Saturday, September 03, 2005
Family Ties
Sorry I didn't post anything last night, my brother's round for the weekend and it seemed rude to ignore him while writing about his visit for internet nerds to read. Anyway, I'll resume talking about my life once I've stopped having one again.
Thursday, September 01, 2005
Coningsby and Tattershall
I got a letter today from HSBC, telling me that following careful consideration they are having to close their Coningsby and Tattershall branch on 2 December 2005. All accounts are being transferred to the Boston branch, and the letter also reminds us that you can use self-service cash machines 24 hours a day, suggesting that we use the HSBC machines in Boston, Woodhall Spa, Horncastle or Sleaford. Rather than the other banks' cash machines in Coningsby and Tattershall, presumably.
I don't know why I've got this letter in the first place. As far as I know, my account has always been at the Boston branch, even when I was living in Tumby Woodside. That's the branch I went to when I wanted to open the account, anyway. I don't think I've ever been inside the one in Tattershall. Perhaps their system automatically registers the closest branch as your local one? Anyway, it's fairly irrelevant to me now I live in Derby, isn't it?
Still, it's sad to hear about that branch closing down. It suggests that the twin villages of Coningsby and Tattershall, where I spent a lot of time as a littlun, aren't prospering in the 21st century. And that's a shame. They're nice places. They have (or had) an old-fashioned friendliness about them that was something unusual even in the 1980s, from what I've heard about other places in those days. Even in the nineties, after I'd stopped going to school and cubs in Tattershall and Coningsby respectively, I used to cycle up to the weekly car boot sale at Tattershall leisure centre on a Sunday, and come to think of it often take money out from the cash machine at the Midland bank on the way. I'm getting all nostalgic, now. I'll have to go back there and see what a dump it always was, just to get it out of my system.
Tattershall is famous for its castle, which is fair enough. It's a cool place, although being red brick (albeit one of the oldest red brick buildings in the world) it doesn't look much like a proper castle should. But Coningsby's number one (and only) tourist attraction is the one-handed clock on its church tower. I have never seen why this should be considered a good thing. Surely that's just laziness on the part of the clockmaker? Oh, I've already put one hand on the thing, I won't bother with the other. The people of Coningsby only ever need to know the approximate time, anyway...
I don't know why I've got this letter in the first place. As far as I know, my account has always been at the Boston branch, even when I was living in Tumby Woodside. That's the branch I went to when I wanted to open the account, anyway. I don't think I've ever been inside the one in Tattershall. Perhaps their system automatically registers the closest branch as your local one? Anyway, it's fairly irrelevant to me now I live in Derby, isn't it?
Still, it's sad to hear about that branch closing down. It suggests that the twin villages of Coningsby and Tattershall, where I spent a lot of time as a littlun, aren't prospering in the 21st century. And that's a shame. They're nice places. They have (or had) an old-fashioned friendliness about them that was something unusual even in the 1980s, from what I've heard about other places in those days. Even in the nineties, after I'd stopped going to school and cubs in Tattershall and Coningsby respectively, I used to cycle up to the weekly car boot sale at Tattershall leisure centre on a Sunday, and come to think of it often take money out from the cash machine at the Midland bank on the way. I'm getting all nostalgic, now. I'll have to go back there and see what a dump it always was, just to get it out of my system.
Tattershall is famous for its castle, which is fair enough. It's a cool place, although being red brick (albeit one of the oldest red brick buildings in the world) it doesn't look much like a proper castle should. But Coningsby's number one (and only) tourist attraction is the one-handed clock on its church tower. I have never seen why this should be considered a good thing. Surely that's just laziness on the part of the clockmaker? Oh, I've already put one hand on the thing, I won't bother with the other. The people of Coningsby only ever need to know the approximate time, anyway...
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Why can't someone just give me a job without me doing anything?
Still, to look on the bright side, today's meeting has cured me of wanting to send my CV to any more agencies. The woman wants me to add some more bits to mine, describing what I actually do, that kind of thing. What people don't appreciate is that I haven't got the faintest idea what I actually do. Or at least, when I try to put it in words I soon realise that I don't actually do anything. I should really be doing that tonight, but I can't be bothered.
I think it's more important that I record the interesting fact that I can't type the word 'bright', like I did in the paragraph above, without getting it wrong and typing 'bridge' by mistake. I never notice until I've got to the end of the word, and then have to correct it. The reason for this, obviously, is that I spend more time typing about the Bridge than I do about how bright I am.
The Bridge is the currently-non-existent best chatroom on the internet, as I think I've mentioned before. I don't think I ever mentioned what it is, assuming that the only people who could possibly be interested in my daily outpourings of drivel would be VPSers, but just in case, the Bridge is our name for the message board feature of the Virtual Pooh Sticks website, which can when it's not dead be found at http://www.poohsticks.com.
For some reason I've never quite understood, the message board attracts intelligent, funny, friendly, kind, just-plain-nice people like some kind of magnet that only works on people of a certain disposition. It's hard to describe the sort of conversations that go on there, because there's very little in the way of subject matter that hasn't come up at one time or another - we'll have heated debates on politics or religion, extended make-believe sessions where we role-play sailing out to sea and discovering desert islands, critiques of TV, films, music and books, strong language and adult content, or even just not really saying anything and silently enjoying one another's company. Which isn't something that happens in most chat rooms, I'll bet.
The sheer volume of good friends I've made on the Bridge is quite staggering when I come to look at it. And so is the number of relationships, marriages and general life-changing effects the Bridge has brought to people over the years. There's a definite void in my life at the moment, and it's bridge-shaped.
I think it's more important that I record the interesting fact that I can't type the word 'bright', like I did in the paragraph above, without getting it wrong and typing 'bridge' by mistake. I never notice until I've got to the end of the word, and then have to correct it. The reason for this, obviously, is that I spend more time typing about the Bridge than I do about how bright I am.
The Bridge is the currently-non-existent best chatroom on the internet, as I think I've mentioned before. I don't think I ever mentioned what it is, assuming that the only people who could possibly be interested in my daily outpourings of drivel would be VPSers, but just in case, the Bridge is our name for the message board feature of the Virtual Pooh Sticks website, which can when it's not dead be found at http://www.poohsticks.com.
For some reason I've never quite understood, the message board attracts intelligent, funny, friendly, kind, just-plain-nice people like some kind of magnet that only works on people of a certain disposition. It's hard to describe the sort of conversations that go on there, because there's very little in the way of subject matter that hasn't come up at one time or another - we'll have heated debates on politics or religion, extended make-believe sessions where we role-play sailing out to sea and discovering desert islands, critiques of TV, films, music and books, strong language and adult content, or even just not really saying anything and silently enjoying one another's company. Which isn't something that happens in most chat rooms, I'll bet.
The sheer volume of good friends I've made on the Bridge is quite staggering when I come to look at it. And so is the number of relationships, marriages and general life-changing effects the Bridge has brought to people over the years. There's a definite void in my life at the moment, and it's bridge-shaped.
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
The week’s been long and the job hunt’s tough
It's not, really. But that's another quote that only an elite few would recognise. However, I've registered with another agency since Michael Page haven't immediately found me a job without me having to do anything. I'm meeting the woman at the pub tomorrow lunchtime. They seem determined to find people jobs in Burton-on-Trent, which I really don't want. Possibly nobody else wants to work there either, which would explain why there's so many of them going.
I still hate looking for jobs. But I'll be quite glad to leave my current one, because there's really not much left to do there. On the other hand, starting a new job is scary. I really think I'm the kind of person who should be independently wealthy. Could someone arrange it for me?
I still hate looking for jobs. But I'll be quite glad to leave my current one, because there's really not much left to do there. On the other hand, starting a new job is scary. I really think I'm the kind of person who should be independently wealthy. Could someone arrange it for me?
Monday, August 29, 2005
Memory memories
For want of anything better to talk about, I was just thinking about the world memory championship in 2003. I still think that was the greatest championship in history, although there are plenty of other contenders for that title. I’m sure the Dominic O’Brien years produced plenty of thrilling contests, but I wasn’t around for most of them, and looking at the results they did tend to be a bit one-sided at least some of the time. 2002 was the most crushing victory anyone’s ever achieved – Andi was clearly light-years ahead of the field, Dominic included, right from the start. 2004 was nice because I won it, and this year was a close-run thing until Clemens ran away with it right at the end.
But 2003 was a notch above any of those years because we had six people fighting for first place that year – Andi not quite in the same kind of form as 2002 but still the man to beat, Dominic still never one to be written off, Gunther as determined as ever to improve on all those 2nd and 3rd places, Jan the often-overlooked dark horse who’s the best in the world when it comes to numbers, me having surprised everyone at the MSO six weeks previously and made it clear I could be among the top competitors, and Astrid making it clear in the first few disciplines that she had improved hugely since the last year’s event too.
And it went toing and froing between the six of us all the way through three days of heated competition. The mix between all the star names of the years gone by and the hot newcomers was something we haven’t really seen since then. And the setting was great too – the Prince hotel, Kuala Lumpur. Nicely air-conditioned, modern place in a swelteringly hot and humid, fantastic foreign city. It was a great holiday even without the championship. The Malaysian competitors were of a surprisingly low standard, with no sign of the really good ones who’d come to previous championships in England, but the mix of nationalities was the most varied we’d ever had, and the sheer volume of Malaysians and Indonesians made it still the biggest WMC ever. There was also a sketch artist who drew pencil portraits of everyone and pinned them up on the wall. Made me look much balder than I am, I’m sure.
Another thing we haven’t really had in another WMC – the competiton going right down to the crucial speed cards event. It was pretty much between Andi and Astrid by that point, unless they both failed to record a half-decent time, but nobody could predict a winner. It’s Andi’s specialist subject, but he also had a history of making mistakes under pressure. I wasn’t all that good at the cards in those days, and I was relieved to manage a 53-second pack to grab third place ahead of Gunther. Meanwhile, Andi held his nerve and just managed to win the championship by the narrowest of margins. Just to be there was fantastic.
Back to work tomorrow! Yay!
But 2003 was a notch above any of those years because we had six people fighting for first place that year – Andi not quite in the same kind of form as 2002 but still the man to beat, Dominic still never one to be written off, Gunther as determined as ever to improve on all those 2nd and 3rd places, Jan the often-overlooked dark horse who’s the best in the world when it comes to numbers, me having surprised everyone at the MSO six weeks previously and made it clear I could be among the top competitors, and Astrid making it clear in the first few disciplines that she had improved hugely since the last year’s event too.
And it went toing and froing between the six of us all the way through three days of heated competition. The mix between all the star names of the years gone by and the hot newcomers was something we haven’t really seen since then. And the setting was great too – the Prince hotel, Kuala Lumpur. Nicely air-conditioned, modern place in a swelteringly hot and humid, fantastic foreign city. It was a great holiday even without the championship. The Malaysian competitors were of a surprisingly low standard, with no sign of the really good ones who’d come to previous championships in England, but the mix of nationalities was the most varied we’d ever had, and the sheer volume of Malaysians and Indonesians made it still the biggest WMC ever. There was also a sketch artist who drew pencil portraits of everyone and pinned them up on the wall. Made me look much balder than I am, I’m sure.
Another thing we haven’t really had in another WMC – the competiton going right down to the crucial speed cards event. It was pretty much between Andi and Astrid by that point, unless they both failed to record a half-decent time, but nobody could predict a winner. It’s Andi’s specialist subject, but he also had a history of making mistakes under pressure. I wasn’t all that good at the cards in those days, and I was relieved to manage a 53-second pack to grab third place ahead of Gunther. Meanwhile, Andi held his nerve and just managed to win the championship by the narrowest of margins. Just to be there was fantastic.
Back to work tomorrow! Yay!
Sunday, August 28, 2005
Newsflash
On the train on the way home, the conductor announced over the tannoy "Ladies and gentlemen, for those of you interested in the test match result, I'm pleased to tell you that England have won by three wickets."
It did occur to me that there might be people on the train who were planning to watch the highlights when they got home - this was half past six, and the train was only going as far as Sheffield, with plenty of time for everyone on it to get back home in time for the 7:30 highlights. Still, it's nice to know the train people care about keeping us all up to speed. The only other time I've known someone to make an announcement like this on a train was when the Queen Mother died while I was on the way back from London one time.
Anyway, I'm back now. With hindsight, The Unconsoled wasn't the best choice for something to read on the journey. When I'm reading a good book, I tend to start thinking like the central characters, and my usual nervousness with planes (I'm not worried about bombs or crashing, but I'm always terrified that I'll miss the plane or get on the wrong one by mistake or something) combined with Ryder's constant confusion and terror that everybody will realise that he doesn't know what he's doing all combined to get me almost panicky at Charles de Gaulle airport this afternoon. It didn't help when the security people pointed out something on the x-ray of my rucksack and asked me what it was. That's never happened to me before, and I had no idea what it could be, since as far as I could remember there was nothing but clothes in there. Turned out to be my alarm clock, which I'd forgotten all about. Perhaps it looks like a bomb from certain angles.
As for the othello, it's fair to say that I did terribly. 2½ points out of 11 is just abominable - I don't think I've ever in my life done so badly in a tournament, with the possible exception of the MSO back in 1999 when I didn't really have a clue what I was doing and found myself competing against the strongest international field you could hope to meet outside the world championships. Still, you can always learn from things like this. I can get pointers from the players who beat me - Kazia Zieba, during her exciting endgame against Tim Hoetjes, picked the right move by means of the time-honoured technique of eeny-meeny-miney-mo (or the Polish equivalent). But while I was losing to small girls, there was an exciting tournament taking place. I haven't seen the results yet (as previously mentioned, I had to dash off early), but the final was Graham against Stéphane Nicolet, and I'd be willing to put money on Graham. For all his claims that he always comes second in these things, he's won just about everything so far this year. I'd put money on him for the world championship too, if only because these hypothetical bookies would give pretty good odds.
My train of thought in the game against Monique Lecat went a bit like this: "Okay, I've lost my first three games, but that's okay, because I was playing reasonably well, my opponents were all pretty tough, you should expect to end up against someone a lot worse than Bintsa Andriani after losing two games in the swiss system. Anyway, this should be a good time to start winning - I play Monique on the internet all the time and I usually win."
The opening: "Heehee, Monique Lecat plays the Cat opening. I wonder if Marcel Sneek will play the Snake? Come to think of it, I don't know what the Snake looks like, so I wouldn't know if he did. Anyway, I know how you're supposed to play this one, and I happen to know I'm winning at this point."
About 20 moves in: "Hang on a minute. We played exactly this game on the internet last week and I ended up losing. I can't remember how, but it all went wrong at about this point, didn't it? I'd better play something different. How about... this?"
A few moves later: "Hey, this isn't so bad. As long as I can run her out of moves, there won't be any problems."
About 40 moves in now: "Aargh. This is what the experts call over-minimisation, I think. Am I going to be able to get back enough pieces? In fact, what exactly am I going to do in this position?"
Shortly thereafter: "Lose horribly. That's what I'm going to do here. Sheesh."
End result - I lost 61-3. End result of the tournament, I came 25th out of 26 players. That's just bad.
All this othello reminds me that I need to do the annual accounts before the nationals next month. It's not like it's a big undertaking (and it's not like anyone's really interested in the end result as long as I tell them we've got money and we're not likely to stop having money any time soon), but seeing as it's my only real job as treasurer of the BOF, it's something I need to do properly, and it will take a bit of time. Maybe I'll do it tomorrow, seeing as it's a bank holiday, or maybe I'll just stay in bed. I'll see how I feel.
It did occur to me that there might be people on the train who were planning to watch the highlights when they got home - this was half past six, and the train was only going as far as Sheffield, with plenty of time for everyone on it to get back home in time for the 7:30 highlights. Still, it's nice to know the train people care about keeping us all up to speed. The only other time I've known someone to make an announcement like this on a train was when the Queen Mother died while I was on the way back from London one time.
Anyway, I'm back now. With hindsight, The Unconsoled wasn't the best choice for something to read on the journey. When I'm reading a good book, I tend to start thinking like the central characters, and my usual nervousness with planes (I'm not worried about bombs or crashing, but I'm always terrified that I'll miss the plane or get on the wrong one by mistake or something) combined with Ryder's constant confusion and terror that everybody will realise that he doesn't know what he's doing all combined to get me almost panicky at Charles de Gaulle airport this afternoon. It didn't help when the security people pointed out something on the x-ray of my rucksack and asked me what it was. That's never happened to me before, and I had no idea what it could be, since as far as I could remember there was nothing but clothes in there. Turned out to be my alarm clock, which I'd forgotten all about. Perhaps it looks like a bomb from certain angles.
As for the othello, it's fair to say that I did terribly. 2½ points out of 11 is just abominable - I don't think I've ever in my life done so badly in a tournament, with the possible exception of the MSO back in 1999 when I didn't really have a clue what I was doing and found myself competing against the strongest international field you could hope to meet outside the world championships. Still, you can always learn from things like this. I can get pointers from the players who beat me - Kazia Zieba, during her exciting endgame against Tim Hoetjes, picked the right move by means of the time-honoured technique of eeny-meeny-miney-mo (or the Polish equivalent). But while I was losing to small girls, there was an exciting tournament taking place. I haven't seen the results yet (as previously mentioned, I had to dash off early), but the final was Graham against Stéphane Nicolet, and I'd be willing to put money on Graham. For all his claims that he always comes second in these things, he's won just about everything so far this year. I'd put money on him for the world championship too, if only because these hypothetical bookies would give pretty good odds.
My train of thought in the game against Monique Lecat went a bit like this: "Okay, I've lost my first three games, but that's okay, because I was playing reasonably well, my opponents were all pretty tough, you should expect to end up against someone a lot worse than Bintsa Andriani after losing two games in the swiss system. Anyway, this should be a good time to start winning - I play Monique on the internet all the time and I usually win."
The opening: "Heehee, Monique Lecat plays the Cat opening. I wonder if Marcel Sneek will play the Snake? Come to think of it, I don't know what the Snake looks like, so I wouldn't know if he did. Anyway, I know how you're supposed to play this one, and I happen to know I'm winning at this point."
About 20 moves in: "Hang on a minute. We played exactly this game on the internet last week and I ended up losing. I can't remember how, but it all went wrong at about this point, didn't it? I'd better play something different. How about... this?"
A few moves later: "Hey, this isn't so bad. As long as I can run her out of moves, there won't be any problems."
About 40 moves in now: "Aargh. This is what the experts call over-minimisation, I think. Am I going to be able to get back enough pieces? In fact, what exactly am I going to do in this position?"
Shortly thereafter: "Lose horribly. That's what I'm going to do here. Sheesh."
End result - I lost 61-3. End result of the tournament, I came 25th out of 26 players. That's just bad.
All this othello reminds me that I need to do the annual accounts before the nationals next month. It's not like it's a big undertaking (and it's not like anyone's really interested in the end result as long as I tell them we've got money and we're not likely to stop having money any time soon), but seeing as it's my only real job as treasurer of the BOF, it's something I need to do properly, and it will take a bit of time. Maybe I'll do it tomorrow, seeing as it's a bank holiday, or maybe I'll just stay in bed. I'll see how I feel.
Friday, August 26, 2005
Trains, planes and
There really is a more boring place than the departure lounge of terminal 1 at Birmingham International Airport! It's the departure lounge of terminal 2! I didn't get round to buying a good new book for the journey this time, so I'll have to make do with re-reading The Unconsoled, by Kazuo Ishiguro. There are plenty of worse things I could be reading.
There's also cricket on little tiny TV screens dotted around the place, so I'm probably being much too harsh, calling it boring. Anyway, I probably won't get a chance to write anything while I'm in Paris, so this'll be the last entry till Sunday night, when you can expect either an account of the othello tournament or a thrilling commentary on whatever else has distracted my attention. Octopusses, maybe, and why that sounds so much better than octopi.
There's also cricket on little tiny TV screens dotted around the place, so I'm probably being much too harsh, calling it boring. Anyway, I probably won't get a chance to write anything while I'm in Paris, so this'll be the last entry till Sunday night, when you can expect either an account of the othello tournament or a thrilling commentary on whatever else has distracted my attention. Octopusses, maybe, and why that sounds so much better than octopi.
Thursday, August 25, 2005
Racing from Uttoxeter
The trouble with Michael Page Recruitment, which I'd forgotten since the last time I was registered with them, is that they've got branches all over the country who all have access to candidates' CVs, and occasionally call people on spec to see if they'd be interested in relocating. So I got a call today about a job as management accountant with JCB in Uttoxeter. And since I can't say no to people over the phone (don't laugh at me, it's a serious problem), I cheerfully agreed that MP could send my details over and try to set up an interview. Knowing my luck, I'll get the job and have to commute or move there, which I can't imagine would be much fun either way.
I went to Sheffield this afternoon, just for fun. I haven't been there for ages, but it doesn't change much. The shop that my hat came from has closed down, though. I thought it had, but I wasn't quite sure. I did get the Thunderbolts comic I was looking for (#11, not #9 as I said whenever it was). It's rubbish, as I expected it to be, seeing as it's a House of M crossover, but I don't mind buying something irrelevant, meaningless and incomprehensible every now and then if it supports comics like Thunderbolts. Or like Thunderbolts is the rest of the time, anyway.
Paris tomorrow! I should hopefully get there with a bit of time to wander around the city, the plane's due to arrive at 3:40pm. I'll have to dash off before the finals on Sunday to get the plane back, because I seem to have booked an earlier flight than I really needed to, but never mind. It's not like I'll be playing in the finals myself, and the EGP might well be settled by then, unless Graham plays a lot worse than he has been doing all year.
I went to Sheffield this afternoon, just for fun. I haven't been there for ages, but it doesn't change much. The shop that my hat came from has closed down, though. I thought it had, but I wasn't quite sure. I did get the Thunderbolts comic I was looking for (#11, not #9 as I said whenever it was). It's rubbish, as I expected it to be, seeing as it's a House of M crossover, but I don't mind buying something irrelevant, meaningless and incomprehensible every now and then if it supports comics like Thunderbolts. Or like Thunderbolts is the rest of the time, anyway.
Paris tomorrow! I should hopefully get there with a bit of time to wander around the city, the plane's due to arrive at 3:40pm. I'll have to dash off before the finals on Sunday to get the plane back, because I seem to have booked an earlier flight than I really needed to, but never mind. It's not like I'll be playing in the finals myself, and the EGP might well be settled by then, unless Graham plays a lot worse than he has been doing all year.
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
Webcomics
One of my favourite things that I don't seem to have mentioned in this blog thing yet is the wonder of webcomics. I'm a big fan of comic strips of all kinds, and the kind that you can read in the comfort of your home without even paying for has to be the best kind.
Being me, I particularly like the furry comics with cute characters, and Newshounds, Ozy and Millie and Count Your Sheep are my current favourites.
The current story in Newshounds features Nigel, a supporting character with whom I'm head over heels in love. He's just such a nice guy that I'm pretty sure everyone in the world just wants to give him a cuddle. He's much too good for you, Alistair. But the strip has its appeal even for those who aren't attracted to male, fictional cats - it's a mix of political satire and character-based comedy-drama set in a unique world of its own.
I always love any kind of fiction set in a world like our own but with a strange little twist. I mentioned Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends the other day, set in a world where imaginary friends have form and substance, and Codename: Kids Next Door is another good example, where an ongoing war between kids and adults doesn't get in the way of the characters going about their everyday lives. In Newshounds, animals walk on two legs, talk, and can do anything humans can, but the way people treat animals is basically the same as in our world. It's like the old funny-animal comics and cartoons, only with a bit more thought going into the premise.
Go and check it out, I'm sure you'll like it.
Being me, I particularly like the furry comics with cute characters, and Newshounds, Ozy and Millie and Count Your Sheep are my current favourites.
The current story in Newshounds features Nigel, a supporting character with whom I'm head over heels in love. He's just such a nice guy that I'm pretty sure everyone in the world just wants to give him a cuddle. He's much too good for you, Alistair. But the strip has its appeal even for those who aren't attracted to male, fictional cats - it's a mix of political satire and character-based comedy-drama set in a unique world of its own.
I always love any kind of fiction set in a world like our own but with a strange little twist. I mentioned Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends the other day, set in a world where imaginary friends have form and substance, and Codename: Kids Next Door is another good example, where an ongoing war between kids and adults doesn't get in the way of the characters going about their everyday lives. In Newshounds, animals walk on two legs, talk, and can do anything humans can, but the way people treat animals is basically the same as in our world. It's like the old funny-animal comics and cartoons, only with a bit more thought going into the premise.
Go and check it out, I'm sure you'll like it.
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Come on you Pilgrims
I see Boston Utd are playing Sheffield Utd at Bramall Lane tonight in the Carling Cup. I haven't been to a game for ages and ages, and I assume it's my lack of support that has led to Boston's atrocious start to the season so far (two points from four games), so I would have gone to this one if I'd bothered to check the fixtures and found out it was happening a bit earlier than an hour after kick-off. It's 0-0 at half-time, with Paul Ellender having been booked, which probably means that they've adopted the usual tactic of having him actively try to cripple the better team's best players.
I hope they win. A good run in the Carling Cup is always a boost, even if it's only by being lucky enough to be drawn against the many teams who don't bother really playing in that most pointless of competitions.
In other news, I'm definitely going to Paris at the weekend. I've booked the plane and hotel and everything. Which is nice, because it might turn out to be my last foreign jaunt of the year - there isn't going to be a Vienna memory competition, annoyingly enough. Someone needs to organise one in Britain and find a miraculous way to make it both popular and profitable. I suppose I might still qualify for the WOC in Iceland, although I haven't got round to my plans to improve my othello enough to give me a chance yet. I might try tomorrow.
Also, I feel the need to point out that Samoyed puppies are the cutest things in the universe. They're like happy little bundles of cotton wool with big smiley faces. In fact, they look so much like cuddly toys that I suspect they're made in a factory somewhere. Perhaps when I get that big house with hundreds of cats that I'm always talking about, I'll have a few dozen Samoyeds wandering around the place too...
I hope they win. A good run in the Carling Cup is always a boost, even if it's only by being lucky enough to be drawn against the many teams who don't bother really playing in that most pointless of competitions.
In other news, I'm definitely going to Paris at the weekend. I've booked the plane and hotel and everything. Which is nice, because it might turn out to be my last foreign jaunt of the year - there isn't going to be a Vienna memory competition, annoyingly enough. Someone needs to organise one in Britain and find a miraculous way to make it both popular and profitable. I suppose I might still qualify for the WOC in Iceland, although I haven't got round to my plans to improve my othello enough to give me a chance yet. I might try tomorrow.
Also, I feel the need to point out that Samoyed puppies are the cutest things in the universe. They're like happy little bundles of cotton wool with big smiley faces. In fact, they look so much like cuddly toys that I suspect they're made in a factory somewhere. Perhaps when I get that big house with hundreds of cats that I'm always talking about, I'll have a few dozen Samoyeds wandering around the place too...
Monday, August 22, 2005
Flime ties
I've been doing this blog for a whole month now, I've just realised. And I'd like to think it hasn't been nearly as boring as it could have been. I could have written about knitting every night, you know.
Anyway, Michael Page don't waste any time - they called me today with a job that sounds quite cool, although it's in Spondon, which is a bit too far out of town for my tastes. Still, assuming they get me an interview, I'll go along just for jolly old wouldn't you.
I'm a bit short of inspiration for things to write about tonight, to be honest. I hear from Jeremy Dyer that next to nobody turned up for the othello tournaments at the MSO, which sort of vindicates my decision not to go (although I might have won if I did...), and there's a meeting there tomorrow on the subject of 'Survival of the MSO'. I did think about going along, but I don't think any of my opinions would make any real difference. Also, I feel bad about not going in the first place, so I'd have trouble looking Tony Corfe in the eye.
Anyway, Michael Page don't waste any time - they called me today with a job that sounds quite cool, although it's in Spondon, which is a bit too far out of town for my tastes. Still, assuming they get me an interview, I'll go along just for jolly old wouldn't you.
I'm a bit short of inspiration for things to write about tonight, to be honest. I hear from Jeremy Dyer that next to nobody turned up for the othello tournaments at the MSO, which sort of vindicates my decision not to go (although I might have won if I did...), and there's a meeting there tomorrow on the subject of 'Survival of the MSO'. I did think about going along, but I don't think any of my opinions would make any real difference. Also, I feel bad about not going in the first place, so I'd have trouble looking Tony Corfe in the eye.
Sunday, August 21, 2005
Palm tree
My palm tree. Gone. Paradise lost. Carrion carcass corpse. Vultures circle for a taste.
I can't remember how the rest of it goes, but that's an obscure quote. And how did it get into my head? Well, I've got a plan for what to do over the next week. I'm going to clean my flat. Properly, with proper cleaning materials and everything. I'm going to buy them tomorrow. Meanwhile, I picked up the Incredibles poster my brother got me for Christmas, which has been lying on the floor since it fell off the wall four months ago, and stuck it back up again. And while I was in a poster-putting-up mood, I dug out the Nessie poster I bought a few weeks ago and put that up in my bedroom, and then hauled my collection of old posters from the cupboard they've been living in ever since I moved here two years ago, and stuck them up around the place too.
It looks pretty cool. Kind of a getting-back-to-my-roots feel, seeing as these are posters I thought were cool roughly ten years ago. Teletubbies, smiley faces, Pulp, Oscar Wilde quotes and a strange computer-generated thing involving a stack of spheres. I also blu-tacked up the two six-foot cardboard palm trees I got sent by mistake when I ordered the cowboy paraphernalia for the party in Nottingham back whenever it was. I didn't ever return them, because I figured everything happens for a reason, and if the universe wants me to have two six-foot cardboard palm trees, who am I to argue? They look quite nice too.
So tomorrow, if I'm still in a cleaning mood, I'll pick up the piles of comics lying all over the floor and put them back in my wardrobe. Pick up the pile of clothes from the other part of the floor and put them in the kitchen cupboard where I theoretically keep them. Then get some heavy-duty cleaning gear and clean the kitchen surfaces, which are so filthy I'm sure I must have salmonella by now, just on the general principle of the thing. I'm also inclined to pick up the piles of books from the bedroom floor and either rearrange them in the single big pile they're supposed to be in, or acquire some wood and/or a proper bookcase and arrange them a bit more tidily.
I might also have to get a new vacuum cleaner. The one I have was bought mainly because it's the same colour as a Constructicon, it's very small and probably not cut out for the kind of use it's going to need to be put to. I've only used it three or four times in two years, poor thing.
I'm not sure if all this domesticity is a sign of growing up (in which case please feel free to shoot me) or just of boredom (which is fine). But if it wears off, I'll go to Nottingham tomorrow instead and just wander around. I need to get a copy of New Thunderbolts #9, anyway, as Forbidden Planet in Derby have sold out. They seem to be doing that a lot lately - perhaps I should have a pull list, but I travel around such a lot that it'd be a real drag having to wait until I got back to Derby to collect my week's comics.
Speaking of travelling, I'll decide tomorrow whether to go to Paris or not. It's a bit expensive, and I should really be keeping my savings in case I don't find a job. I calculate that I'll run out of non-savings money right around Christmas if I don't. My savings amount to another couple of months of high living after that, so I've got plenty of time for job-hunting. Besides, worrying about money is even more grown-up than cleaning. So I think I'm going to go anyway. It'll be fun.
Oh, talking of jobs, another thing on the to-do list for this week - sit down and write a bit of How To Be Clever, the book I've been meaning to write for years now. I'll write more about that some other time.
I can't remember how the rest of it goes, but that's an obscure quote. And how did it get into my head? Well, I've got a plan for what to do over the next week. I'm going to clean my flat. Properly, with proper cleaning materials and everything. I'm going to buy them tomorrow. Meanwhile, I picked up the Incredibles poster my brother got me for Christmas, which has been lying on the floor since it fell off the wall four months ago, and stuck it back up again. And while I was in a poster-putting-up mood, I dug out the Nessie poster I bought a few weeks ago and put that up in my bedroom, and then hauled my collection of old posters from the cupboard they've been living in ever since I moved here two years ago, and stuck them up around the place too.
It looks pretty cool. Kind of a getting-back-to-my-roots feel, seeing as these are posters I thought were cool roughly ten years ago. Teletubbies, smiley faces, Pulp, Oscar Wilde quotes and a strange computer-generated thing involving a stack of spheres. I also blu-tacked up the two six-foot cardboard palm trees I got sent by mistake when I ordered the cowboy paraphernalia for the party in Nottingham back whenever it was. I didn't ever return them, because I figured everything happens for a reason, and if the universe wants me to have two six-foot cardboard palm trees, who am I to argue? They look quite nice too.
So tomorrow, if I'm still in a cleaning mood, I'll pick up the piles of comics lying all over the floor and put them back in my wardrobe. Pick up the pile of clothes from the other part of the floor and put them in the kitchen cupboard where I theoretically keep them. Then get some heavy-duty cleaning gear and clean the kitchen surfaces, which are so filthy I'm sure I must have salmonella by now, just on the general principle of the thing. I'm also inclined to pick up the piles of books from the bedroom floor and either rearrange them in the single big pile they're supposed to be in, or acquire some wood and/or a proper bookcase and arrange them a bit more tidily.
I might also have to get a new vacuum cleaner. The one I have was bought mainly because it's the same colour as a Constructicon, it's very small and probably not cut out for the kind of use it's going to need to be put to. I've only used it three or four times in two years, poor thing.
I'm not sure if all this domesticity is a sign of growing up (in which case please feel free to shoot me) or just of boredom (which is fine). But if it wears off, I'll go to Nottingham tomorrow instead and just wander around. I need to get a copy of New Thunderbolts #9, anyway, as Forbidden Planet in Derby have sold out. They seem to be doing that a lot lately - perhaps I should have a pull list, but I travel around such a lot that it'd be a real drag having to wait until I got back to Derby to collect my week's comics.
Speaking of travelling, I'll decide tomorrow whether to go to Paris or not. It's a bit expensive, and I should really be keeping my savings in case I don't find a job. I calculate that I'll run out of non-savings money right around Christmas if I don't. My savings amount to another couple of months of high living after that, so I've got plenty of time for job-hunting. Besides, worrying about money is even more grown-up than cleaning. So I think I'm going to go anyway. It'll be fun.
Oh, talking of jobs, another thing on the to-do list for this week - sit down and write a bit of How To Be Clever, the book I've been meaning to write for years now. I'll write more about that some other time.
Saturday, August 20, 2005
The Merry-Go-Round Broke Down
I've had the theme tune to Foster's Home For Imaginary Friends (a brilliant cartoon series) stuck in my head all day. It doesn't have any lyrics or a title, as far as I know, which is why the subject header is a different tune entirely that happened to be on the telly at the time I was trying to think of a title. But the Foster's theme is quite catchy, and surprisingly non-distracting - I've been memorising cards and numbers with it playing in my brain but not getting in the way at all. I'm going to go off and do a bit more in a minute, while I'm in the mood. Who knows, I might keep this up all year, think up a better system for numbers, and win the WMC by a mile next time round!
I've also sent my CV to one agency, Michael Page, who got me my job at Parkhouse. I know I said I'd send it to agencies, plural, today, but it's such rubbish that I don't think I could face multiple agencies telling me so. I'll just let MP criticise and ridicule it, then let them make improvements and then I'll send it to other people. There's plenty of time yet.
I'm now watching The Life And Times Of Juniper Lee, to see if it's any good. It's created and written by Judd Winick, who's done some great comics in the past, so it might be, but the opening couple of minutes of this episode aren't looking all that great. Rather than jump to hasty conclusions, I'll give it a bit more of a chance, though...
I should talk a bit more about Foster's - it's very original and witty and clever. But I can't be bothered. Just go and watch it, it's on Cartoon Network.
A more important subject is what I'm going to do next week. I've got the week off, it seems I'm not going to the MSO, and I haven't really got anything that urgently needs doing. 'Looking for a job' is not going to take up all my time. Memory things, maybe. Perhaps I could swot up on pi and see about maybe breaking that record later this year. Not really in such an othelloey mood right now, so I'm not feeling like memorising classic games like I was talking about doing.
I've also sent my CV to one agency, Michael Page, who got me my job at Parkhouse. I know I said I'd send it to agencies, plural, today, but it's such rubbish that I don't think I could face multiple agencies telling me so. I'll just let MP criticise and ridicule it, then let them make improvements and then I'll send it to other people. There's plenty of time yet.
I'm now watching The Life And Times Of Juniper Lee, to see if it's any good. It's created and written by Judd Winick, who's done some great comics in the past, so it might be, but the opening couple of minutes of this episode aren't looking all that great. Rather than jump to hasty conclusions, I'll give it a bit more of a chance, though...
I should talk a bit more about Foster's - it's very original and witty and clever. But I can't be bothered. Just go and watch it, it's on Cartoon Network.
A more important subject is what I'm going to do next week. I've got the week off, it seems I'm not going to the MSO, and I haven't really got anything that urgently needs doing. 'Looking for a job' is not going to take up all my time. Memory things, maybe. Perhaps I could swot up on pi and see about maybe breaking that record later this year. Not really in such an othelloey mood right now, so I'm not feeling like memorising classic games like I was talking about doing.
Friday, August 19, 2005
Chinese whispers
Actually, I think that title is politically incorrect nowadays, so I apologise. Also, sorry that the content of this entry is once again themed around the subject of me appearing in newspapers. But don't worry, I'm pretty sure that's all over and done with now, so this'll be the last one.
But the Derbyshire Evening Telegraph have a big long story about me again this year. It's mostly a reworking of the story they did last year, with added new details borrowed from the BBC News website, which had published a somewhat garbled brief story based on the official press release before the competition. To top it off, the reporter phoned me at work and asked a couple of questions, then quoted me as saying something else entirely. I'm intrigued by some of the things attributed to me - none of the things in quotation marks are actually what I said, although they're mostly vaguely similar paraphrases. I never said anything like "I had to book an extra day's holiday off work just to recover," though.
Even more fun, they repeat the BBC story's claim that "As well as making sure their brains are finely tuned, competitors have to ensure they are at maximum fitness levels." Which I really don't.
But the best of all is the fantastic photo (reused from last year) of me looking particularly scary. Check it out. Maybe I could make a new career in horror movies?
And no, I haven't done my CV or anything. Tomorrow. And then next week everyone reading this can thrill to my adventures in job-seeking.
But the Derbyshire Evening Telegraph have a big long story about me again this year. It's mostly a reworking of the story they did last year, with added new details borrowed from the BBC News website, which had published a somewhat garbled brief story based on the official press release before the competition. To top it off, the reporter phoned me at work and asked a couple of questions, then quoted me as saying something else entirely. I'm intrigued by some of the things attributed to me - none of the things in quotation marks are actually what I said, although they're mostly vaguely similar paraphrases. I never said anything like "I had to book an extra day's holiday off work just to recover," though.
Even more fun, they repeat the BBC story's claim that "As well as making sure their brains are finely tuned, competitors have to ensure they are at maximum fitness levels." Which I really don't.
But the best of all is the fantastic photo (reused from last year) of me looking particularly scary. Check it out. Maybe I could make a new career in horror movies?
And no, I haven't done my CV or anything. Tomorrow. And then next week everyone reading this can thrill to my adventures in job-seeking.
Squashed Frogs
Apologies for not posting anything last night - I realise there's a devoted audience out there hanging on my every word, but I was out with the people from work. Actually, I sneaked off at around 10pm, but not before I'd introduced everyone to the delights of squashed frogs, the world's best shot. Always good for a couple of cool points in any social gathering.
So I thought I'd do a bit of blogging from the office, rather than, say, working. I feel justified in this since a) my immediate boss didn't make it in until ten o'clock this morning after last night's shenanigans; b) I would have done it at lunchtime if I hadn't been down the pub celebrating Phil's last day, and it's the thought that counts; c) nobody here is doing any work anyway. The drawback to this is that the IT guys can (and probably will) spy on what I'm doing and so will be reading this, but I don't mind. I'm leaving soon, anyway...
I realised this morning that I still haven't made a decision on whether or not to go to the MSO. But since I would be travelling down there tonight if I was going, I suppose the decision's sort of been made by default. Which means that the thing will be starting some time around now, not graced with my presence for the first time. Very sad. But I really don't want to spend £470 (including the late-entry charge) on a week of games with a handful of other people. I might still go to Paris next weekend for the othello, but I haven't quite made up my mind yet.
What I'm definitely going to do, hopefully, is get my CV polished up and submitted to a few agencies tonight. Then I can spend next week going round and talking to them and see if there are any jobs going. I'm resigned to the fact that I'm hopeless with interviews, so I think my best bet is still to hang around here till we finish, find a temp job and hope they take me on permanently again. But it's still worth looking around now, just in case my dream job is out there.
So I thought I'd do a bit of blogging from the office, rather than, say, working. I feel justified in this since a) my immediate boss didn't make it in until ten o'clock this morning after last night's shenanigans; b) I would have done it at lunchtime if I hadn't been down the pub celebrating Phil's last day, and it's the thought that counts; c) nobody here is doing any work anyway. The drawback to this is that the IT guys can (and probably will) spy on what I'm doing and so will be reading this, but I don't mind. I'm leaving soon, anyway...
I realised this morning that I still haven't made a decision on whether or not to go to the MSO. But since I would be travelling down there tonight if I was going, I suppose the decision's sort of been made by default. Which means that the thing will be starting some time around now, not graced with my presence for the first time. Very sad. But I really don't want to spend £470 (including the late-entry charge) on a week of games with a handful of other people. I might still go to Paris next weekend for the othello, but I haven't quite made up my mind yet.
What I'm definitely going to do, hopefully, is get my CV polished up and submitted to a few agencies tonight. Then I can spend next week going round and talking to them and see if there are any jobs going. I'm resigned to the fact that I'm hopeless with interviews, so I think my best bet is still to hang around here till we finish, find a temp job and hope they take me on permanently again. But it's still worth looking around now, just in case my dream job is out there.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Speedy Gonzales, why dontcha come home?
I feel the need to defend Speedy Gonzales. He gets a lot of bad press, and a lot of people are very rude about him, saying either that he's an offensive ethnic stereotype or that his cartoons are dull and repetitive. Or both. He's the only A, B or C-list character who doesn't get so much as a cameo on Baby Looney Tunes, which I think is shockingly unfair. He'd look good babified, possibly with an oversized sombrero.
Also, the DePatie-Freleng era cartoons with Speedy and Daffy aren't nearly as bad as everyone says they are. Okay, the animation's not up to the high standards that had been set over the previous thirty years by the WB studio, and the jokes and set-pieces are mostly stolen from earlier cartoons, but funny is funny, however many times you see it. And 'A Taste of Catnip' is genuinely original and brilliant. And there's nothing wrong with Daffy's characterisation in those cartoons either - he's a complex guy and you can still sympathise with him.
In other news, I seem to have reached the point in time where I was supposed to get my CV together and start looking for jobs. Shudder. I'll do it tomorrow. No I won't, there's a work party thing. The day after. Probably.
Also, the DePatie-Freleng era cartoons with Speedy and Daffy aren't nearly as bad as everyone says they are. Okay, the animation's not up to the high standards that had been set over the previous thirty years by the WB studio, and the jokes and set-pieces are mostly stolen from earlier cartoons, but funny is funny, however many times you see it. And 'A Taste of Catnip' is genuinely original and brilliant. And there's nothing wrong with Daffy's characterisation in those cartoons either - he's a complex guy and you can still sympathise with him.
In other news, I seem to have reached the point in time where I was supposed to get my CV together and start looking for jobs. Shudder. I'll do it tomorrow. No I won't, there's a work party thing. The day after. Probably.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Home again
I really don't want to go back to work tomorrow. I always get like this after a memory championship or MSO - the whole job just feels really frustrating and dull at the same time. I'll be okay after a couple of days back.
Plus I'm late in tomorrow, because I'm doing an interview on Radio Derby. I'm also having the Evening Telegraph phoning me up, and maybe coming round to photograph me again. But after that, hopefully, the whole thing should go away until next year. Freedom!
Also, this means I can talk about something else in this here blog. It's not been very balanced so far. But just one more memory-related ramble: I'm feeling much more motivated to win next year's championship now. I'm going to put a lot of work into preparing for Vienna in November, hopefully. If I can win that, it'll be a great boost.
Plus I'm late in tomorrow, because I'm doing an interview on Radio Derby. I'm also having the Evening Telegraph phoning me up, and maybe coming round to photograph me again. But after that, hopefully, the whole thing should go away until next year. Freedom!
Also, this means I can talk about something else in this here blog. It's not been very balanced so far. But just one more memory-related ramble: I'm feeling much more motivated to win next year's championship now. I'm going to put a lot of work into preparing for Vienna in November, hopefully. If I can win that, it'll be a great boost.
Adventure
"Hurrah for the holidays!" enthused Purvis, idly throwing a sharpened stick towards Dennis's eye.
"Bogging holidays," grumbled Figg, "getting in the bogging way of whatever it is we do when it isn't the bogging holidays..."
"Don't talk nonsense, Horace," said Beetroot, who was under the mistaken impression that she was talking to the film star Horace Goldenrod, "the holidays are the best time of the year! Why, just this afternoon we're going to Wigginsford-on-the-Sands, which while it isn't actually the seaside has the world's third-largest artificial pebble beach!"
"That's true," confirmed Greebo unnecessarily, "and I'm sure we'll have a marvellous time!"
"Look out, Dennis," said Tailor, much too late to be of any use as Dennis, blinded by the sharpened stick, blundered into a ditch and knocked half his head off on a jutting rock. Everyone chortled.
"Somebody pull him out, before he goes and drowns himself," laughed Purvis, kicking Dennis's elevated backside for good measure.
"Yes, and hurry up about it," added Greebo, realising that the people who gave the orders were less likely to have to do the actual work. She reinforced this reluctance to do any heavy lifting by wandering off down the road towards their home.
Since Tailor had no arms or legs, and Beetroot was busy asking a butterfly for its autograph, believing it to be the popular musician Greaves Poltergeist, it was Figg who had to haul Dennis from the muddy water in which he was buried up to his neck in the opposite of the usual way. Complaining all the while about the bogging effort and inconvenience he was being bogging put to, he dragged Dennis's insensible body after their siblings.
Back home at lunchtime, while Mother patched up Dennis's injuries, Father doled out generous helpings of roast beef and yorkshire pudding to the other children, and ordered them not to eat it. "You can't eat if you're going swimming this afternoon!" he barked, pouring gravy on his own plate of food before throwing it in the bin.
"But we're not going swimming this afternoon, Emily," protested Beetroot. "Wigginsford-on-the-Sands doesn't have actual water on its artificial beach. There are just men who throw buckets of blue paint over the holidaymakers every few hours to simulate tidal waves."
Father swore vigorously for the next fifteen minutes, without ever pausing for breath or repeating himself, while he retrieved his dinner from the bin and ate it. The others ate up too, discussing the relative merits of two modern composers among themselves while they did. Tailor considered that Ventura's use of deliberate atonality gave his pieces a predictability that Venezuela's more conventional work was spared, while Figg felt that the only bogging thing worse than bogging deliberate atonality was the bogging tuneful drivel that bogging Venezuela came out with. Greebo, having never heard of either composer, forcefully expressed the same opinion as the last speaker, and Beetroot, addressing everyone else at the table collectively as Ventura, speculated peaceably that perhaps everyone was free to hold their own opinion on the subject.
Only after everyone had finished eating did Tailor notice that Purvis had turned into a goat. A ten-foot-long, stuffed toy goat with fluorescent green horns and seven eyes. Casting their minds back, the children realised that the transformation had happened gradually over the previous fifteen minutes, starting with the head and spreading gradually downwards. "That explains why he didn't say anything," observed Greebo, quite some time after the others had come to the same conclusion without feeling the need to voice it.
"It's still queer that he should change into a goat like that," mused Tailor. "Perhaps we should cancel our trip to the artificial beach and see if we can change him back?"
"We're not calling off the trip!" Father screamed from the bathroom where he was trying to wash the taste of potato peelings and old boots from his mouth (he had eaten the entire contents of the dustbin, not sure which bits were his lunch and which weren't). "I've already bought a car for us to drive there in!"
"We've already got a car, Father!" Tailor called back. Father resumed swearing, cursing and lamenting his needlessly dented bank balance.
"What ho," said Dennis, limping into Purvis's bedroom where his brothers and sisters were gathered. Mother had fixed his head as good as new, but had accidentally reduced the length of his right leg by three inches in the process. "It'll grow back," he added cheerfully. "What's been going on, then?"
Figg and Tailor gave surprisingly contradictory accounts of what had happened at lunchtime. Dennis was able to piece together the most important details by discarding the version of events which seemed less plausible - Tailor's otherwise reliable narrative featured several people whom Dennis knew had not actually been present, and Figg's digressions on the subject of Father's bogging waistcoat coming to life and eating all the bogging muesli, Dennis soon realised, were based on a television programme they had watched the night before. Interestingly, Figg and Tailor were both mistaken as to the identity of their sibling who had been transformed into a goat - they both assured Dennis that it had been Greebo, who was sitting cheerfully on Purvis's bed in plain sight, reading a religious text.
"You know, I remember Purvis saying something about goats last Christmas," recalled Dennis. "Didn't he say he wanted to be one?"
"No, he said he bogging hated goats," countered Figg rather more aggressively than the situation demanded, "and if he ever bogging turned into one, he'd kill him-bogging-self."
"Let's go and see," suggested Beetroot, restraining Figg from taking a meat cleaver to Dennis's groin. She took the cleaver, which she thought was the racing driver Gerhard Grantley, back to the toy cupboard it had come from, and then led the way to Greebo's bedroom, the window of which looked out on the garden of six months previously.
"Bogging holidays," grumbled Figg, "getting in the bogging way of whatever it is we do when it isn't the bogging holidays..."
"Don't talk nonsense, Horace," said Beetroot, who was under the mistaken impression that she was talking to the film star Horace Goldenrod, "the holidays are the best time of the year! Why, just this afternoon we're going to Wigginsford-on-the-Sands, which while it isn't actually the seaside has the world's third-largest artificial pebble beach!"
"That's true," confirmed Greebo unnecessarily, "and I'm sure we'll have a marvellous time!"
"Look out, Dennis," said Tailor, much too late to be of any use as Dennis, blinded by the sharpened stick, blundered into a ditch and knocked half his head off on a jutting rock. Everyone chortled.
"Somebody pull him out, before he goes and drowns himself," laughed Purvis, kicking Dennis's elevated backside for good measure.
"Yes, and hurry up about it," added Greebo, realising that the people who gave the orders were less likely to have to do the actual work. She reinforced this reluctance to do any heavy lifting by wandering off down the road towards their home.
Since Tailor had no arms or legs, and Beetroot was busy asking a butterfly for its autograph, believing it to be the popular musician Greaves Poltergeist, it was Figg who had to haul Dennis from the muddy water in which he was buried up to his neck in the opposite of the usual way. Complaining all the while about the bogging effort and inconvenience he was being bogging put to, he dragged Dennis's insensible body after their siblings.
Back home at lunchtime, while Mother patched up Dennis's injuries, Father doled out generous helpings of roast beef and yorkshire pudding to the other children, and ordered them not to eat it. "You can't eat if you're going swimming this afternoon!" he barked, pouring gravy on his own plate of food before throwing it in the bin.
"But we're not going swimming this afternoon, Emily," protested Beetroot. "Wigginsford-on-the-Sands doesn't have actual water on its artificial beach. There are just men who throw buckets of blue paint over the holidaymakers every few hours to simulate tidal waves."
Father swore vigorously for the next fifteen minutes, without ever pausing for breath or repeating himself, while he retrieved his dinner from the bin and ate it. The others ate up too, discussing the relative merits of two modern composers among themselves while they did. Tailor considered that Ventura's use of deliberate atonality gave his pieces a predictability that Venezuela's more conventional work was spared, while Figg felt that the only bogging thing worse than bogging deliberate atonality was the bogging tuneful drivel that bogging Venezuela came out with. Greebo, having never heard of either composer, forcefully expressed the same opinion as the last speaker, and Beetroot, addressing everyone else at the table collectively as Ventura, speculated peaceably that perhaps everyone was free to hold their own opinion on the subject.
Only after everyone had finished eating did Tailor notice that Purvis had turned into a goat. A ten-foot-long, stuffed toy goat with fluorescent green horns and seven eyes. Casting their minds back, the children realised that the transformation had happened gradually over the previous fifteen minutes, starting with the head and spreading gradually downwards. "That explains why he didn't say anything," observed Greebo, quite some time after the others had come to the same conclusion without feeling the need to voice it.
"It's still queer that he should change into a goat like that," mused Tailor. "Perhaps we should cancel our trip to the artificial beach and see if we can change him back?"
"We're not calling off the trip!" Father screamed from the bathroom where he was trying to wash the taste of potato peelings and old boots from his mouth (he had eaten the entire contents of the dustbin, not sure which bits were his lunch and which weren't). "I've already bought a car for us to drive there in!"
"We've already got a car, Father!" Tailor called back. Father resumed swearing, cursing and lamenting his needlessly dented bank balance.
"What ho," said Dennis, limping into Purvis's bedroom where his brothers and sisters were gathered. Mother had fixed his head as good as new, but had accidentally reduced the length of his right leg by three inches in the process. "It'll grow back," he added cheerfully. "What's been going on, then?"
Figg and Tailor gave surprisingly contradictory accounts of what had happened at lunchtime. Dennis was able to piece together the most important details by discarding the version of events which seemed less plausible - Tailor's otherwise reliable narrative featured several people whom Dennis knew had not actually been present, and Figg's digressions on the subject of Father's bogging waistcoat coming to life and eating all the bogging muesli, Dennis soon realised, were based on a television programme they had watched the night before. Interestingly, Figg and Tailor were both mistaken as to the identity of their sibling who had been transformed into a goat - they both assured Dennis that it had been Greebo, who was sitting cheerfully on Purvis's bed in plain sight, reading a religious text.
"You know, I remember Purvis saying something about goats last Christmas," recalled Dennis. "Didn't he say he wanted to be one?"
"No, he said he bogging hated goats," countered Figg rather more aggressively than the situation demanded, "and if he ever bogging turned into one, he'd kill him-bogging-self."
"Let's go and see," suggested Beetroot, restraining Figg from taking a meat cleaver to Dennis's groin. She took the cleaver, which she thought was the racing driver Gerhard Grantley, back to the toy cupboard it had come from, and then led the way to Greebo's bedroom, the window of which looked out on the garden of six months previously.
Monday, August 15, 2005
Happy!
I notice, looking back, that the titles of my last four entries were "Sheesh", "Tired", "Bored now" and "Forget fame, fortune and things". This I think gives the entirely false impression that I haven't been having fun lately. I love the hectic buildup to a world memory championship, even if it involves people pointing cameras at me!
Anyway, I didn't win. Not enough training, plus Clemens and Gunther being better than me (always a problem) conspired to strip me of my title. Still, it's been fun being the World Memory Champion, and I'll have to do it again some time. Got a world record in the speed numbers, god knows how. If you asked me which event I was least likely to break a record in, names and faces aside, that would have been it. Just goes to show you never know what you can do until you've done it.
Lots and lots and lots of things to write about, but I'm in a net cafe in Oxford and I've got to go to the stupid prizegiving in a minute or two, followed by a non-stupid party at Ed's family mansion. So I'll just give the news in brief and say more when I get home tomorrow.
Hi Sam
! Thanks for being the first person to post a comment! Anyone else who actually reads this, feel free to do the same!
Good journalist of the year award: Josh Foer, the American guy who's writing a book. I mentioned a while ago that I'd already told him everything there is to tell, but he managed to keep me talking for three hours the next day, while I was hungover and sleep-deprived, without me once getting bored or wishing I was somewhere else. He asks intelligent questions, takes a genuine interest in the subject and doesn't mind at all if I digress and start explaining what's so great about Daffy Duck.
Bad journalist of the year: The BBC director mentioned earlier. I won't give her name in case she's one of those weirdos who type their own name into Google to see what people say about them, but the woman's terminally dense. She also says things like "You're doing really great, you must have done this before!" whenever I show signs of annoyance with being filmed doing the same thing more than once.
Great book recommendation: Anything involving Fidget and Quilly, by David Melling. Sheer genius. The Dinosaur Game might be the best.
Slightly worrying: Spending ten minutes chatting with someone I didn't think I'd ever met before, only to have him end the conversation by saying "Well, we'll talk on the internet again. See you!"
I'd skip the prizegiving and go home right now if it wasn't so rude. Andi, who doesn't care how rude he is, has already left. The pains of politeness. Anyway, got to run! As an extra bonus tomorrow, I'll post the first chapter of the thrilling book I wrote last night.
Anyway, I didn't win. Not enough training, plus Clemens and Gunther being better than me (always a problem) conspired to strip me of my title. Still, it's been fun being the World Memory Champion, and I'll have to do it again some time. Got a world record in the speed numbers, god knows how. If you asked me which event I was least likely to break a record in, names and faces aside, that would have been it. Just goes to show you never know what you can do until you've done it.
Lots and lots and lots of things to write about, but I'm in a net cafe in Oxford and I've got to go to the stupid prizegiving in a minute or two, followed by a non-stupid party at Ed's family mansion. So I'll just give the news in brief and say more when I get home tomorrow.
Hi Sam
! Thanks for being the first person to post a comment! Anyone else who actually reads this, feel free to do the same!
Good journalist of the year award: Josh Foer, the American guy who's writing a book. I mentioned a while ago that I'd already told him everything there is to tell, but he managed to keep me talking for three hours the next day, while I was hungover and sleep-deprived, without me once getting bored or wishing I was somewhere else. He asks intelligent questions, takes a genuine interest in the subject and doesn't mind at all if I digress and start explaining what's so great about Daffy Duck.
Bad journalist of the year: The BBC director mentioned earlier. I won't give her name in case she's one of those weirdos who type their own name into Google to see what people say about them, but the woman's terminally dense. She also says things like "You're doing really great, you must have done this before!" whenever I show signs of annoyance with being filmed doing the same thing more than once.
Great book recommendation: Anything involving Fidget and Quilly, by David Melling. Sheer genius. The Dinosaur Game might be the best.
Slightly worrying: Spending ten minutes chatting with someone I didn't think I'd ever met before, only to have him end the conversation by saying "Well, we'll talk on the internet again. See you!"
I'd skip the prizegiving and go home right now if it wasn't so rude. Andi, who doesn't care how rude he is, has already left. The pains of politeness. Anyway, got to run! As an extra bonus tomorrow, I'll post the first chapter of the thrilling book I wrote last night.
Thursday, August 11, 2005
Forget fame, fortune and things
It's nice to be reminded why I don't want to be a celebrity. Spent the best part of two hours tonight being filmed pretending to memorise numbers, cards and so on, while talking about the brain and learning and how generally great it is to have one and do it.
The layout of my flat not being appropriate for the camerawork she wanted to do, we had to drag my desk out into the middle of the room and put my computer up on it (as opposed to on the floor), shine my desk lamp on me (I don't usually use the lamp, it just sits on my desk to look nice) and do everything several times over so as to get different camera angles. And she took exception to my Zoom-Zoom T-Shirt, possibly because of the big holes, and made me wear a shirt and my playing-cards tie. So people will think I sit around the house in a shirt and tie, with my computer on my desk, taking the whole memory thing really, really seriously.
Annoying, the whole thing. I'll try to get out of the follow-up filming she's threatening me with, outside in the park.
This might be my last entry for a few days. Going down to Oxford tomorrow, back on Tuesday. A bit doubtful about my chances now, but we'll see.
The layout of my flat not being appropriate for the camerawork she wanted to do, we had to drag my desk out into the middle of the room and put my computer up on it (as opposed to on the floor), shine my desk lamp on me (I don't usually use the lamp, it just sits on my desk to look nice) and do everything several times over so as to get different camera angles. And she took exception to my Zoom-Zoom T-Shirt, possibly because of the big holes, and made me wear a shirt and my playing-cards tie. So people will think I sit around the house in a shirt and tie, with my computer on my desk, taking the whole memory thing really, really seriously.
Annoying, the whole thing. I'll try to get out of the follow-up filming she's threatening me with, outside in the park.
This might be my last entry for a few days. Going down to Oxford tomorrow, back on Tuesday. A bit doubtful about my chances now, but we'll see.
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