And so it begins again. Actually, it began about half way through September. The run up to Christmas. I could remain true to type and baa-humbug my way through this post, but I'm going to surprise you all ('you all' of course being that one Austrailian kid who's computer is on the blink and has left him with this bog as his homepage) by saying that I love this time of year. Love it. Even with lots to do betwixt now and then, such as two holidays and oodles of days at work, the power of Christmas is a wonderful time. The shortening of the days, the lengthening of the nights (obviously) and the chill in the air. then we have the wonder of the German Christmas Market, with all it's mulled wine and preserved meats, far too many people crammed into a small area, but hey! it's Christmas so everyone's happy dispite the crush.
Whoops, gotta go, leaving this piece unfinished and with probably terrible prose, but my time has come to an end and there is drinking to be done...
Friday 30 October 2009
Monday 26 October 2009
3 THINGS THAT PISS ME OFF
Lets get one thing straight, right off the bat here. Lots of things piss me off. Granted, not as many as there used to, not since 'Simon's Philosophical Enlightening' (I may tell you of that someday, but then again, probably not) but still quite a few things. In fact, the number may well be growing once more with the onset of a new 'age decade'- hitting the 30 barrier commences the mind set of a grumpy old man and with it the feeling that you are right and everything else is too loud.
So, three things that piss me off. Why? Pretty much only because I'm sat at home on a wet and miserable day trying to kill the hours before trudging off to work. And the porn isn't working. Let's face it, why would I be sat here, typing inane paragraphs for you to, in turn, waste your time on if there was pornography to be a-viewing?
These aren't really the main things in life that piss me off, just a trio that I happened to get to thinking about yesterday while sat in work. There's none of the normal boring stuff I usually spout off about, such as organised religion or rap music, and in fact, two of these things more freak me out than piss me off. So already we can ascertain that the title is misleading and the content matter isn't terribly important. Oh boy. I really think one of two things should happen now. Either I should stop typing this drivel, or failing that, you should stop reading. If both of these fail, then I must set down the disclaimer:
"The author of this text does not accept any liability or responsibility should the passage be deemed woefully boring and not in the least bit funny."
Item the first:
Tails on people. Not so much a piss-me-off sort of item, but more something that really disturbs me, brought to the fore while watching the preview for James Cameron's new movie Avatar. Sure, it may be computer generated, and the fictional beings are actually alien life forms, not people, but the fact they are humanoid forms, walking around with tails on display is rather unsettling. Don't get me wrong, I love monkeys. Watching the cute little fellas, no matter what the species, is fun. But a different matter altogether if you put a man in a monkey suit. No sir, I can't be having that. Think of the kid from Jumanji, the one who turns into a monkey as a penalty for messing with the board. That section of a pretty harmless film is hard to watch. Because he has a tail.
Avatar, for all it's 'years in production' and 'moving boundaries of cinematic technology' is going to be an absolute nightmare to watch. People do not, should not have tails. It is wrong. So very very wrong.
Item the Second
Reproducing cartoons. I don't mean taking a cartoon character and making lots of copies of it, I mean a male character and a female character and cartoon kids being the end product. How sick must the cartoonist's mind be, imagining his creations with full functioning, anatomically present 'bits'? A recent example being the third Shrek installment where the two ogres start a family. Not only is that copulating cartoons, but it's obese, ugly cartoons having it off. Makes the skin crawl. And don't get me started on animated animals settling down to start a family, there is just way too much filth to comprehend!
Item the Last
A funny one this, as I've only just hit upon the fact that it irks me. Dream sequences in novels. Stay with me on this, let me explain. I'm a great lover of reading, nothing gets the cerebral
juices sparking like a good book. But when you hit upon a great chapter, perhaps the pace picks up, maybe an important plot point comes close to being revealed, when all of a sudden the author chucks in a bloody dream passage. Very lazy and frequently filled with devices that have no bearing in the physical reality of the story. I don't remember my dreams. Dreams are not important for progression. They should not be used to, for example, show the lead character which way to turn or the next person that should be spoken with. It holds up the story and is a slack method for the author to try his hand at fantastical musings. Stop it.
So, three things that piss me off. Why? Pretty much only because I'm sat at home on a wet and miserable day trying to kill the hours before trudging off to work. And the porn isn't working. Let's face it, why would I be sat here, typing inane paragraphs for you to, in turn, waste your time on if there was pornography to be a-viewing?
These aren't really the main things in life that piss me off, just a trio that I happened to get to thinking about yesterday while sat in work. There's none of the normal boring stuff I usually spout off about, such as organised religion or rap music, and in fact, two of these things more freak me out than piss me off. So already we can ascertain that the title is misleading and the content matter isn't terribly important. Oh boy. I really think one of two things should happen now. Either I should stop typing this drivel, or failing that, you should stop reading. If both of these fail, then I must set down the disclaimer:
"The author of this text does not accept any liability or responsibility should the passage be deemed woefully boring and not in the least bit funny."
Item the first:
Tails on people. Not so much a piss-me-off sort of item, but more something that really disturbs me, brought to the fore while watching the preview for James Cameron's new movie Avatar. Sure, it may be computer generated, and the fictional beings are actually alien life forms, not people, but the fact they are humanoid forms, walking around with tails on display is rather unsettling. Don't get me wrong, I love monkeys. Watching the cute little fellas, no matter what the species, is fun. But a different matter altogether if you put a man in a monkey suit. No sir, I can't be having that. Think of the kid from Jumanji, the one who turns into a monkey as a penalty for messing with the board. That section of a pretty harmless film is hard to watch. Because he has a tail.
Avatar, for all it's 'years in production' and 'moving boundaries of cinematic technology' is going to be an absolute nightmare to watch. People do not, should not have tails. It is wrong. So very very wrong.
Item the Second
Reproducing cartoons. I don't mean taking a cartoon character and making lots of copies of it, I mean a male character and a female character and cartoon kids being the end product. How sick must the cartoonist's mind be, imagining his creations with full functioning, anatomically present 'bits'? A recent example being the third Shrek installment where the two ogres start a family. Not only is that copulating cartoons, but it's obese, ugly cartoons having it off. Makes the skin crawl. And don't get me started on animated animals settling down to start a family, there is just way too much filth to comprehend!
Item the Last
A funny one this, as I've only just hit upon the fact that it irks me. Dream sequences in novels. Stay with me on this, let me explain. I'm a great lover of reading, nothing gets the cerebral
juices sparking like a good book. But when you hit upon a great chapter, perhaps the pace picks up, maybe an important plot point comes close to being revealed, when all of a sudden the author chucks in a bloody dream passage. Very lazy and frequently filled with devices that have no bearing in the physical reality of the story. I don't remember my dreams. Dreams are not important for progression. They should not be used to, for example, show the lead character which way to turn or the next person that should be spoken with. It holds up the story and is a slack method for the author to try his hand at fantastical musings. Stop it.
Thursday 11 June 2009
Sunday 7 June 2009
TERMINATOR SALVATION (proper review)
"This was not the future my mother told me about..."
The groundwork had already been carefully prepared by Messrs Cameron and Schwarzenegger, the plot devices and story development penned masterfully. Even the blip of the not-so-great-but-still-enjoyable third installment didn't subtract from this rock steady franchise. We knew what the future held. It was going to be bleak but it was going to be an exciting, thrilling ride. Nothing could possible go wrong.
Except it did. It went very wrong. The first mistake was hiring a hack like the idiotically named 'McG' as director. Then running with a script that was a mess of ideas stolen from almost every other blockbuster in the last 10 years.
There really is very little of this film that could be praised. Set in 2018, the nuclear apocalypse and subsequent war with the robots which the first two Terminator installments whet our appetite for, is rudely crammed into a few very brief paragraphs at the beginning. John Connor, the hero of the film (portrayed by Christian Bale, still with the frog in his throat left over from playing Batman) is two dimensional and thoroughly unlikable and manages to come across from the outset as quite a inept soldier instead of the saviour the character is meant to be. Sam Worthington is Marcus, an executed prisoner who pops up in the ravaged future as a cyborg prototype (which strangely doesn't strike him as weird- I know if I were to suddenly wake up naked and covered in mud in a desolate war-torn environment, I might ask a question or two) but fails to inspire any feeling whatsoever. The story is based chiefly around saving young Kyle Reese from Skynet (the evil company-turned-humankind-destroyer), as Kyle needs to live in order to get sent back in time by Connor in order to be Connors father. All perfectly clear.
One main stumbling block about this whole scenario is the lack of a decent villain. There is no one to grip the viewer, to heighten the tension, which is precisely why the previous installments were so effective. The struggle is awfully one sided emotionally, and we can't really care about an angry, shouty John Connor. For a story that is about trying to save humanity, this film shows a notable lack of it.
There are many things wrong here, from the poor pacing of the story to the laughably inadequate defences Skynet has to offer, the lack of thought given to scenes (why would killer bike robots need a USB port on them anyway?) to bad dialogue- they also reuse key lines from the previous movies.
On the plus side, though, there were some pretty good explosions.
Terminator Salvation cheapens the franchise, and seems to assume that film goers are braindead morons by tacking in a shameful script around big set-piece action scenes. This film should be forgotten, and fast.
Friday 5 June 2009
TERMINATOR SALVATION (false start review)
Killing My Childhood, 1 Franchise at a Time.
That's what they're doing. And they aren't stopping, in fact the pace is picking up.
Where have all the ideas gone? It doesn't have to be an original idea, just as long as some movie hero or icon from my youth isn't defiled, rolled in dirt and shoved in my face.
I suspect, though, that the reasons for making these sorry excuses for movies are not just to piss me off. The bad news is that they make money, lots of money, and people will always come from far and wide to sit through the tripe. Hell, even Indiana Jones and The Kingdom of the Shit Script (or crystal skull, something like that) made a shed load of dough.
I have to moan about these things before getting to the actual review. This disease is bigger than just one film. Bad scripting and hopeless direction frequently plague what should be a triumphant return to the big screen for old favourites. When one of these ideas is being penned, would it not be a sensible thing to sit down first of all, think about the history of the film, think about those that have grown up with it, those who made it a success in the first place by going to the cinema and buying the VHS and perhaps the soundtrack and other merchandising. Is it too much to ask for the writers to think, "Why don't we write a good movie to continue the franchise?".
There is also the case of studio involvement, when the money men get their teeth sunk in. Personally, I think the best example of this is in Terminator (I seem to have abandoned the review for now, but will endeavor to churn it out soon) where a small, curly haired, mute black kid keeps popping up, only to get shouted at every now and again and hands a few items to other characters. I reckon that this kid was originally in the script as a dog. Stick with me now, it makes sense- a dog doesn't speak and can fetch things just as well as any kid, and would fit a whole lot better into a post-apocalyptic environment. So here we have a case of some suit demanding a black kid instead so he can tick his minority boxes. Possibly to keep at bay the crazy Americans who would have seen this as a glaring affront to their civil liberties and tried to sue. Or something equally silly.
Sometimes the flip-side is true too, however, and a stale franchise is reworked to positive effect, bringing a fresh, more up-to-date approach. Films such as the recent Batman movies, Star Trek and even The Hills Have Eyes, but these exceptions are more re-envisioning of the originals, and its plain to see time and effort have gone into the story and a director who knows what the hell he's doing, and knows the previous movies is taken on board.
With so many more remakes and reigniting of franchises in the pipeline, I fear that my childhood and adolescent movie experiences will be further dented as time marches on. Sometime in the future, even the remakes of those great films will be remade. This is the way of the Hollywood machine I suppose, and anyway, the greatest hurt has already happened, the greatest betrayal that could have befallen a boy who grew up though the 1980's. The magic of Star Wars has been killed off well and truly and still they flog the corpse.
We can now put a name to this infliction.
We can call it George Lucas Disease.
Monday 1 June 2009
Fun and Games
Quick, think of a number between 1 and 20. Got it? Okay, multiply that number by by 13. Then take away the original number and add 24. With me so far? The original number that you had, if you halve that and add on to the new number (if it was odd, then round UP to get your figure to add). Now, keep in mind this number that you now have, we will be going back to it.
Now it gets a little tricky. Add up the ages of both your parents and divide that number by the amount of letters in your pets name (if more than one pet, use the oldest). With this total, subtract 5 and multiply by 29. Then add the other number to this total and subtract a quarter of the total of words in this post. All done? Now write that down, slip it into an envelope and mail it to someone who actually cares. I don't.
Now it gets a little tricky. Add up the ages of both your parents and divide that number by the amount of letters in your pets name (if more than one pet, use the oldest). With this total, subtract 5 and multiply by 29. Then add the other number to this total and subtract a quarter of the total of words in this post. All done? Now write that down, slip it into an envelope and mail it to someone who actually cares. I don't.
Saturday 30 May 2009
Vicious Cycle
Summer is here once more! The world finally steps out of the harsh shadow cast by that tyrant, Spring (lets face it, Spring is not like the poems and stories of old, all lambs jumping and grass growing. No, Spring is rain. All the bloody time. Miserable wet rain). The birds are now all singing their merry songs, beer gardens get to be pleasant places to sit again, and all the girls start wearing very little. Summer is here.
At this juncture I could point out that my job requires me to sit between the walls of a huge cave-esque building under neon tubes of fake light, while the rest of you folk dance and drink and bask under the loving rays of Mr Sun (no, not Yoshimoto Sun the Japanese entrepreneur, but rather the life giving Sun up on high who bathes us all with golden goodness) and sip all manner of alcoholic beverages to heighten the already exultant mood. But no. I will not go down that path. I will not moan or gripe or grumble in this post, the Sun lightens the mood and will not permit it. And besides, having read through my last blog, there was enough acidity and complaining to fill up the yearly quota on sourness.
I have recently purchased a mode of transport that will allow me to fully appreciate this wonderful season- the pride of Victorian England, the cheapest way to travel, friend to the environment: the humble bicycle. Well, maybe I shouldn't call it humble, the thing cost enough. Two wheels, an open road and a passion for the grand green canvas known in many walks of life as 'the country'. I can almost smell the fresh air as my mind pictures cycling through lush valleys filled with the sounds of nature. And then i remember I live in England and have to be content with the ceaseless thunder of cars and the unforgiving stench of exhaust fumes (Sorry, moaning again. Will try and curb it as much as possible but it just comes naturally).
The bike in question is a fantastic touring chap, a Kona Sutra 2008. Blue, for those that want to know. I would include pictures, but that may elevate this blog post from 'pointless' to 'really sad'. Maybe next time.
After a journey from the bustle of Manchester to the quaintness of Marsden, it is now a matter of some importance to invest in a few cycle accessories. Like a map. Got horribly lost at most points, and created more of a zig-zag route than a straight line. Also need a helmet to keep mothers consternation's down and possibly to avoid death.
At this juncture I could point out that my job requires me to sit between the walls of a huge cave-esque building under neon tubes of fake light, while the rest of you folk dance and drink and bask under the loving rays of Mr Sun (no, not Yoshimoto Sun the Japanese entrepreneur, but rather the life giving Sun up on high who bathes us all with golden goodness) and sip all manner of alcoholic beverages to heighten the already exultant mood. But no. I will not go down that path. I will not moan or gripe or grumble in this post, the Sun lightens the mood and will not permit it. And besides, having read through my last blog, there was enough acidity and complaining to fill up the yearly quota on sourness.
I have recently purchased a mode of transport that will allow me to fully appreciate this wonderful season- the pride of Victorian England, the cheapest way to travel, friend to the environment: the humble bicycle. Well, maybe I shouldn't call it humble, the thing cost enough. Two wheels, an open road and a passion for the grand green canvas known in many walks of life as 'the country'. I can almost smell the fresh air as my mind pictures cycling through lush valleys filled with the sounds of nature. And then i remember I live in England and have to be content with the ceaseless thunder of cars and the unforgiving stench of exhaust fumes (Sorry, moaning again. Will try and curb it as much as possible but it just comes naturally).
The bike in question is a fantastic touring chap, a Kona Sutra 2008. Blue, for those that want to know. I would include pictures, but that may elevate this blog post from 'pointless' to 'really sad'. Maybe next time.
After a journey from the bustle of Manchester to the quaintness of Marsden, it is now a matter of some importance to invest in a few cycle accessories. Like a map. Got horribly lost at most points, and created more of a zig-zag route than a straight line. Also need a helmet to keep mothers consternation's down and possibly to avoid death.
Thursday 26 March 2009
Bit of a Rant
D'you know what's rubbish?
A very pertinent question indeed, and even though I hear you audibly groan and think "Here he goes again", I shall persevere. What exactly am I talking about when I ask 'What is Rubbish'? Obviously I don't like much, that's pretty clear, but I am 30 years of age and feel inclined to have a go at things. Now, I could say 'everything' pisses me off, but that would make me the most miserable sod on the planet. Lots of things are rubbish though, and right now I would like to focus on one particular venomous swine. So like it or not, Simon is going to have a jolly good gripe.
The Tax Man. Even the most macabre scribe would fail to come anywhere close to this vile devil, a being so utterly despicable that children whimper in fear and grown men tremble and cry in his wake. Bizarrely, he even seems to be above the law, the thieving bastard. Think of it; I do my time between the walls, earning my way, doing my 40-odd hours per week. At the end of the month the wage slip comes along and instead of a merry "Good amount earned this time round, the first drinks are on me chaps!", the first frenzied exclamation is "He took HOW MUCH??!!". The 'He' in question is of course that foul smelling character, the Tax Man. Of course, Mr Tax Man himself states that the taxes are required to fund a great many public sector services, like the Police and the Fire Brigade and the NHS. Fair enough. I'll happily donate a portion of my hard earned wages to fund these vital departments. But if I am stumping up the money for them, why can't the government get their heads out of their asses and run them f***king properly?
Instead, mismanagement runs rampant, strange rules and guidelines are invented that hamper productivity and the country continues to go straight down the proverbial toilet. Youths clad in sinister tracksuit uniforms roam the streets spreading intimidation and destruction. Hospitals find themselves lacking supplies and beds, turning patients away and underpaying badly needed staff.
Before I go on, if anyone does come across this blog and decides to (God knows why) read the bloody thing, as a disclaimer to the comments stated here I would like to point out that I actually know bugger all about the workings of Taxes. I don't know the full extent of where they go, I don't know how the classifications are worked out and I certainly have no clue about the authorities behind them. All I know (and care about) is that someone somewhere takes a cut from my wages and I don't bloody like it. Mind you, along with other taxes, we still have to pay National Insurance too, which is a bit of a joke as the way the economy is headed, there won't be a state pension when I finally get round to retiring.
And what about the amount of tax payer money pumped into social services? Things like Job seekers Allowance. That really pisses me off. I am not proud to say that I once went on the dole before, times were tight and jobs were scarce, but I got the feeling I was getting the rough end of the stick because I was actually looking for a job. Far too many dossers sitting around all day and drawing on benefits (source material: tabloid newspapers). In my view, that is to say in the view of someone reasonably secure in employment, the Government needs to take a much firmer stand against anyone looking for a handout. You want free money because you can't find work? Screw you, look harder. You want free money because you can't work due to illness? Screw you, prove it. Easy. True, some people are genuinely incapacitated due to disabilities or injuries or the like, that should be reasonably straight forward to deal with, but everyone else can grab a shovel and start diggin'. Oh yeah, 'stress' and 'depression'? Not proper reasons. Go take a walk in the country and learn to goddamn smile more. (Disclaimer: once again, these views may not necessarily be the views of the blogger so don't hold me to them).
Well, I have spouted of a good deal, some of which which makes sense, some which doesn't, and some which will probably annoy a few folk. Nothing like a good rant. Next time, i think I'll have a pop at organised religion. Or rap music. I like this game.
A very pertinent question indeed, and even though I hear you audibly groan and think "Here he goes again", I shall persevere. What exactly am I talking about when I ask 'What is Rubbish'? Obviously I don't like much, that's pretty clear, but I am 30 years of age and feel inclined to have a go at things. Now, I could say 'everything' pisses me off, but that would make me the most miserable sod on the planet. Lots of things are rubbish though, and right now I would like to focus on one particular venomous swine. So like it or not, Simon is going to have a jolly good gripe.
The Tax Man. Even the most macabre scribe would fail to come anywhere close to this vile devil, a being so utterly despicable that children whimper in fear and grown men tremble and cry in his wake. Bizarrely, he even seems to be above the law, the thieving bastard. Think of it; I do my time between the walls, earning my way, doing my 40-odd hours per week. At the end of the month the wage slip comes along and instead of a merry "Good amount earned this time round, the first drinks are on me chaps!", the first frenzied exclamation is "He took HOW MUCH??!!". The 'He' in question is of course that foul smelling character, the Tax Man. Of course, Mr Tax Man himself states that the taxes are required to fund a great many public sector services, like the Police and the Fire Brigade and the NHS. Fair enough. I'll happily donate a portion of my hard earned wages to fund these vital departments. But if I am stumping up the money for them, why can't the government get their heads out of their asses and run them f***king properly?
Instead, mismanagement runs rampant, strange rules and guidelines are invented that hamper productivity and the country continues to go straight down the proverbial toilet. Youths clad in sinister tracksuit uniforms roam the streets spreading intimidation and destruction. Hospitals find themselves lacking supplies and beds, turning patients away and underpaying badly needed staff.
Before I go on, if anyone does come across this blog and decides to (God knows why) read the bloody thing, as a disclaimer to the comments stated here I would like to point out that I actually know bugger all about the workings of Taxes. I don't know the full extent of where they go, I don't know how the classifications are worked out and I certainly have no clue about the authorities behind them. All I know (and care about) is that someone somewhere takes a cut from my wages and I don't bloody like it. Mind you, along with other taxes, we still have to pay National Insurance too, which is a bit of a joke as the way the economy is headed, there won't be a state pension when I finally get round to retiring.
And what about the amount of tax payer money pumped into social services? Things like Job seekers Allowance. That really pisses me off. I am not proud to say that I once went on the dole before, times were tight and jobs were scarce, but I got the feeling I was getting the rough end of the stick because I was actually looking for a job. Far too many dossers sitting around all day and drawing on benefits (source material: tabloid newspapers). In my view, that is to say in the view of someone reasonably secure in employment, the Government needs to take a much firmer stand against anyone looking for a handout. You want free money because you can't find work? Screw you, look harder. You want free money because you can't work due to illness? Screw you, prove it. Easy. True, some people are genuinely incapacitated due to disabilities or injuries or the like, that should be reasonably straight forward to deal with, but everyone else can grab a shovel and start diggin'. Oh yeah, 'stress' and 'depression'? Not proper reasons. Go take a walk in the country and learn to goddamn smile more. (Disclaimer: once again, these views may not necessarily be the views of the blogger so don't hold me to them).
Well, I have spouted of a good deal, some of which which makes sense, some which doesn't, and some which will probably annoy a few folk. Nothing like a good rant. Next time, i think I'll have a pop at organised religion. Or rap music. I like this game.
Wednesday 18 March 2009
Post Paddy Blues
Ahh, the 18th of March. Not really anything to point out about it, it's not special or magical or unique (unless you are a big fan of Queen Latifa who turns a year older on this day of days), it could in fact be one of those days that just pass you by without making much of a fuss. However, the 18th of March comes right after the 17th of March (the more astute readers may have figured this out already, but there's nothing wrong with a bit of catchup for the rest. And the Americans) and the 17th is of course St Paddy's day, which means that today is probably one of the special days of the year when most of the western world is nursing one huge hangover.
And, despite promising myself to restrict the booze intake, I am no exception.
Now, where hangovers are concerned, I must say that I'm not too bothered about that thudding behind the eyes as long as I'm warm, have nice food and can lounge about for most of the day. Maybe even a trip to the supermarket. Brilliant places, supermarkets. Nice and bright with lots of colour, very safe and they don't even charge you to get in! Bargain! I especially love the condiments section, loads of bottles and jars and the like... I digress however, so to recap- hangovers are not so bad as long as the day is geared to the recovery.
But on the flip side of this coin we have days like today. Upon waking, you find that all the lights in the house are still burning bright, you did make it to bed but seem to have forgotten to get out of your clothes and the contact lenses that you have neglected to remove from your peepers are now quite dry and the eyes are starting to go 'a bit crusty'. Worse than that, you realise that work is imminent and the twelve hour shift will not magically disappear if you just stay in bed. So, unceremoniously throwing your world-weary bulk out of bed, its a quick dress (or a least as fast as the head will permit. And a good deal more swearing too) and out the door without a wash, breakfast or much in the way of sense.
Twelve hours is a long time. And when hungover, it's roughly five times as long (worked that one out with a very calculated equation). So the thing to do is make sure that everyone else knows you are hungover by moaning and griping and generally being a bitter and resentful person, so that they will wish, almost as much as you do, that you were not in work that day.
Oh, by the way, if my mum should be reading this, it's not about me, I definitely wasn't drinking last night.
And one more thing; with regards to supermarkets, I do love the places, but not the supermakets in Sweden. They are rubbish.
And, despite promising myself to restrict the booze intake, I am no exception.
Now, where hangovers are concerned, I must say that I'm not too bothered about that thudding behind the eyes as long as I'm warm, have nice food and can lounge about for most of the day. Maybe even a trip to the supermarket. Brilliant places, supermarkets. Nice and bright with lots of colour, very safe and they don't even charge you to get in! Bargain! I especially love the condiments section, loads of bottles and jars and the like... I digress however, so to recap- hangovers are not so bad as long as the day is geared to the recovery.
But on the flip side of this coin we have days like today. Upon waking, you find that all the lights in the house are still burning bright, you did make it to bed but seem to have forgotten to get out of your clothes and the contact lenses that you have neglected to remove from your peepers are now quite dry and the eyes are starting to go 'a bit crusty'. Worse than that, you realise that work is imminent and the twelve hour shift will not magically disappear if you just stay in bed. So, unceremoniously throwing your world-weary bulk out of bed, its a quick dress (or a least as fast as the head will permit. And a good deal more swearing too) and out the door without a wash, breakfast or much in the way of sense.
Twelve hours is a long time. And when hungover, it's roughly five times as long (worked that one out with a very calculated equation). So the thing to do is make sure that everyone else knows you are hungover by moaning and griping and generally being a bitter and resentful person, so that they will wish, almost as much as you do, that you were not in work that day.
Oh, by the way, if my mum should be reading this, it's not about me, I definitely wasn't drinking last night.
And one more thing; with regards to supermarkets, I do love the places, but not the supermakets in Sweden. They are rubbish.
Monday 16 March 2009
Still Here
Hey, guess what?
I have finally tracked down the username for this Blog and managed to log in!
We are now in the year 2009, I have turned 30 and the economy is heading straight to hell.
More posts are sure to follow...
Watch this space.
I have finally tracked down the username for this Blog and managed to log in!
We are now in the year 2009, I have turned 30 and the economy is heading straight to hell.
More posts are sure to follow...
Watch this space.
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