#StarWars: Imperial Red

Well, hello there; I made a thing. It's based around two of my favourite things in the world ~ Star Wars and beer...



…I didn't make the beer, I hasten to add. I left that to the experts. I just made the front-bit.

Back in the Summer months, I came across Wychwood Brewery's fantastic Imperial Red ale (that's the one in the background, there), my first thought being "…why isn't this a SW crossover product?" (the most obvious answer being that it's an alcoholic drink, and while Disney may be more than happy to take money to have the Star Wars logo stuck on most things, even they've got a line they won't cross).

So, using the Emperor's Royal Guard figure from Dave Dorman's iconic cover of Crimson Empire #1 as a starting point, I rebuilt the logo from scratch in Corel Draw, switching out the serif type for Shadow of Xizor, Bank Gothic and of course Aurabesh. Oh, and I should also point out that I redrew the central figure completely (see below), rather than just lassoing around it in Photoshop then banging a filter over the top ;) All that remains is to tuck an Imperial cog in there, and bang...



And here's that layer-by-layer buildup…



…and of course, it wouldn't be a Wychwood beer without a promo-shirt to collect the bottle-tops for, right?

So. Watch, read & play Star Wars.
And if you're partaking in a tipple while you do it, why not make it a bottle of Witney's finest?

Oh, and Wychwood, give me a shout, I'll e-mail you the final vectored artwork over ;)

DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.

193: Creativity Drive - Day Zero

CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.


I'm off work this week. I'm not going anywhere, but I've promised myself that I'll get rid of some brainworms by shoving them onto you lot. They're not anything major, just small graphical projects that have been circling around in my head, and I haven't had time to commit to making them. Until now.

So, I'll start a day earlier than planned with this...


Click for a bigger version (1467*2075px, 729kb). Opens in a new window.

You'd think of all the tie-in marketing possibilities for the Captain America movie, this would have been top of the list, wouldn't you?

---

Thanks are due to this week's B3TA Image Challenge for inspiring me to get it made.
More stuff tomorrow.
Thanks.


DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.

• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organizations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.

188: Unashamed Consumer Whore

CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.

At your local Saisbury's, right now.



• An 18-pack of Stella, £13 down from £18.
• Includes a voucher-code for a free DVD.
• I also had a voucher for double Nectar points.

Yeah, I'm a sucker for a front-of-store special offer.
But since I have a proven love of tramp-deals and free movies, what of it?*


* To be fair, I suppose it's only great if a) you like Stella, and b) you still watch DVDs in this hi-def age. Fuck it, I fit that bracket.

---

DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.

• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organizations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.

------------------------------

136: And hello from... home?

CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety.  Reader discretion is advised.

(or Goodbye Broons, Hello BROON!)



And so, from the city where my father was born, to the one where I was. I lived just outside Newcastle for the first few months of my life, then we moved to just outside Durham (around 13 miles south) and moved house a couple of times more over the years, but always stayed around Durham / Chester-le-Street. When relocated down to Kent in '93, it was easier just to tell people I was from Newcastle because a) it's technically true, b) a lot of people in the south have no fucking clue where Durham is, and c) if you say "County Durham" with a Northern accent, an alarming number of Southeners hear the word 'county' and an accent they can't place, then ask what part of Ireland that is. I wish I was kidding.

It's also worth pointing out that since the Tyne Bridge is on the label (and indeed, cap) of a bottle of Newcastle Brown, that visual reminder is what's stayed with me over the years, and I do get a little misty-eyed every time I see it in front of me (the bridge, not the beer. Well, actually…). So Newcastle is, from a certain point of view, home. Even though I only really know my way around the city centre. And even though I haven't spent any significant amount of time here for so long that everything in the city centre has changed, and there's not much need to know my way around.

We'll be doing a bit of the cultural thing here (and there's plenty of it), but I think what I'm looking forward to the most is catching up with friends, old and new. You'll hear about that.

---

The journey from Edinburgh to Newcastle was uneventful, by the way, other than a high percentage of rail passengers who are apparently unable to lock a toilet door. There was not only the woman who huffily and hurriedly closed the door in my face when I almost inadvertently revealed her to the people at that end of the carriage, but I saw this happen several times over a 90min journey. I can understand why she closed the door, of course, but I thought the angry sigh was a bit fucking rich. Don't take it out on me because you don't know how the lock works. I only hope she's learned her lesson and will in future either sing constantly at a loud volume throughout any toilet motions, or will perhaps phone her travelling companion from within the toilet and get them to confirm that the door is locked and the 'engaged' light is showing on the outside. Perhaps it would be easier for that companion just to accompany her and stand guard outside the toilet, letting prospective users know that "Sorry, there's someone in there, and she doesn't know how to lock the door. If you'd like to take your seat, I'll give you a shout when she's finished."

I shouldn't have a go just at this incapable woman though, because as I said, it happened to other people as well. Was the lock difficult to master? Did the lock require a coin, or a special key from the train conductor? Did you have to solve a puzzle from The Crystal Maze in order to activate the locking mechanism? Was there perhaps a troll or a wizard who asks you a question and won't lock the door without a correct answer?

No, none of these. You turn the handle round and the door locks, and a light comes on outside telling people they can't come in. It is, as the bastard meerkats on the television say, simples. With that in mind, it's amazing how you can convince the public they need insurance from an unfunny talking meerkat, when they can't lock a toilet door. This should tell you all you need to know about people, I think.

 
DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
 
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.

131: No Half Measures

CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.



So, first night in Edinburgh, a little tired from the travelling, and we didn't want to go too far from the guest-house. Looking at a map, we aren't too far from the Leith Waterfront, which we've been led to believe has been all redeveloped and that. So, rather than openly carry a map around in the early evening (may as well hold up a sign saying 'please mug me'), we judge the general direction and set off for a stroll.

I'm going to go out on a limb (an unresearched limb at that), and say that we had to walk through the old town before we got to the waterfront. We passed probably eight or nine pubs, none of which looked remotely safe. You know that bit in Trainspotting? "Pardon me, may I use your bathroom?" Yeah, all like that or worse.

All of a sudden, we came to a very respectable looking street of bars and bistros opposite the river, which we guessed is the waterfront. We looked over the bridge, but it seemed to go all residential and scary again, so we stuck to this street for the evening. After a walk up and down, The Shore looked worth a punt, and we popped in for a pint of 80/-. Well, I say popped in, we sat outside as it was packed. Looking at the well-to-do bar, Miss Magpie said to me before we entered "Do you think we'll be horrified by the prices?". To which I answered "I get the impression that in Leith, we'll either be horrified by the prices, or horrified by their knives. There seem to be no half-measures here." Friendly staff in The Shore, and two drinks were under £8, so it's already better than anywhere in London.



After being (politely) pestered by a man asking for money to feed his dog (and definitely not his habit), we headed along to a bar called The Waterline, and settled in with some Belhaven Rabbie (very much like Newcastle Brown). Again, a lovely bar, very friendly. A little more pricey than The Shore, but I was on bottled beer, so it's to be expected.

After a while, a pub-golf group came in. I've nothing against pub crawls, and this lot were well behaved, but they were in for ages. This seemed to suggest that as far as the "nice" pubs go, there really is just that street, and a large group of blokes in their mid-20's don't want to go into the regular pubs of Leith. I can't say I blame them.

An acoustic covers duo, The Jaywalkers started up, and we spent the rest of the evening watching them. Miss Magpie has started hearing things in Scotch, and when they introduced their rendition of Bob Dylan's Hey Mr Tambourine Man, she genuinely heard it as Hamish The Tambourine Man. I think it would be marvellous if all bands in Scotland had to adapt their cover versions to be overtly Scotch.

She asked if they knew any Del Amitri, and before you shout cliché, the singer said they only know one. He later said that he'd left the words at home so they couldn't do it. I was under the impression that any band playing within the boundaries of Scotland was legally obliged to know at least 80% of Del Amitri's back catalogue, but evidently not. That's like any band who plays London not knowing Chas & Dave songs, I ask you.

The Jaywalkers are very good, by the way, and seem wasted playing covers. They could quite easily have slipped some original songs into their set, but hey ho. So after a very chilled evening, we took a chilling walk back through the old town and briskly walked through a deserted Claremont Park to the guest house.

Day one? A success.

DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.

• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.

64: If I was half my age!

CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.


For those of you that don't know (and/or haven't worked it out yet), I live in the UK. I, like many people, moan about the weather, the health service, the postal service and the licensing hours. I, like most people who moan, don't actually mean any of it. I know that we're ridiculously priviledged in the UK. But we're British; we like moaning about stuff.

But there is one thing I'm still allowed to moan about. Stupid people. As well as variable-but-non-life-threatening weather, a free health service, and arguably the finest postal service in the world, we have a surfeit of thickos. As I've said before, I'm no rocket scientist, but I know my limits.

So let me get back to the licensing laws. In the UK, it's an offence to purchase, or attempt to purchase, alcoholic beverage if you're under 18 years of age. "Under 18 years of age." Despite all the hysteria in the Daily Mail, it's a strategy that's worked pretty well so far. It's also a bit of a wtf moment for me to realise that I've been enjoying the demon-drink legally for 18 years. I'm 36, you see. In terms of maturity, you could well believe otherwise, but I have actually spent 36 chonological years on this planet.

It's the anniversary of me and my good lady tomorrow (Hallow'een - how cool is that?), so after work today I popped into the local Sainsbury's for a bottle of fizz and some roses (yes, I'm that guy). As it's friday, and I had a list of things to do, I also picked up a Newcastle Brown for the completion of said list.



So there I am, basket in hand at the checkout, and the girl on duty cards me. She looks at the alcohol, looks at me, looks at the alcohol again (in case it's changed to pop?), and looks back at me. Then starts with:

"Do you have any I.D?"
"I'm sorry, say again?"
"Identification. For the alcohol"
"...Oh right, I'm sorry, I'm a little past that now, so I'm afraid I don't."

// she looks around arkwardly

"I haven't carried any I.D. for quite a few years now."

// she gestures for her line manager, who looks at the bottle, looks at me, and nods at the girl without a second thought. The transaction then goes ahead, and no-one has to get a slap.

I had initially thought that she meant she had to get clearance from her supervisor to sell me alcohol. If a checkout operator is old enough to work there, but under 18, they can't serve you without their line manager overseeing it. But no. She clearly thought that I was under the legal age to buy alcohol.

Many (most, in fact) stores in the UK operate the 'challenge 21' policy; whereby if a customer looks like they might be 21 or under, they get carded, just in case they're an 'old' looking 17yr old. Some stores operate 'challenge 25'. But the law is the same, 18 is the legal age to buy alcohol; 21 and 25 are just 'ballpark' points to ask customers for I.D.

Now, I'm not conceited enough to think that I'm a good-looking bastard, but I am aware that I look young for my age. Result of a stupidly-easy life I suppose. But do I really look that young? No. No I fucking don't. In order for me to break the law, I'd have to be LESS THAN HALF MY ACTUAL AGE. Even if I halfed my fucking age, I'd STILL be legal to buy alcohol. Could I pass for 30? More than likely. 25? Hmmm, on a good day possibly. 17? Fuck off.

Maybe she'd seen me browsing the Star Wars figures five minutes earlier? Not unless she's got eyes in the back of her fucking head, no. For fuck's sake. "She's just doing her job!", you cry. Well, I'll think you'll find her job entails a bit of common fucking sense, like thinking 'does this guy REALLY look like a nervous 17yr old?' Don't get me wrong, she was quite pleasant about the whole thing, and suitably embarassed afterwards, but for fuck's sake. The really stupid thing is that this isn't even the first time it's happened! It's about the fucking fourth! But each time, I'm a little bit older, and I figure the ongoing probability of it happening again is diminishing. Never bank on probability where idiots are involved.

There, that's better.

+++

And while I'm on;

Saw this in WHSmith today. It's a magazine/book detailing the backgrounds of two of the best loved comedians of the early 20th century...



The lighter side, you say? You mean the history of Laurel and Hardy that doesn't involve child-murder, bribery, corporate fraud and witchcraft? Oh great, I'm tired of reading about all that stuff. Mind you, they did pioneer the silent-film equivalent of Hostel, didn't they? They didn't? Oh.

+++

So, if I'm filling in a prize-crossword or quiz in a magazine, and I use one of these...



...then I'll win, no matter what I put in, right?

+++

Now, as you'll all know, "Save The Children" is a famous charity that does a lot of great work, and the British "Children in Need" appeal uses Pudsey Bear as its mascot, also to do excellent stuff.



...which makes "Pudsey save the children collection" sound like the money will go from the bucket and straight into someone's pocket. And as for "Refreshments proceeds to Epilepsy Charity"? At least have the decency to make a fucking name up before you keep my money!

+++



No comment about this one, it just made me laugh out loud in a public place. Didn't investigate the actual story in the magazine, I do have some dignity.

+++

I don't know if Mr. Glitter has seen the latest range of Star Wars celebration cakes, but I'd be grateful if someone could keep him distracted as he walks past these...




...because it's not that kind of special offer.

+++



Don't buy toys for your kids in Poundland. This one comes with two combs, a saddle and a FUCKING BLADE TO CUT YOU UP, YOU SLAG!

You've got to love the guy in the toy factory in China who says "It's okay, I know English, I'LL do the layout for the packaging..."

+++

And if you're not going to buy your kids' toys in Poundland, that means you've got more money left over for PR0N! Really. For one pound.




Yes, it really is; And no, of course I fucking didn't.
(Eagle-eyed viewers will notice a series of Laurel and Hardy DVDs next to the pr0n, this clearly is the 18-rated section, with their collection of Saw-prequels... I can't wait to learn about the lighter side of it all)

+++

Back on the old "restricted sale" items, these people have a policy in place...



...and I've got one too. I won't buy restricted items from people who use apostrophes for plurals and think the plural of knife is knifes (bizzarely, without an apostrophe).



Oh, and two windows down, they're at it again, with random apostrophage. And I don't know what a "computor" game is, but they sound dangerous.

+++

I know from looking at those it seems like I spend a lot of time in poundy-shops, but they are good for bubble envelopes and CD cases.

And that's been my "stupid world" this week. And I know I haven't stuck the whole 12-days thing with the Star Wars reviews. Work committments I'm afraid. Pfff.

Peace out, y'all!



DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.

• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organizations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.


DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.

55: A World Without Beer: Welcome Back...

CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.


It's alright folks, it's over. If you're not au fait with the full, sorry debacle, click on this link to catch up.



I'm off to get drunk now, see you guys later.

Feel free to leave comments below!


DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.

• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organizations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.

53: A World Without Beer: Week 14

CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.


Well, we're on the final stretch now, people! The end is in sight. Less than one week until this ridiculous self-imposed charade is over.

Ironically, I've kind of settled into the groove now. While I miss the idea of having a pint, I've been 'dry' for so long that I'm just sort of used to it. Not that it's going to continue. Unless something clicks in the next seven days, I haven't turned into that "actually, I think I'll just give up for good" person twat that I feared was round the corner.

As a result of me being unnervingly content, there's even less to write about it. Oh, I still really miss white wine. our lass had some the other night and it smelled fucking gorgeous. Looking forward to an ice-cold Pinot Grigio may be keeping me sane. Yes, I know how that sounds.

+++

In other news, I was walking out of Sainsburg's on Friday afternoon, and the guy in front of me was leaving with some dry-cleaning he'd collected. Now using my keen skills of assumption deduction, I noticed he was with his wife/girlfriend and was in fairly presentable clothes. Which is to say the pair of them were wearing casual, clean clothes.

I can hear you from here : "Well maybe he was picking his suit up? Or his dry-clean-only coat?"

Alas, no. He was picking up his army uniform. Not a dress-uniform, like an officer's suit or spangly-parade version; He was picking up his desert-camo gear. I could see it through the bag. Now I know that you're still scratching your head over there: "...and?"

It just set me wondering; how insanely impractical is it to have your military forces wearing dry-clean-only uniforms? Why didn't he just do it in the machine? He looked presentable enough, he's clearly got the facility to wash his own clothes. I'm fairly certain it was his uniform, as his build and hair would suggest he'd be in the armed forces. Even if it wasn't his, it was someone's.

I just don't think it gives off the fearsome-warrior impression if our guys are out in Basra, up to their necks in insurgents, and the sounds you hear in between the gunfire are a mincing "Ooh, look at that! Mud! I'll never get that out! I had to take these trousers back twice last week because of the blood! And he was going to bloody charge me again!"

While I'm sure that the uniforms can be dry-cleaned, I can't believe that they're dry-clean only. That'd just be fucking stupid. Now I know the next thing you're thinking: "Why didn't you go and ask him, then? There are two reasons:

One: The aforementioned thoughts cascaded over the next 5 minutes or so. We went in different directions after Sainsburg's, so by the time I'd reached the conclusion that it was fucking stupid, he was nowhere to be seen.

Two: Inevitably, the question would have worked its way down to me, a thirty-something unfit man, telling him, a thirty-something trained killer, that his choice of garment-cleaning was "fucking stupid". I have little doubt that it would have happened. Because when my twisted logic grabs me, real logic seems to go out of the window.

Fuck it, I'll never know. And neither will you.
...I need a drink.

DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.

• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organizations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.

36: A World Without Beer: Week 13

CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh lanugage and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.


Short one this week. Fairly uneventful until Saturday night when we went to a wedding reception. Yes, one of the social occasions, like Christmas, where you're expected to drink. Sickly-sweet diet Cola at the function-room bar it is, then. I was fully armed with my faux-excuse of "I'm on a three-month course of anti-biotics", because it's a shite-sight easier to offer that as an explanation all night than tell people why I'm really not drinking. I'm not ashamed, it's just not a 30-second tale.

As luck would have it, no-one* actually noticed (ie cared), or probably assumed there was some manner of spirit in my drink. *I say "no-one", and yet that's not true. My friend Bob did notice I was drinking coke, but that's because he's been reading my blogs. And because he knew exactly why I was drinking coke, I still didn't have to explain it!

I should take this opporunity to thank Bob for just accepting the situation, and not just looking at me and going "yeah, but why?" Like my brother-in-law. I explained (briefly) on Saturday afternoon about the 100 days, and he didn't seem to grasp the concept. Admittedly, part of my explanation was "because I'm an idiot", and he did grasp that part. It seems that, after the initial "it's an experiment and a challenge of self-will" part of the setup, if people aren't getting it; no further explanation is going to clarify matters. They look at you blankly like you're some kind of idiot. They're probably right.

To make matters worse, the wedding reception was also attended by a few of my old work colleagues (from the job I had up until Jan this year). While it was nice to see them and catch up briefly, extended memories of that place really make me want to drink. By 10pm, people were getting slurrier and it was time for us to head home. There's a more formal "reunion" coming up in October, by which time I'll be back to drinking and speaking my mind inappropriately.

I should also like to take this opportunity to congratulate Simon and Jenny on tying the knot. Simon seemed stressed/tired/pissed (in that order), and Jenny seemed de-stressing/tired (in that order), but for the most part, they both seemed happy, which is exactly what it's all about.

+++++

In other news, the new Europe album's a bit alright!



Which is probably as worrying as it sounds, yes. I'd put on Facebook a few months ago that I'd dug out Europe's 1988 album 'Out Of This World', and it wasn't as good as I remembered. Then, the same thing happened as did in 1988. I grew on me again. Sure, the production was a little 'light', the keyboards too loud, and Joey Tempest was in the room at the time of recording; but other than that, some sound riffs and melodies and nice songwriting. Next thing you know, it's permanently on my generic MP3 player.

The new album, Last Look At Eden, is a fast-grower. Sure, if you really don't like Europe, then it's probably best not to bother. But the production's a lot grungier this time round, which tones down the melodity to a more acceptable level. There's a lot of wah-wah pedal on here, and plenty of bass-driven riffs. It's undeniably Europe, but it's also quite mindful of Audioslave... with Joey Tempest singing.

You see, there's no way of toning down Joey Tempest, he just is. He's like the god-equation. You can remove him, but then you don't really solve the problem, you eliminate it all together. So if you can accept Tempest, give this one a go.



Click on here to watch the video. Normally I'd embed it, but that's been disabled on this vid, and quite frankly I can't be arsed to grab the video, re-upload it to my account, only to have YouTube pull it a couple of days later and quite possible suspend my account out of pure spite.

Click the link, 'tis good!




DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.

• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organizations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.

34: A World Without Beer: Weeks 11-12

CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh lanugage and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.


The end is in sight, folks. We're into september, and I can see Sunday 27th leering at me from my Mighty Boosh calendar. This time of year is usually reserved for me being a little more introspective, and thinking about the summer just past which (every year) I seem to spend most of indoors. September's sunny-but-cooler days bring that feeling of melancholy, literally transcribed in the title Last of the Summer Wine (a subtle title often overlooked with the distraction of three old men falling down a hill. In a barrel.). For some, it's a time for looking forward to Christmas and cosy nights in over the Winter months, but for the pessimistic bastard I am, it's been a time more for thinking about the things I didn't get done over the summer.

Anyway, fuck all that, I can start drinking again soon! I'm visiting my buddy this weekend, and we're finally going to have that pint for his birthday that we didn't have at the Zodiac the other week. Nothing too mad, honest, but I haven't been to Margate since I started this damned fool idealistic crusade, and I think he's got a bit of steam to blow off, so let's play it by ear, yeah?

+++++

In other (geekier) news, I popped into Toys'r'Us last weekend for the first time this year. Considering how many SW 30th Anniversary Collection figures I got over 2007-08, it's been a bit of a jolt to the system that I've only bought two action figures this year. That being said, given that I started the year unemployed, and spent the first eight months of the year temping for crap (read: better than no) money, it's probably not that surprising. The fact is that I can't really be arsed with the current output of Star Wars figures. There are a few in the A/W09 collection that I'll want, but I can't see them hitting these shores for a couple of months yet. The Clone Wars line is a littlg e to spindly for my liking, with too much articulation. The Legacy line (ie the movies and anything else outside of the CW line) is patchy. Some good figures, some bloody awful ones. For some reason, everyone at Hasbro seems to have forgotten what Mark Hamill looks like. The ones that are good, I've probably got earlier (often better) versions of anyway. They're also ferociously expensive. £8 is pretty ridiculous for a 3¾" figure; you can get larger scale Marvel and Doctor who figures for the same price, with the scupting being equally good (okay, sometimes better).

Don't get me wrong, I'm not giving up, there's just not too much there to hold my interest at the moment. But that doesn't deter me from other, great looking toys. I'll generally go for the 3¾" scale, just so I can stand them with my SW figures, and have some cool mash-ups. So, the only beauties which have caught my eye (ie wallet) this year are:



Mola Ram and The Terminator! Terminator's slightly under-scale, but still works pretty well. Since 1977, 3¾" figures have been practical on many levels: Cheaper to produce, cheaper to purchase, therefore you can make more and they have a greater "collector" mindset. Which leads to the problem with many 3¾" toy lines; Ultimately, the range of characters.

Where Star Wars has a rich spread of characters who look good in plastic, it's a sad fact that Pirates of the Caribbean, Indiana Jones, Harry Potter and Narnia just don't. You'll get two or three great figures from each line, and the rest will be mediocre at best. Terminator Salvation's a good example where the manufacturers couldn't secure the rights to Christian Bale's image, so his figure has a cloth over his face with goggles on top. For absolutely no fucking reason.



So, the cyborg based figures were okay, the human ones were pretty drab, and the only real corker was the one you see above.

Indy's only slightly better. The figures look good, but the characters themselves aren't that interesting, outside of Dr Jones and his main adversaries. Sales got so low that Hasbro has actually cancelled the line now. I thought I wasn't going to get Mola Ram at all for a while, there.

So, there's a picture of where I am. No beer, no coffee, and not much in the way of toys. Maybe I should take up fannying about with cars..?



DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.

• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organizations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.

31: A World Without Beer: Week 10

CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.


"Week 10" or "Spot The Difference"...



Woah-oh, we're two thirds of the way there,
Woah-oh, living on no be-er.
Jon Bon Jovi, Livin' on a Prayer, first draft, 1984.


The end of ten weeks without booze (well, almost. Y'know...), and a revelation seems to have hit me. No, it's not that "better man" shite I was worried was going to happen, I'm still as annoyed with the world as ever, and I still want a pint.

It wasn't the beer at all!

Remember back at the start of this when I said that hopefully a hundred days without alcohol would, amongst other things, clear my skin up a little? It became apparent at around week three that it wasn't going to happen. Not acne, just spots. The condition of my skin was as irrational as ever. As irrational as say... my caffeine intake?

It varies from day to day, but rarely a day goes by without caffeine of some description (read: Coffee in the mornings, Diet Coke/Pepsi in the evenings). I find I'm pretty much "on fire" after three coffees, which is helpful for work.

So, it occurred to me after a series of mornings waking up with a face like a 14yr old, that I had been drinkng a lot of coffee recently. Not as a replacement for alcohol, just because I like coffee. So I figured I'd try cutting the caffeine over the last week. And it seems to have worked. Not perfect, but a hell of a lot better, certainly.

It wasn't the beer at all! It was the coffee!

I've had no noticable withdrawal sypmtoms. Although I'm fairly irritable at work anyway, coffee or not :P Haven't had any headaches either. It's not like I was drinking 20 cups of coffee a day, but combined with the Diet Coke it was probably bordering on "too much".

Of course, I'm constantly tired now. Especially from when I wake up until around 1pm. And I don't seem to be sleeping any better for it. My better half will attest to me having strange dreams and shouting in the night a couple of times this week. So if that's not the coffee, and not the beer, and I don't do gaming in the evening at the moment... who fucking knows? We'll solve that problem when we get to it.

It also doesn't solve the problem of "I like coffee". I may have to trial a safe level, which could take a while.

+++++

I will, of course, finish the run of 100 days off the booze. A clearer complexion wasn't all I was looking for, although I'm going to have to work out more. I seem to be a little slimmer, but haven't lost any weight. Explain that.

I've just calculated that I'm 66 days into the hundred as I write this, which is pretty cool. Take two of those out as gratis days, and add another one on, and I've got 37 days to go. Sweet.

I'm off now to drink some water. Whoopee.




DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.

• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organizations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.

28: A World Without Beer: Weeks 7,8+9

CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.



I know, I know, three bloody weeks. Hardly Samuel Pepys, am I? I wanted to do an entry at the end of Week 8, but I went to see Natalie on Thursday night, then Friday morning was off to Bournemouth with no internet access (so little point in taking the laptop). Anyway, I'm here now.

As you can see from the small-but-beautiful image above, the previous three weeks have included one of my gratis-days, where I get a brief escape from my self-imposed alco-exile.


There was a distinct possibility of slapping two into the previous weekend, as Mr Reed was accompanying me to Natalie Imbruglia's warm-up gig at the Zodiac in Oxford. As one of the three escape-days happens to be his imminent birthday, and as I won't be in Broadstairs for his birthday, he'd suggested using the Nat gig as an alcoholic celebration.


As it turns out, he drove there and back, so there was no alcohol to be had. He'd said "well, we could have one pint?", but I pointed out that if I was to use up one of my precious gratis-days, it wasn't going to be for one fucking pint of lager. The bar at the Zodiac isn't even that good. It would also have meant having two days in very close proximity, as one was scheduled for Bournemouth. Not so much a problem in itself, but I'd then have to go booze-free from the 10th August to the 27th September; and that might be too much for my fragile soul to bear.

So yeah, Natalie did a fine show. The set was a little on the short side, but it was a warm-up for the V Festival, and those sets always are. It took her voice three or four songs to warm up, and unfortunately Torn was within that bracket, but once she'd played that, most of the dickheads surrounding us no longer had a need to be at the front, which made the rest of the set more relaxed for others like me. By "like me", I am of course referring to the fact that I can't fucking stand people. Individuals can be okay, but crowds of baying morons, pissed, sweating and brushing against me just pisses me off. Especially when I'm on the diet coke.

Anyway, can't complain. Had a great night, and was reminded how obnoxious drunk people can be, which made me feel superior for not being one of them. (It didn't, it made be want to be one of them.)

+++++


Next up was Bournemouth. Had a really nice short-weekend there last year, so we went down for a long-one this year. The weather held up again, so I was out in the sea on Saturday and Sunday, proving to myself that my swimming skills are practically non-existent. And as much as I may look in the mirror and grumble about my beer-belly (which is inexplicably still there), I was able to look around the beach and realise that I'm actually quite a skinny bastard. Compared to some of those sights anyway. Christ. After witnessing various things which should not be squeezed into lycra and paraded in public, I needed that well deserved drink...


Beautiful. No, not my sunburned face (although certainly the wisely-kept-in-the-shade, face of my fianceé), more the several bottles of Newcastle Brown which I imbibed on Saturday night. I say several because I can't remember if it was five or six. To be fair, I was worryingly un-pissed after those. I could certainly feel I'd been drinking, but I wasn't falling over and being sick. This proves to me that I hadn't built up the alcoholic's resistance to drink that people go on about, but that I'm just hard as nails when it comes to The Brown.

We also got a free bottle of Magners from their promo people doing the rounds of the pubs. The young lady came over to our table and asked "Would you like a free taste of Magners this evening?". Being the suspicious cynic that I am, I replied "No, I'm fine thanks", thinking it would be a thimble-sized glass from the bottle she had with her.
Our lass, on the other hand, was more quick thinking and responded "Oh, I will, thanks", upon which the lady with the tray left us with the full bottle and a pint glass. Fucking result! Our lass doesn't even drink cider, so guess who had to polish that one off?

While I wouldn't class myself as "pissed" that night (although I almost certainly was drunk in dictionary-terms), what I did experience was that immense wave of relaxation that I've been missing for so many weeks. I didn't care about all of the pissed dickheads in the pub that night, and any trace of a hangover that may have been around on Sunday morning was very quickly relegated after the fried breakfast at the hotel we were staying in. We had a great weekend, and it was good to be away from everything (even without any internet to distract me), with gorgeous weather for a few days.

Drink is good for you. The next six weeks aren't going to be easy.

Still, other amusing things I saw in Bournemouth:


The brass band was playing in the park, with people sitting in deckchairs and listening happily or snoozing away. This old lady, however, was going to spoil everything by stumbling to her feet, groaning, then biting the closest people to her; thus precipitating the zombie-plague of Bournemouth '09. Just think of all that un-guarded flesh on the beach, they'd have a fucking field-day!

Seriously though, who sleeps like that? My fianceé actually went and checked she was breathing. I wasn't going to do it; that's when their eyes snap open and they bite you...



Taken at horribly lo-res because I wanted to send it from my phone without sapping my bandwidth. Here we have the cheekiest tramp in Bournemouth. He looks trampy enough, with old, weathered clothes, sun-baked skin and yellow (which should be white) hair. So the fact that he's pushing a brand-new mountain bike, complete with pristine messenger-bag on the back, clearly makes him a thieving bastard. He was walking quite leisurely with the bike, perhaps so's not to draw too much attention to himself as he left the promenade and headed for the town centre. Although in doing this, he was leaving himself more prone to the legitimate owner of the vehicle finding him and battering him to death with the record-bag.
Bournemouth didn't seem to have a high tramp-population, but the ones that were there, were proper old-school tramps!

+++++

And that's about it really. The week since we got back from Bournemouth has been relatively event-free, although I've just moved over from the agency I've been working for, directly to the company themselves. I'm still a temp, but I'm in a better position than I was. Nothing more to report.

I'll be back in a few days with another crazy idea or theory which makes you wonder if I actually am still drinking...





DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.

• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organizations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.


DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.

27: Balls to infinity...

CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. This particular one also includes badly (if at all) researched scientific theories. Reader discretion is advised.


Maybe it's seven weeks without drinking, or maybe it's because this is how my mind works anyway, but I was thinking the other day about infinity.

Well, I say thinking, it crossed my mind. In the words of Bruce Dickinson, infinity really is hard to comprehend. I'm sure you don't need me to tell you that it's not an actual number
.
If someone gave you a billion biscuits once a second for twenty years... you'd still be nowhere close. Although you'd probably be sick of biscuits.

Anyway, the thing playing in my mind was that playground argument that most kids have done (including myself):

: I've seen Star Wars 10 times.
: I've seen Star wars 100 times.
: Well I've seen it infinity times
: I've seen it infinity-plus-one times
: aahahahah! you knob! there's no such thing as infinity-plus-one!

Because even child-logic manages to grasp that if infinity can't be defined as an actual number, you can't possibly add a number on to it. Can you? I think we can do the next best thing...

+++ +++

For today's exercise, we're going to create a ball. A red ball. We're going to create it out of whatever we can find to make it tough, because it's going to last forever. Don't ask how, it just will.


There's our ball. Date-stamped at midday today. This ball will outlast the earth, the galaxy and even the universe itself. Like I said, don't ask how, because for the purposes of this exercise, the ball is going to be chronolgically-infinite; and if this ball can't be, then neither can anything else.

So, our ball has a fixed "start-point" in universal time. Before 12:00 today, it didn't exist. After 12:00 today, it did. 60 minutes after we make the red ball, we're going to make a blue one. Same materials, same properties, just a different colour.


This blue ball will also last forever. Same rules as above. We now have two balls (...quiet at the back), one an hour older than the other one; and that's the key.

If we come back to them tomorrow at 1pm, we can see how old they are:



As time is flowing smoothly, they've both existed at the same rate, and the red one is still an hour older than the blue one. Of course, at this point they're both roughly a day old. If we come back to them in a year...



And obviously, the red ball is still an hour older than the blue one. Of course, these are just snapshots of how they looked at any one point in time. The balls can't be said to be "infinite" yet, because they're both only a year(ish) old. This problem will be inherent in any snapshot we take because, as we identified earlier, we can't stop at "infinity" to take a picture - the number doesn't exist. But by now, I think you know where I'm heading with this.

So what we'll have to do next is make a statement, rather than a snapshot. Like I said, these balls will exist forever. We know that, because that's how we created them.



Although both balls a chronologically "infinite", the red ball will ALWAYS be one hour older than the blue one. Although the blue one will go on forever, the red one has been around longer. Can this be defined as "infinity-plus-one"?

Again, we're assuming there that infinity can be defined as a solid number. Although, to be fair, we're assuming that the balls will survive the end of the universe. As popular theory suggests the universe is 13.7 billion years old (which isn't a lot when you write it down), it seems silly to assume that it won't end at some point. And as we don't know what happened before the creation of the universe, we have no idea what will happen after it. Where do all the balls go?


Another way to look at it would be to suggest that as the balls have different-but-fixed starting points, they aren't truly infinite. Using the above exercise, any infinite object that was created before them would be older, and therefore "more infinite". Using that logic, the only infinte objects would be those that have always existed. Namely, objects that don't have a starting point, in the same way as the red and blue balls don't have an ending point. This would make the "original-infinite" objects older than the physical universe. If we could find one of these objects, we'd arguably have a way to find out what existed before the universe began.

But that's all wildly theoretical, of course. We haven't found an infinite object yet, and it seems a safer bet to assume that infinity can't exist, by its own definition.

...imagine the things I think about when I have been drinking.
Balls to it.





DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.

• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organizations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.


DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.

• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organizations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.

25: A World Without Beer: Weeks 5-6

CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.




Pfff, six weeks. About half way I reckon, maybe just under? Being sober for this long has been the most boring part of my life to date. Not that I haven't enjoyed it, like, but I can't say that it's added anything to my life that wasn't already there.

It was my better-half's birthday last week. She went out with some friends for a few jars after work, and while I was allowed to drink, I just didn't fancy a night out. So, we ended up destroying several bottles of wine on Saturday night. I felt it kick in almost immediately.

I didn't get smashed, but I felt myself getting louder and sillier. As predicted, I also felt a... relaxation I'd been missing. But that said, it was still just a few glasses of wine with the in-laws, round at our place. No biggie, just a welcome break in the proceedings. I also slept late as usual on Sunday, so no trace of a hangover when I finally got up.

As I write this it's over a week later and I'm back to "not actually missing it that much". I'd still fucking love a bottle of Brown, but it's not on my mind all the time.

+++ +++

In other news, I've set up my Twitter account, and set up a new MySpace for me (as opposed to the band). Both of which social-networking ventures strike even me as unusual as I'm the most anti-social person I know. And no, I'm not self-centered enough to think that people care what kind of sandwich I'm having for lunch, it's more for me stalking celebrities etc, and for the promotion of...



Oh Yes! The boys from Denton are back! Bowling For Soup's new single, My Wena, precedes their album Sorry for Partyin', due out late September. I snagged a couple of VIP tickets for their show in Margate in October, which will be the seventh time I've seen 'em live.

If you haven't heard any Soup past Girl All The Bad Guys Want, I heartily recommend you pick up any album that's in the store. I find them all equally accessible, and while it's true that they've "got their own sound", I enjoy all of their stuff without it feeling repetitive (...last Oasis album anyone?).

BFS Official Site
YouTube page
Amazon & Play.

Between the current flurry of BFS activity, and all of the Clone Wars news coming out of San Diego Comic-Con, the internet's keeping me fairly busy at the moment.

Too busy to miss beer? Who knows...




DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.

• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organizations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.

24: A world without Beer: Weeks 3-4

CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.



Well, I thought i'd combine weeks three and four so that there's at least one less post with me whining about wanting beer. Besides, not a lot really happened last week, as I'm so busy with work I almost don't have time to get blisteringly drunk. Not that I don't want to.

So, I'm now four weeks into this self-imposed exile, and I would willingly sell my left leg for a bottle of Chardonnay. Which I'll admit is bizarre as I'm actually choosing to abstain, and technically I could drink whenever I like.



It's not that I'm itching to get drunk as such, it's more that I'm just so bored of being sober. Me and my better half popped down to Exeter last Sunday to catch up with my sister. So we walked around the town centre for a bit, then went into a Wetherspoons for something to eat. So there's me on diet Pepsi, my sister on J2O (as she's expecting a wee-one), and our lass went for the Brown. Even then I wasn't that tempted to cave in and have a pint, especially when I looked around the pub at the slurring, giggling dickheads. (Note: I'm not condemning all people who drink as those dickheads, or even all W'Spoon customers, it just happened to be full of the kind of people that give daytime drinking a bad name). I'm not itching to break the fast, just for the fast to be over.

It's my lass's birthday next Friday, so I get to have share a bottle of fizz or some-such with her. I'm looking forward to that, mainly because it'll feel like the first time in a month I've actually relaxed. Another dry week to get through first though, and I may well end up killing someone at work in that time. What's the deal with smuggling alcohol into prisons these days? I know they say drug-use is still a problem, but I'd imaging a few grams of coke would be easier to get past security than three litres of Jack. I seem to recall Lizzie on Prisoner: Cell Block H used to be able to get her grog okay, but I daresay the methods of smuggling alcohol into a women's prison in 1970's Australia are somewhat different from those at Parkhurst.



+++ +++

In other news, Oxford City Council have made me laugh out loud at work this week, as I read the following story:

http://snipurl.com/mnwaf

"Suicides prompt closure of Oxford car park's top storey

Three people have died in the past 18 months after going to the sixth floor of the 100ft car park at the Templars Square shopping centre, in Cowley.
Barriers are now being installed to stop people walking or driving to the top storey, while there is also a sign advising anyone feeling depressed or suicidal to contact the Samaritans charity."


That sounds like a sensible idea, doesn't it? It's obviously distressing for people working and living around there, and if you can maybe stop someone from taking their own life just that one time, it may well be enough to delay it until they can seek help/guidance? It's not foolproof of course (they may well just decide to jump off the fifth floor), but the intention is there. I wonder where they've put the sign up?



OH LOOK! It's on the wall of the top level. The wall that someone will have had to climb over a barrier to get to. I think that after all that effort, they might just jump anyway.

These thoughts occurred to my cynical mind, but weren't the part that made me physically laugh out loud. The preemptive strike at people moaning about the shortage of parking spaces did though:

"However, these barriers will be removed at the busier trading times of the year, such as Christmas."

...words fail me. They obviously haven't had a conversation with the Samaritans that lasted long enough for them to be told that Christmas is one of their busier times, and not so much the height of summer. Still, if the suicidal community of Oxford would like to wait until December, maybe they could all go up to Level-6 together, hold a carol service on the ledge, then all leap off together singing the final line "...and a partridge in a pear tr-..."

I should point out that the venom of the last statement was directed at the fucking genii who thought up this life-saving plan, not those unfortunate enough to find themselves staring at the shoppers of Cowley from a great height, and don't have to worry about the choice between the stairs and the lift going back down...

And on that cheery note, I'm off to play Battlefront: Renegade Squadron with my nephew for several hours, so there will be carnage, even if it's not alcohol based.



A bottle of Brown, or an Imperial-issue Flechette rifle. Either/or, really...



DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.

• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organizations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.

20. A world without Beer : Week One.

CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.



Yes, I gave beer a capital letter. It's like a friend, it means that much to me. I started (properly) drinking in about 1990, at around age seventeen. Yes, I'm that old. Seventeen is actually fairly 'late' by today's standards, and things were no different back in the day. But I looked a young-seventeen (as today I like to think I look a young thirty-six), and trying to get served in pubs before that age just wasn't going to happen. I started on Cider because Lager, Bitter and Ale all tasted foul, and spirits would just be stupid. I don't recall any 'alco-pops' in 1990, but I believe Bacardi-Breezers were new in 1993? A good friend weaned me onto the Brown (...Newcastle Brown Ale, not heroin) in 1991, and when I moved down south in '93, I figured that would be a good time to start on the Lager. I already had an on-off relationship with Jack, but that's another blog.

It's not that I consider myself an alcoholic or anything, but I've always had a healthy fascination with booze, and I'm always keen to find new limits and combinations. I don't enjoy being drunk, you understand; but I fucking love getting drunk.

Anyhow, it is with a heavy (and sober) heart, that I am writing about my latest stupid experiment: No alcohol for 100 days.



Yes, you read that right, and no, I'm not sure that I do know what the fuck I'm thinking. But I'll give it a go. I've had a month-off on many occasions, but it gets easier each time. I even did two-months at one point. But it's been a good-long-while since I took any time off, and I feel like a challenge, dammit! Richard Herring did the same thing last year, but I'm not sure if his hundred were intentional, or if he just gave up at that point.

I should point out now that I've made some concessions;
• My fianceé's birthday in July
• One of the nights when we're having a short holiday in August
• My best buddy's birthday, also in August.

Now, the fact that I'll be drinking on those days does NOT mean that they'll be a 24-hour, Amaretto-fuelled blitzkrieg, just that I'll be enjoying a refined drink in good company. Well, thinking about the third one on the list, who knows? I'll have to monitor that one.

+++

Of course when I'm not drinking, I end up explaining it to bemused people far too often, and usually end up telling people I'm on antibiotics. It's just easier sometimes.

I also get what is now a classic question from people who don't quite 'get it': "Oh, but you can have one beer, can't you?
...Yes. I can have one beer in the same way that a Muslim can have one sausage.

I could have twelve beers if I wanted to, and on any other night, I just might - but just not for the next (insert seemingly insane number here) days.

...I'm just getting that one out of my system now, because it's bound to happen.

+++

One of the great things about no-beer, is you suddenly have the mental wherewithall to get stuff done. I've got a fucking mountain of jobs that I've never got finished; four PTN videos to edit, that Doctor Who/GTA artwork to complete my GTA trilogy, getting the last Mark&Lard show onto CDs with tracks in the right places, the list is ridiculous.

Not that I'll suddenly get an extra four hours magically inserted into every day, of course, but I'll be less inclined to lose time by having a beer and playing Vice City Stories. Although I'm not giving up VCS, that'd be really stupid, so there's always that avenue of procrastination to lose myself down.

Which is good, because one of the pain-in-the-arse things about no-beer is having to think all the time. I don't know how some people cope without that 'Standby' switch.

Still, at the end of it all, I'll save a bit of money, lose a bit of weight, and might actually be a better person for it.

+++

So, the last day I had a drink was on Monday the 15th June (because the PTN festival ran past midnight on Sunday). And I haven't re-done the maths with the three concession-days, but I think it's late September when I can get trolleyed again. 25th-ish? I'll work it out.

When you're taking a month off, the first week and the last week are the hardest. The two in between are relatively easy, because in the first week, your body (and mind)'s almost in shock at losing its regular "get me the fuck out of here" drug. In the last week, that beautiful bottle of Newcastle Brown you've kept in the fridge for a month is like a light at the end of the tunnel; a life-preserver to a drowning man.

I honestly can't say what this is going to be like, but I'll keep you informed. Probably with belligerent rantings, when I'd sell my own family for a can of Skol, but hey.
At the moment it's been less than a week, and everything's cool. It felt a bit weird to finish early on a Friday and not pick beer up on the way home, but I had quite a bit to do so once I was home it wasn't an issue. Ho-hum.

Whatever doesn't kill me makes me stronger.

...well, apart from a stroke, obviously.




DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.

• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organizations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.