CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
It's 10pm, just getting dusky and I'm out in the garden. There's a hedgehog down the bottom there eating some dog food my better half put out for it. It's been blisteringly hot today, so it's gorgeously cool right now. I don't expect you to be bothered by this, I'm just setting the scene.
I am, of course, enjoying all of this sans-alcohol. [sigh]
Actually, truth-be-told, I've had hardly anyof the usual withdrawal pains. I put a bottle of white in the ice-box for our lass on Friday, and pouring it for her, it almost had that sweet/pungent aroma that daytime alcoholics have about them. It wasn't trampy wine either, it was JP Chenet (you can argue amongst yourselves regarding the tramp-level of various wines), so I figure that's just my brain over-compensating and telling me that even the nice alcohol is evil. Mind, she had a bottle of Weston's Cider on Saturday, and it smelled fucking gorgeous, so I don't know what my brain's doing there.
I'm usually at least craving a pint, but even in this heat, and even getting frustrated as I do with some of the dickheads at work, I'm... strangely fine. Of course, I haven't been to a pub yet. Years ago when me and my best-buddy used to take a month off, we'd go along to our locals on a Saturday night and take the piss out of people as usual, drinking pints of Coke all night. All well and good, but it gets horribly fucking depressing at around 10:30, when everyone's pissed and you're not. It didn't take us long to knock pubs on the head when we weren't drinking.
A bit like on Eastenders and the like when you'll get people popping into the pub for an orange juice, because their character doesn't drink. I know they're trying to advance the narrative, but that doesn't fucking happen.
Anyhow, by my calculations I'm due to start drinking in earnest once more on the 27th of September. There's a nagging voice at the rear of my brain suggesting that come that fateful Sunday, I'll be the one to say "Actually, I won't bother. I'm a better person without the filthy drink. I've turned over a new leaf, and I'm going to preach to everyone about it!" I mean, I can't actually imagine myself being that twat, but I'm disturbed that 15 days into my abstinence, I've had barely a passing thirst for the Devil's piss.
Fuck it, you have my word, here and now, that on Sunday 27th September 2009, I shall have beer for breakfast. I may actually cave in and go rabid at midnight on the Saturday, who knows.
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In other news I've been spending my time (as predicted) either at the cinema or on my PSP. Reviews I'll be posting up shortly: • Transformers • Terminator Salvation • The Hangover • Year One
All enjoyable, but at very different levels.
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In other, other news, Michael Jackson died last week (as you've probably heard - if not, sorry for breaking it to you like that). Can't say I was a huge fan of his, in fact the only album of his I bought was Bad.
The news was breaking in the UK at around 9pm on Thursday, and by Friday morning, the media was on fire. By about 10am on Friday morning, I was sick of the whole circus, and I hadn't even had the TV or radio on - this was just from people talking about it and reactions on the internet. Oh, and...
By 10am I'd had 19, yes NINETEEN jokes texted through to me. It petered out after that so that by the end of the day it had been around 30. I didn't bother to forward any for the reasons I'll get onto in a moment. My best mate texted me commenting that it was a sad day. I agreed with him, and said that it's always a sad day when someone dies that was loved; but I was torn between disgust at the rabid fans that had never met the guy, crying like one of their own children had died - and disgust at the same old tired fucking jokes being trotted out AGAIN. The jokes fell into three categories: • He's white, not black • He bums children • He's had plastic surgery
The validity of these claims aside, it's the same shit that gets hauled out every time he's in the news. It's not a lack of respect for the recently-deceased that galls me, (I send the sickest jokes with the best of'em), it's the lack of imagination that's making Orange, Vodafone and O2 a shitload of cash in the middle of a recession. Later in the day jokes started to incorporate Farrah Fawcett and 'blame it on the boogie', which, while more amusing, are still pointless to forward on to people when 18 million people are circulating the same joke.
As heartless as it may sound, I'm not really bothered about the whole thing. He was good at what he did, which is all I really want from any person, but it's not like he found the cure for cancer, y'know?
Anyhow, after relating the above to my mate, he told me I should get back on the beer as soon as possible, as he can't cope with me talking sense all the time. I certainly put it down to the lack of alcohol; it seems to have levelled out any mood-swings I might have had by making me permanently fucking annoyed with the world.
As they say in the Jedi Temple: My glass isn't half-empty... it's FUCKING empty.
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.
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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
Sorry I haven't been on lately, work's gone a bit mad (or rather, I've gone a bit mad at work), and I just haven't had the time. The world, however, has carried on being stupid in my absence.
I'll admit now that a cameraphone is very handy for capturing the things that make you scratch your head and go "WTF? I'm on a Samsung D900 at the moment. It's got a shit lens, and I mostly keep it at a lo-res as it's easier to send MMS pics that way. What I'm trying to say is that some of the pics aren't great, but you'll get the idea.
What follows isn't earth-shatteringly puzzling, but how are we supposed to take care of the big questions in life when the minutiae makes no fucking sense? Come on reality, sort your shit out.
Are you going to burn it or not?
Now, as usual, I know what they're trying to say, but someone was employed to write the copy for this sign. There's a dye device in the machine which will stain the money in the event of machine-tampering, rendering it unspendable in (sensible) shops and banks. But that's not "completely destroying" it, is it? What the sign implies, to me, is that if you have a go at the machine with a screwdriver or a bulldozer, the cash, the machine and the surrounding area (probably about a half-mile radius) will be incinerated... and you along with it. So it seems a bit of a waste of time "making it all red" it first, surely?
(Oh, and they've given "dye" a capital D for no apparent reason, and it just seems wrong without a full stop at the end - an exclamation mark would be even better)
Underground delight
They're putting a new foul sewer in. ...as opposed to a bright, fluffy, sewer with fairly lights on it.
In, out, shake it all about
Why would I need to know about this as I'm driving along? In case I acidentally veer off onto this side-road, confused by the lack of signage? Or maybe, just maybe, they mean I should be cautious of vehicles coming from this unknown region, and onto the same carriageway as me? In which case, the words "Concealed EXIT" would be more useful, I think.
Pointless charity appeal
Take a look, this is happening next week. It's a charity truck-pull to aid the family of a British soldier killed in Afghanistan last year. No problem with that whatsoever. A few points though... • The truck's going to be empty, and it'll be pulled by the whole regiment. It's not like Geoff Capes in the 70's or something. • They'll have collection-buckets with them for the people cheering them on to donate to a worthy cause. Only... someone's organised this on a THURSDAY, when most people are going to be at work, and the only people there to cheer them on will be the spiritually-crushed unemployed who can't really be giving that much cash away anyway. They might as well be getting the local Cub Scouts to pull a cart through a ghost-town.
***** EDIT - TWO DAYS LATER ***** Thinking about it, I've come to the conclusion that it's a general lack of excitement that's my problem here. They're pulling a bomb-disposal truck, so this could be solved one of two ways.
• The truck is armed with a time-bomb, and the only person who can diffuse it is back at the barracks, so they've got to make it in a certain timeframe. • The truck is armed with a bomb like the one in Speed. We don't have to go daft, just set the trigger-limit at 4mph, so that if they stop or slow down dramatically... Just a thought... ***** END OF EDIT *****
But good luck to them anyway (seriously). And speaking of the army...
Two layers of pointless uniform
Don't get me wrong, I don't mind the army - they do I job I couldn't do for many reasons. It seems to be being run by some kind of dickhead though. The guy above is patrolling the local barracks. You can see he's wearing a Hi-Vis waistcoat, with his regular camo-gear. What's the point of that? They're just cancelling each other out and he's perfectly visible without standing out. They might as well just let him come to work in jeans and a cardigan. Speaking of jeans...
Free clothes? Really? :|
Saw this in Sainsburg's (oh yes, they of the beer-maths monstrosity). Now, in any clothes shop it wouldn't stand out, but Sainsburg's do those heavy-duty carrier bags where you pay 10p, and they replace it for free when it wears out. They (and many other supermarkets) call this scheme "a bag for life".
So am I to assume that if I buy a pair of jeans here, they'll replace them when they're on the way out? Yeah, I don't fucking think so, either.
The Megadeth cruet set?
Saw this recently in the window of an independent furniture shop. Nothing outstanding here is there? A pretty standard range of standardly-priced dining furniture. Except for... They got Napster shut down for less than that! I'm telling.
Sack your IT "genius"
A local estate agent has a plasma monitor in the window that plays a slideshow of available properties etc. Presumably they also get to charge more for advertising folks' houses in this way, and it draws the attention of passers-by at night. How very 21st century! Oh hang on... It was hanging like this all night. A momentary blip, I know, and hardly devastating in terms of revenue-loss, but it made me laugh. Serves them right for using Norton. Fupping munts.
***** EDIT - TWO DAYS LATER ***** Been past again tonight, and things are looking even better for the Estate Agent...
Oh, I'll definitely consider them now, knowing they're looking at pron all day... ***** END OF EDIT *****
P.S. My Head's Inflated
Another Sainsburg classic. They must get seriously bored in there. Saw this and thought, wouldn't it be a very different movie, if Gerard Butler was playing a man who'd died from having a giant orange for a head, which got infected after he had £5 crudely tattooed on it? I don't think Swank would have to much to smile about then. Unless she was after his fruit-insurance, of course. Then she could take a trip out to Seville to follow a series of letters, or whatever that film's about. Oh, and the Man from DelMonte would be the executor of his will.
Calling all perverts...
Train station. Photo-booth. Gents' Toilet. Not unusual for them to be connected, but a built-in photo-booth next door to the gents is just asking for myopic-based comedy incidents. I didn't wait around, the tension in the air was unbearable...
And last but not least...
This is quite old now. Saw it at Oxford train station, advertising their latest on-board magazine. This was approximately a month after being made redundant from light-furnishing company "The Pier" when the company folded as the administrators didn't sell it to ANY of the three interested parties that they said didn't fucking exist but we all know they fucking did because some of us had fucking SPOKEN to one of them. Who says Karma doesn't have a sense of irony? (actually, no-one. That's kind of the point of Karma, I suppose...)
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And those are just some of the things that have been bothering me recently. But I don't let it grind me down too much, because I have you beautiful people to share it all with...
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.
CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh lanugage and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
Went to see Watchmen yesterday, it's on my mind.
Very rough and barely ready, I know
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.
