subideal's blog

Eastbourne and down, loaded up and truckin'

Ahoy, you fucks.

So the weekend before last I went to Eastbourne. My uni friends and I are doing a tour of shit seaside towns in the UK.  The tour is, admittedly, a little protracted... We actually go to places with about the same frequency with which I blog.

Now, sadly I missed the opening legs of the tour - the twin flanges of Bognor Regis and Margate. However, I did make the trip to Weston-Super-Mare, which was assuredly craptacular. So I was looking forward to Eastbourne. I'd been there once before on a stone-grey and drizzly Sunday lunchtime, and almost got knocked over at a pedestrian crossing by some deficient fuckbastard in a 4x4. I pointed at the conspicuous flashing yellow orb on a big stick, and then at the neat rows of black and white painted across the road, and was met with a haughty shaking of the head in return. At this point I painted Eastbourne a quite vivid shade of blue.

Accordingly, Eastbourne was filed under 'dump' in my database. So you can imagine our collective disappointment upon arrival when we discovered, well... it's kind of okay. Look:

                      

Eastbourne - dishearteningly unshit

There were no donkeys to ride, so we had a round of mini golf. On a 'death or glory' shot, my ball somehow passed through some netting designed to keep balls out of a small pond, and plopped into the water - to the delight of my peers. Somehow this loses what made it quite so funny in the telling, so I'll reduce it to a single image - less for your benefit; more as a flag for my own brain when I re-read this in years to come: Alan Gittos hanging precariously off a small bridge waiting to grab my ball as I attempted to hoist it from the muddy pond bed using two putters like chopsticks.

Then we went to the pier, where Noddy failed to win a meerkat on a claw machine, and we all got raped by Pub Quiz. Then we had a curry, and offended all nearby diners with our patter. This is by the bye.

Far more noteworthy is our trip to The Hart. We wanted to escape from the pubs in the centre, all of which had DJs and were teeming with townies. So we went looking for an old-man pub, and found The Hart. As we approached, I wondered aloud if it was a gay establishment. Was it ever. The first thing we noticed was a crime-scene-style chalk outline on the floor, complete with outlined cock and balls. The theme of the evening was 'gangsters', and half the patrons were dressed up as prohibition-era mobsters. The most conspicuous exception was the evening's compère - Fonda Cox - whose six-foot frame filled his sparkly dress beautifully. Ms Cox floated around wielding a microphone, and at one point presided over the introduction of a coffin to proceedings - supposedly containing his recently-deceased husband.

At one point, a handlebar-moustached chap from the Terrence Higgins Trust came over to ask us if we were gay (I suspect he didn't believe our unanimous "no"), and tried his best to stay within the lines of a scripted address concerning safe sex. He asked a few awkward questions, and began to lecture me over a claim that a condom in my wallet was "probably years out of date" until I told him I'd been joking. He didn't banter well, but he was quite sweet. He probably thought I was a twat.

Due to a combination of not being able to hear each other over the music, and not wanting to get picked on by Fonda, we left after a pint. Which is a bit of a shame, as we never found out what was actually in the coffin. The place we ended up in couldn't have been more of a polar opposite. It was a proper 'salt of the earth' boozer, with pub-sanctioned (in fact laminated) misogynistic and xenophobic jokes stuck to the wall of the gents. I think there might have even been a couple of dodgy sexist postcards on display at the bar.

There I took on a shaven-headed pool shark called Merv, complete with his own laser-guided cue and prison tattoos. I didn't win. Although his lingering handshakes made we wonder if I should give him directions to The Hart. I decided it was best to keep this to myself.

Single malt on our hotel bar's balcony was a splendid way to round the day off; before retiring to a room that was hotter than the sun. Cheers!

AC/DC: The Movie

I wonder if I'll get a better response to this here than on Facebook?

So a colleague and I were discussing what the plot of AC/DC: The Movie might be. I thought that they might have adventures on the high seas - a bit like Sinbad - and battle dragons and sea monsters and the like. 

My colleague thought it might be a bit more like Home Alone, where AC/DC might cunningly fend off burglars who were trying to break into their house. 

What do you think might be the plot to the AC/DC movie?

AC/DC, yesterday

Blog Amaemia

I have decided to fall off the wagon. It's time to blog.

About what? What have you got to say?

I don't know. I'm a bit rusty, in truth. Perhaps I should go to the Vox front page to inspire me. It should always be the first port of call for the pick of the bunch (where mixed metaphors and squared clichés collide!)...

So what do we have?

A half-white, half-yellow train! Yay! I fucking love half-white, half-yellow trains! I have no idea what the commentator is slurring, because he's being drowned out by a half-white, half-yellow train! Which is outstanding, because I cannot get enough of half-white, half-yellow trains. I was promised a 'Holiday Ham Toss', but this exceeded my expectations and then some.

Wait! There's more excitement - the lead story:
"Sometimes you need to prepare Thanksgiving Dinner on the day before the day. Like if your daughter won't eat turkey, and you have to cook a ham!"

[culture is good]!

Oh no! I've left it too long! I'll never fit in now; now that I know that whatever I blog about how frequently I wipe beneath my draining board; how my plants are doing pretty well, but still I worry how they might be slightly underwatered, and that the central heating can't be doing them much good; how I find it hard sometimes to remember if this is the fortnight when they take away the recycling bags, or if it's the next; how the road had quite a lot of spray last time I went driving; I will never be beige enough to feel part of the Vox family.

Or maybe I got there without realising it. Perhaps I'll sink back into the wallpaper for another six months. Keep your eyes peeled for transport and recipe updates next summer.

Eulogy

A man sits to a table and bids the attention of those sat around, for he is about to tell a tale so incredible – so profoundly unbelievable – that it can only be true. “I will tell you of Dave,” announces the man; “rugby maestro, cricket legend, musician, lover, father, and Welshman. From Solihull.”

“Phooey!” the table exclaims collectively. A Welshman from Solihull… Whoever heard of such poppycock?

The man tells of Dave ensnaring a maiden whilst they were both still but younglings. “A maiden so fair, they say, that waters would part to accommodate her step. Or perhaps those same waters feared her roar – so fierce that it could shatter granite!” He met said maiden in the sixth form in Cwmbrân, and they would embark on many adventures henceforth.

“Marriage and three heirs came next, and betwixt them they would follow the noble Dave to far-flung lands; lands of which mere menfolk could but dare to dream… They would follow him to Dubai; to Hungary; to Malawi; and to Dundee for a bit.”

Another at the table pipes up. He issues a challenge to the narrator. “And what fantastical things befell them there? If – indeed – such things occurred?”

“Well,” says the man; “Dave did battle with a mighty arachnid. The terrifying scorpion struck the first blow, and inflicted enough venom upon Dave to slay a regular mortal. Dave, however, did smite the foul beast with the sole of his shoe – smashing it to more smithereens than the universe has stars.

“And that is to say nothing of the time he tried to take his children swimming in shark-infested waters off the coast of Oman. After spotting one shark… then three sharks… then a dozen sharks framed in the faces of the waves, he thought it best to take them collecting shells instead.

“He was equally renowned for his appreciation of the finer things. A good nosh-up, for one. Many Saturdays ago, Big Dave arrived home following a gruelling battle on the rugby field. He had consumed some richly-deserved libations, and found himself with a hunger. His search for food yielded a casserole, which he proceeded to devour in its entirety. The crime was only discovered by his wife just as she was about to dish it up to his hungry family that Sunday lunchtime.

“Intrigue and exploits befell Dave wheresoever he went. Through sporting misadventure, he broke more fingers than you can count on both hands. Once he risked the fearsome wrath of his maiden by buying a sports car without her knowledge. On one occasion he was mistaken for Sean Connery… In Scotland, no less! Though possibly the tale of his being spotted by a neighbour asleep on a park bench - dressed in a pressed suit and covered in ducks – is best left in a drawer.

“Never one to shirk from extreme jeopardy, upon his retirement Dave took the astonishingly brave step of moving into a house with his wife and in-laws. There he proceeded to tour about west Wales, learn how to speak Welsh, and play the piano like a flopsy bunny. And spend time with his kin. For let it be said that truly Dave’s family were his greatest adventure!

“The day eventually came when Dave was sent to the graveyard where he’d sent so many a cricket ball before. And folk they did travel, from lands near and far, to pay tribute to the man with tears and laughter, with tales and jokes, with ales and song. And the ground it did rise, and the sea it did swell; the trees they did hum, and the beasts they did call… Such was the love held for Dave by them all.”

The table look aghast. But the man’s work here is not quite done. He adds:

“These stories, you see, are not of my invention.
There are so much more… Far too many to mention.
I suspect you now realise these tales are all true -
And if you pause for a moment, you’ll think of one too!”

The Book

I call my sister back. She answers the phone, but passes it immediately on to my mother.

"I've got some terrible news. Prepare yourself."

I am already prepared for this. My grandfather's been unwell for quite a while, and - although the new drugs seem to have rejuvinated him in ways I didn't really expect possible - I know there's no such thing as a miracle cure. Still, I become agitated.

"What? What is it?"

My mother stalls. I can't quite remember what she says. Until:

"It's your father."

Ok, I'm not expecting that.

"What? Oh fuck. What's happened?

"He's had a heart attack."

A lot of people have heart attacks. You can recover from a heart attack.

"Is he alive?"

[My father texts me, and reminds me we haven't spoken for a while. I phone him up, and we natter. He's been exploring bits of west Wales and going to pubs. Nothing new there really. I might be going to Egypt. Work is a sack of wank, but what's new? Generally things are ok. He passes me on to my mother.]

"No."

*****

My brother-in-law stops at an ASDA garage just by the M4, and I go in to buy some paracetemol. Of course Anadin is fine. The phone rings. I don't like answering the phone when I'm being served by people. It's rude. But I have to on this occasion. I thank the lady behind the counter and nod. It's my brother. He tells me that the undertaker is there, and can they take him away, or do I want to see him. I'm an hour away.

There's a pause.

"I don't know. I... I don't know how to answer that kind of question. Sorry."

I hang up.

[My dad and I sit at a table sporting pints of lovely cold bubbly liquid. He announces that, in his retirement, he plans to write a book. Or rather have someone ghost write his book. I tell him I'd be honoured. He has a database of incredible stories. I know that folk who claim that their lives are incredibly interesting and should be made into a film or a book are seven a penny... but Big Dave knows that in his case it's true. And I believe him. I've heard the stories. I can't wait.]

I decide five minutes later that I do want to see him. Or, more accurately, I don't want to not see him.

*****

"Which doctor?" asks the coroner.

"Yeah, probably," I say. Big Dave loves this joke. It's a terrible joke. Nobody gets it.

Later I walk into the living room, and my mother is lying on the floor in the spot where my father had been for about three hours previously. I have had no idea what to say to my mother. I think my father was incredibly noble to move into a house with her parents, essentially so that she could look after them as they died. I can't comprehend how difficult a time they knew were in store for them, but at least they could move to somewhere nice afterwards. Possibly Tenby. Actually I think Cardigan may have been the latest. I can't imagine she suspected for a moment that she'd go in with four, and come out by herself.

I don't really know how to end this, so I'll just paraphrase:

'E's not pinin'... 'E's passed on! This Walrus is no more! He has ceased to be! 'E's expired and gone to meet 'is maker! 'E's a stiff! Bereft of life, 'e rests in peace! If you hadn't nailed 'im to the perch 'e'd be pushing up the daisies! 'Is metabolic processes are now 'istory! 'E's off the twig! 'E's kicked the bucket, 'e's shuffled off 'is mortal coil, run down the curtain and joined the bleedin' choir invisibile! This is an ex-Walrus!
 

100 Ideas For Your Blog

I have made a conscious decision to write more stuff that isn’t related to insurance, and venturing the odd blog entry seemed like a good start. So I opened my wonderful ‘No One Cares What You Had for Lunch’ book to tell me what I should write, and chose a page at random. It said “Why not begin your blog entry by saying ‘So, here are a few odds and sods that happened to me over the weekend…’” – so that’s how we’ll begin:

• I went to ATP festival this weekend, down in the massive pallid inverted udders of Butlins, Minehead. Now, it is rare, but it is possible to wake up energised from a frontal lobotomy. I would like to present Butlins staff as evidence of this anomaly. Before I’d so much as entered the resort, I was stopped by a chipper young lad who first asked if I’d booked in, and then told me that my car smelt of burning.
  “Yeah, I know,” said I; “There’s an oil leak, and it’s dripping onto the exhaust.”
  “It doesn’t smell good,” said he; “I think it’s your brakes. You should probably get them checked out.”
  I don’t think yer man would have been able to interpret a look of utter incredulity, nor understand concepts such as “I just told you exactly what’s wrong with my car. I have a piece of paper to prove it. Or perhaps I should tear up my MOT certificate because the mechanic clearly didn’t rely on the superior diagnosis of some bumpkin’s nostrils?” So I just drove off.
  
  
• For those who don’t already know, this time round ATP was curated by Mike Patton and The Melvins, whose choices of ‘difficult’ bands and artists were hand picked especially to make the punters confused and anxious. For example, math-rock noiseniks Zu come with a guarantee that their well-scattered time-signature changes will evoke hypnosis or seizure in at least 40% of their audience. I also briefly watched Bohren & Der Club Of Gore, whose music was referred to as in the programme as being “often dubbed doom-jazz”. They played really slow soundtrack music. In the dark. It struck me that ‘watching’ a group of German skinheads (presumably – the lack of illumination made it difficult to tell) playing one note every thirty seconds on a sunny Saturday afternoon was quite an odd thing to do. At one point one of my friends noted “They are a lot more nuanced than their name suggests”. Well quite.
  
  
• It was a joy and a privilege to see Ms P there. Although I did learn that she is *way* more hardcore than I am. What can I say? I like sleeping.
  
  
• I went for a wander at about eight o’clock on Sunday morning, as I couldn’t sleep and I figured the cold air would clear my head. I saw almost no-one, except for Gibby Haynes of the Butthole Surfers – who presumably hadn’t slept (he’d been absolutely binned during the previous evening’s performance) – who was harassing a member of staff. “Look, would you just give me your fucking hat?” he roared. It was a bowler hat.
  
  
• I cut the festival short by an evening because I had a wedding to attend in my home town. The groom was my best mucker when I was thirteen, who is one of the funniest people I’ve ever met, but a bit of an animal. I’m not going to go into all of the stories, because there’s not enough room on the internet. But some of his friends are even worse (he at least knows that there are times when one should behave), so I was expecting some drama; and what I got far exceeded my expectations. One particular friend (who we’ll call Eyeball, due to his getting one MAD BULGING EYE after a few snifters) excelled himself. A selection of adventures that I observed included telling a table full of seniors that the ladies present were “radiating sexuality” (some interpreted this as charming, which was sweet in an odd way); licking one random unwitting lady’s arm (who took it surprisingly well); trying to pull down one different random unwitting lady’s trousers (who took it considerably less well); repeatedly trying to pull down the groom’s father’s trousers (he had already reprimanded Eyeball previously for his “disgusting” language in the presence of both seniors and children)… I’m sure there was plenty more. I couldn’t help thinking that – despite weddings commanding decorum – somebody would probably spark him out at some point. This feeling proved well founded when his brother nutted him unconscious in the car-park. He lay there for ages, while concerned members of staff milled around him checking his pulse and supplying fresh towels to mop up the blood. PC Plod pulled up later as well, but by this point Eyeball had regained consciousness and been sent home in a taxi.
  
  
• Other than that, the wedding was a delight. I shan’t bore you with all the details, but I caught up with loads of people that I should really make more effort with; and at the end of the evening I embraced a sweaty groom, and we told each other that we loved each other and meant it. Textbook.
  

Sadly the blog bible that told me what to write this evening didn’t tell me how to finish the entry. So now I’m a bit screwed. Sorry.

(If You Don't Ask) You Won't Get

Subideal is at a wedding, has had a few glasses, wants an issue settled, and texts AQA...

Subideal: Hello! Could you please tell me what the first song that featured parentheses was? For example, 'I Would Do Anything For Love (But I Won't Do THAT!)' x

AQA: The best selling UK single featuring a parentheses was '(Everything I Do) I Do It For You'. It was the UK no.1 for 16 weeks, and sold over 8m copies.

Subideal: That's not what I asked! I wanted to know the FIRST song with parentheses. Could you tell me please? x

[pause of about an hour]

AQA: Sorry, AQA does not know this information. '(If I Knew You Were Comin') I'd've Baked A Cake' (1950) is the first instance of parentheses in the charts.

Subideal: I am happy with that! From a customer feedback point of view, I would rather wait a while for the right answer than be fobbed off with the answer to a similar yet different question - albeit promptly x

AQA: AQA thanks you for the feedback. AQA's favourite song title with parentheses is Mel Torme's 'Cow Cow Boogie (Moo Moo My Love)'. It's a classic.

Big Blue Letter Day

Surf-Film-Maker Chap is driving to Hull, and stops for fuel somewhere near Birmingham. He pulls up behind a car, fills up, pays, gets back in the van, sticks the keys in the ignition. Just as he's doing this, a jeep reverses into the previously vacant space in front of him. There's a car behind, so he can't reverse; and now he can't get out. So he toots his horn.

A man in snakeskin boots flies out of the jeep and starts towards him. Surf-Film-Maker Chap leans out of the window. The man presumably clocks him, realises he's possibly not as easily bulliable as first anticipated, and applies his brakes.

Surf-Film-Maker Chap: Are you Darren fucking Day?

Darren Day: Yeah. What's that got to do with it?

Surf-Film-Maker Chap: It's got everything to do with it, you fucking twat!

 

Surf-Film-Maker Chap has now mooned John Craven, *and* called Darren Day a "fucking twat". In claim-to-fame terms, I have some serious catching up to do.

*THUD!*

Howdy,

More sub-blogging, I'm afraid. But there's something I felt I should share. An anecode of mine was read out on the Shaun Keaveny show on Radio Six last week. However, they left out the bits which I thought were the most important - i.e. (a) I broke two bones in my back, and (b) I went blind. BLIND, goddamnit! What do you want - unicorn blood?

Anyway, as it wasn't to hand when I posted the original entry, here's the song wot I did myself the damage to:

Biohazard - Hold My Own

Biohazard

I shall blog about this weekend's injuries at another time.

Playing God

Kirsty vs God

Another battle is played out in the eternal conflict between Kirsty and God.