anal sex*.
We also watched Charlie the Unicorn and made jokes about an Italian man's pasta-based death. More on which tomorrow.
Joel.
*We all agreed that it would have to be quite a lot.
Tim complained about a third of the way through the 35 turns that the game didn't get you drunk enough. We told him to hold his criticisms 'til a little further on; he was, after all, winning at this point and as such hadn't had all that many fingers.
He later complained that I wasn't drunk enough - I had invited him and Meg on the proviso that they would witness me inebriated, and I guess he felt he wasn't getting his money's worth. By this point I was in the lead, and he suggested that had we been playing a different game - one where I didn't have the advantage of nearly 10 years' experience - I might be drunkerer. I responded by pointing out that when playing Death for your soul, you don't get to choose the game.
Which seemed profound at the time but in morning's cold light it just seems pompous. And I'm not so up on my mythology so it might not even be accurate.
After the game, when we were all nicely drunk (including Tim, oddly enough), we just sat around and, well, spoke for about four hours on such deep and meaningful subjects as how much we would have to be offered to receive anal sex*.
We also watched Charlie the Unicorn and made jokes about an Italian man's pasta-based death. More on which tomorrow.
Joel.
*We all agreed that it would have to be quite a lot.
Wednesday 13 April 2011
Life's A Game/Manly Garments
Tom is in the house, and he, Sarah and I have just finished playing the Game of Life for the second time in less than 24 hours.
He was here last night too, you see. He popped by after work, and the three of us went to the rec to kick the Cars ball about for a bit, take some penalties, make some passes, that kind of thing. On reflection I will probably not be the next Pepe Reina.
After that we returned home, and after having various meals (I had pasta and mussels in cream; Sarah fishcakes. Tom just ordered a pizza) I coerced the other two into playing the game. They were reluctant at first but it didn't take them long to get into it. Sarah was a scientist to begin with, but she lost her job and became an actress, earning a fair few grand more for her troubles. I was an artist-turned-rock star, and Tom was an athlete (if you asked him he would tell you he was Usain Bolt...he was not), but neither of us could mount any kind of challenge and Sarah finished the game as a millionaire, while we barely had 10k each. Still, it was the first time Tom had ever been in the black. Zing!
Today was more interesting. Tom the Scientist and Sarah the Doctor (both of whom went to uni) seemed to be competing in a two-horse race for the win, while Joel the Pilot (who did not) was toiling away in 3rd. But oh! A well-placed bet won me £400,00, and I managed to pip them both to the post. Yeah!
And now the revelation: I have been typing this whole thing while wearing a rabbit onesie, complete with a little heart for a tail. Before setting up the Life board again, Tom and I took a trip to Primark. So now Tom is a dalmatian, and Sarah and I are a pair of bunnies. Cliffey, in a shocking turn of events, is not wearing his onesie, for I think the first time since he got it. But three onesies is probably enough for one room.
Sarah is currently poking Tom.
But not like that.
Joel.
P.S. Oh, and our little shopping trip got even gayer when we popped to HMV. Keep in mind that we already had a Primark bag full of onesie each, and Tom saw fit to buy a Destiny's Child compilation to go with his. Jen Brooksby works in HMV. She was most befuddled.
Monday 11 April 2011
Not Actually The Fourth Party
First of all, apologies for the lack of update-age over the past few days, but I've been in Penarth with Sarah all weekend in celebration of our 1st anniversary and I didn't think people would want to read about all our mushy exploits, so I just left it.
Last night some people gathered at the house to celebrate (?) the fact that Soph doesn't live here anymore. There were drinking games, conversation and croissants (Sarah got a box of 12 miniature croissants from Co-Op some time ago because they were reduced but then decided she didn't really want to eat them, so we shared them around last night and they went pretty quickly).
Here is a list of the people present, in no particular order:
- Sophie Jones (obviously)
- Alex Smith (who threw up)
- Joel Dear (me)
- Sarah Macleod (who seemed to have been charged with organising the damn thing)
- Thom Cliffe (who spent most of the night in bed because he's pretty ill at the moment)
- Gemma Ward (who was not drinking)
- Tom Bonelle (who was also not drinking; he had work in the morning)
- Tim Penn (who attempted to shut me out of my own room while Megan fraped me)
- Megan Williams (who insinuated that I like to interact with vaginas)
- Qing Flarlarlar (who wasn't going to be in town long enough to attend but made some sort of special arrangements just so she could)
- Meic Haran (who was a bit late as he had work but then he had been chilling in our garage earlier so it kind of evens out)
- Herbdale Vladimir Fernandez O'Reilly (who once again complemented us on our The Princess Bride DVD/video/book)
- Lukas Bochocki (who I didn't really speak to)
- Joshua Price (who engaged in much debate as to whether or not he should get a haircut)
- Nick Robson (who was accused multiple times of performing certain acts with a dog)
- Daniel Grech (who has a pretty awesome beard even though everyone thought it made him look like a terrorist)
- Adam Halton (who once again ended up playing guitar and wearing my hat)
- DanGuy (who kept claiming that "God hates Penarth" and was subsequently called a dick by me)
- Richard Walytschko (who assisted Halton in learning some of the tunes that were being demanded)
- Penny Hines (for whom I'm trying to cultivate a reputation as The One With Whom JR Is In Lurve)
- Liv Mortished (who had her croissant with some weird combination of strawberry sauce, chocolate sauce, and peanut butter)
- Sian Lewis ("Very polite" - Tim Penn)
- Anna ??? (Sian's ginger uni friend whose surname I was not privy to)
- Matt Stone (who I've never met before and didn't see much of, rumour has it because he spent most of the night in Gem's room...)
- Robin Tamlyn (who arrived quite late but gave Tim, Qing and Meg a lift so he was popular)
Now that Soph has left, this could well be the last house party 6 Tewkesbury Place sees. It was always Soph who told us we were having parties.
Joel.
Thursday 7 April 2011
Gosling In Da Club
It's quiet 'round 'ere at the moment. As if Soph's departure didn't leave a big enough dent in our number, Pete has now buggered orf to Spain for a two-week field trip.
So when I yesterday decided that it was too nice a day for a lecture on the music industry and to invite everyone to the fountains to frolic in the sunshine...well, 'everyone' wasn't a lot of people.
It was Sarah and Cliffey, but that was enough. While waiting for them to leave their lessons (pfft), I purchased a prawn baguette from Gregg's and a Cars ball from The Entertainer. The latter cost me £4, which we all agreed was a little steep for a rubber ball but it proved to be well worth the price of admission. Serious games were played.
Eventually Tim joined us, as well as his not-girlfriend Qing, who is very nice and doesn't seem to fit Tim's description of her as a nipple-crippling ice queen at all. I suppose one should never trust one's first impression.
Exhausted from all of the ball games, we went to CAI for a spell before heading our separate ways. Cliffey had to go to the bank to sort out his lost debit card and Tim had to help Qing find and qeck into her hotel, so Sarah and I went to the cinema. We saw Source Code, which is excellent and highly recommended. Imagine if Groundhog Day were some sort of taut action thriller and you're halfway home.
This morning Cliffey and I have been combining songs with movie trailers, with hilarious consequences. Some of our favourites:
50 Cent meets The Notebook
Antiques Roadshow meets Adulthood
Find your own combinations and send 'em in. By which I mean tell me on Facebook.
Joel.
Tuesday 5 April 2011
The Goats From Gemma Meadows (Part 11)
Part 10 is here.
Pete was dreaming again.
He dreamed he was lying on a table as a huge goat, standing on its hind legs and at least as tall as the average human, painted him red.
He dreamed he was repeatedly jumping off the edge of a cliff, only to land on the same cliff over and over again.
He dreamed he was a bird in flight, being chased by a much larger bird, and as he looked over his shoulder the big bird gave a great shriek and exploded into a mass of feathers.
He could not understand why he wasn't dreaming anything useful. Surely the monster would have something important to say now? Heck, even if it was something as simple as, "I don't like your owner, he keeps yelling at me and shining his torch in my eyes" then at least Pete would know he was still on the right track.
But now he was beginning to worry. Maybe the monster wasn't communicating to him psychically through his dreams. Maybe they were just dreams.
He was dreaming about being sat at a dining table, eating squid with a Japanese family except he didn't have any cutlery so he had to ask the father for a knife and fork and everyone was glowering at him when the little daughter of the family ordered him, in a surprisingly masculine voice, to wake up.
And just like that, he was staring into the irritated eyes of his friend Cliffey.
"Come on. We're leaving before you run off again."
"Uff...wait," mumbled Pete sleepily. "Uh...where's Goldberg?"
"He's still shouting at the monster," said Sarah, nodding back towards the room they had just come from.
"Nah, I've finished now," said Goldberg quietly as he emerged, shutting the door behind him. "Are you okay, Pete? Shall we head off?"
Pete tried to think of a reason to keep them there, but he couldn't come up with anything, and he could sense that they were getting tired of his stalling antics.
"Okay, yeah. Let's go."
And so they went. They filed out of the cavern, and Goldberg helped them to scramble up out of the hole.
"So what did you say to him?" asked Pete as Goldberg pulled himself out.
"Just a few firm words," said Goldberg, smiling faintly.
* * *
The trolls strode through the forest, with the great crow walking at their side.
"So his name is Karl?"
"Karl, yes." Jo-Tunn gazed, glassy-eyed, into the middle distance. "He always complained about having such a human name. Some of our less...distinguished members would make fun of him for it, and that would always get on his wick rather."
"So maybe that's why he's snapped? Was he much of an outcast?"
Jo-Tunn sniffed. "All trolls are outcasts, friend. I suppose Karl was something of an outcast among outcasts, yes, but I don't see that that could have caused this."
"Well then what did?"
"It's anyone's guess."
They walked on in silence for a minute.
"Righto, everyone!" shouted Jo-Tunn, suddenly stopping to address the whole group. "It's clear to me that we've a much larger chance of finding Karl if we split up and fan out."
Jo-Tunn organised his trolls into five search parties. One team would head north, one south, one east and one west. The remaining team - consisting merely of Jo-Tunn and the crow - would stay put, on the off-chance that Karl wondered by this spot.
The other four parties shuffled off, and the crow heard some mumblings about leadership laziness. Jo-Tunn seemed not to hear, or otherwise just to ignore them.
Once the two of them were left alone, Jo-Tunn spoke up once more.
Pete was dreaming again.
He dreamed he was lying on a table as a huge goat, standing on its hind legs and at least as tall as the average human, painted him red.
He dreamed he was repeatedly jumping off the edge of a cliff, only to land on the same cliff over and over again.
He dreamed he was a bird in flight, being chased by a much larger bird, and as he looked over his shoulder the big bird gave a great shriek and exploded into a mass of feathers.
He could not understand why he wasn't dreaming anything useful. Surely the monster would have something important to say now? Heck, even if it was something as simple as, "I don't like your owner, he keeps yelling at me and shining his torch in my eyes" then at least Pete would know he was still on the right track.
But now he was beginning to worry. Maybe the monster wasn't communicating to him psychically through his dreams. Maybe they were just dreams.
He was dreaming about being sat at a dining table, eating squid with a Japanese family except he didn't have any cutlery so he had to ask the father for a knife and fork and everyone was glowering at him when the little daughter of the family ordered him, in a surprisingly masculine voice, to wake up.
And just like that, he was staring into the irritated eyes of his friend Cliffey.
"Come on. We're leaving before you run off again."
"Uff...wait," mumbled Pete sleepily. "Uh...where's Goldberg?"
"He's still shouting at the monster," said Sarah, nodding back towards the room they had just come from.
"Nah, I've finished now," said Goldberg quietly as he emerged, shutting the door behind him. "Are you okay, Pete? Shall we head off?"
Pete tried to think of a reason to keep them there, but he couldn't come up with anything, and he could sense that they were getting tired of his stalling antics.
"Okay, yeah. Let's go."
And so they went. They filed out of the cavern, and Goldberg helped them to scramble up out of the hole.
"So what did you say to him?" asked Pete as Goldberg pulled himself out.
"Just a few firm words," said Goldberg, smiling faintly.
* * *
The trolls strode through the forest, with the great crow walking at their side.
"So his name is Karl?"
"Karl, yes." Jo-Tunn gazed, glassy-eyed, into the middle distance. "He always complained about having such a human name. Some of our less...distinguished members would make fun of him for it, and that would always get on his wick rather."
"So maybe that's why he's snapped? Was he much of an outcast?"
Jo-Tunn sniffed. "All trolls are outcasts, friend. I suppose Karl was something of an outcast among outcasts, yes, but I don't see that that could have caused this."
"Well then what did?"
"It's anyone's guess."
They walked on in silence for a minute.
"Righto, everyone!" shouted Jo-Tunn, suddenly stopping to address the whole group. "It's clear to me that we've a much larger chance of finding Karl if we split up and fan out."
Jo-Tunn organised his trolls into five search parties. One team would head north, one south, one east and one west. The remaining team - consisting merely of Jo-Tunn and the crow - would stay put, on the off-chance that Karl wondered by this spot.
The other four parties shuffled off, and the crow heard some mumblings about leadership laziness. Jo-Tunn seemed not to hear, or otherwise just to ignore them.
Once the two of them were left alone, Jo-Tunn spoke up once more.
"I've just realised that you haven't even told us your name yet, friend. What shall we call you?"
The crow looked away for a minute. Jo-Tunn thought he saw a smile.
"You'll have to try and guess. It starts with a J."
"Hmph. If you're going to play games, I shall just call you crow."
And that was that.
TO BE CONTINUED
Monday 4 April 2011
Goodbye to Soph/Z-Cars
Soph has moved out.
I was at my parents' house when I got the news. It was Mother's Day, we had just finished our dinner, and were now sat watching Toy Story 3 when I received this text:
I was at my parents' house when I got the news. It was Mother's Day, we had just finished our dinner, and were now sat watching Toy Story 3 when I received this text:
"I have had to go back home :( council tax were on to me and my
parents thought it was best for me to come back :("
This was a concern. I excused myself from Toy Story 3 - it was just at the bit in the furnace but fortunately I've seen it before so I know that they don't all die - and headed back to Tewkesbury Place.
Coming through the front door I noticed a suitcase at the top of the stairs.
It actually turned out to belong to Pete but it was still poignant.
* * *
The previous day, we had been busy with Cliffey's birthday present. As previously mentioned, Tom and I had bought tickets to see Everton vs. Aston Villa, and boy howdy were we excited.
The drive up to Liverpool was long, but not that long. We had our music, some food, an Everton shirt flagging out of the rear window and, most importantly, we had each other, so the 4 hours passed quite quickly. We even managed to find time to stop at a service station near Birmingam, where we came across a busload of Chelsea supporters on their way to Stoke. They were loud and obnoxious - one of them called Tom and Cliffey cunts because they were wearing Everton shirts - but Stoke managed to hold their team to a disappointing 1-1 draw so hahaha.
The drive back was more of a slog. Two hours it took us to get from the car park to Runcorn bridge, a journey that Google Maps would have you believe takes just over 25 minutes. But post-match traffic and roadworks conspired to slow us down as much as possible. On the plus side, when we did eventually get out of Merseyside, Cliffey knew a rather nice route that took us down through North Wales and Middle England, where we witnessed some of the best place names I've ever heard, all of which I happily shouted out as we passed the signs:
"Knockin Heath!"
"Hope Under Dinmore!"
"Rhosllanerchrugog!"
Also, Cliffey has just pointed out that, while we were stuck in the Liverpool traffic, we saw Randy Lerner drive past in his limo. Apparently he's the Aston Villa chairman or something important like that.
But I've yet to mention the bit in between, the actual football bit. It was good, a 2-2 draw. There was all sorts going on - goals that should have been disallowed but weren't, goals that should have been allowed but weren't, a penalty, Emile Heskey...the works. Tom and Cliffey did not manage to convince me to don the Everton shirt that had been dangling out the window, but fortunately nobody cottoned on to the fact that I'm actually Liverpool fan.
I did get some stick though, not least as we were leaving the stadium when some bright spark in an Everton top broke the news that "Liverpool lost!" which evoked a cheer from all present.
As I pointed out at the time, if the best part of a football match is hearing that another team lost, it's time to support a different team.
Cunts.
Joel.
Saturday 2 April 2011
Combined Harvesters
1.
Nathan's 15th birthday. Went to the one in the bay with my family + Sarah having been picked up from the Atrium after a 6-hour recording session. Had one large salad bowl, followed by the 12oz rump steak with jacket potato and parsley sauce because parents were paying and I felt the need to go for something expensive. Was very impressed with my dad's salad-arranging skills. Meal was followed by birthday cake (lemon drizzle, two layers) at my parents' house.
2.
Went to the one in Penarth with Sarah, Cliffey, Tom and Fone, to celebrate either Cliffey's birthday (yet again) or Fone's return to Cardiff, whichever you prefer. Had a rather diminished salad bowl - got there quite late and they didn't refill it after we arrived - with a rather heavy slant towards pasta and green beans. Went for the 7oz gammon steak with pineapple, chips and peas - my usual and fairly cheap due to its place on the earlybird menu. For dessert, Rocky Horror. Cliffey had a Mini Egg sundae thing, presumably some sort of Easter special. We were the last people there. It was eerie.
Joel.
Nathan's 15th birthday. Went to the one in the bay with my family + Sarah having been picked up from the Atrium after a 6-hour recording session. Had one large salad bowl, followed by the 12oz rump steak with jacket potato and parsley sauce because parents were paying and I felt the need to go for something expensive. Was very impressed with my dad's salad-arranging skills. Meal was followed by birthday cake (lemon drizzle, two layers) at my parents' house.
2.
Went to the one in Penarth with Sarah, Cliffey, Tom and Fone, to celebrate either Cliffey's birthday (yet again) or Fone's return to Cardiff, whichever you prefer. Had a rather diminished salad bowl - got there quite late and they didn't refill it after we arrived - with a rather heavy slant towards pasta and green beans. Went for the 7oz gammon steak with pineapple, chips and peas - my usual and fairly cheap due to its place on the earlybird menu. For dessert, Rocky Horror. Cliffey had a Mini Egg sundae thing, presumably some sort of Easter special. We were the last people there. It was eerie.
Joel.
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