Claimed!

This is me just checking back in to ensure this blog remains mine.

Busy week...

...but, like finding a set of handlebars, I can turn corners now.

Not the one about bloke with steering wheel in his pants, "driving me nuts", cause we don't do those here.

Anyway, squeak soon, sports fans!!!

Peeewarp weeeeeeeeep! (Only dogs can hear this)

While a shrill, teeth onedging screech goes on outside(or me tinnitus has bought a new amp), I sit and spill.

Things being as they are, I find I need to apologise again for being
"shite to reply".

Ker-rist! Even me wordplay has shrivelled up due to lack of use!

Been definitely down and out for a while now, my gp is chasing up some
form of therapy for me (I've had 2 calls this week from him checking
on progress), may have to change tabs, and have disappeared up me own
kazoo.

Sleep is now like tartare sauce, as I only get it in little packets,
usually while in a cafe, and it gives me weird dreams. Also, it has
green bits which I suspect are gherkins.

Booze is not the constant evening companion it once was, but I still
like to knock my kidneys sideways at least once a week. Thursdays I meet with Chris, Adam and sometimes Dave or others and we put the world to rights and argue in the approved "Pub-talk" stylee. London Pride is a distant memory as we all drink Discovery now, a blonde with a fluffy head, though "fluffy" is not the word I'd use for mine this morn. Soiled, would be one. Claggy, might be another. Pebble-dashed goes some way towards it.

Feeling as I do, and spraining my ankle a week or two ago, I don't get out as much as I should, walking a friend's dog and trying find things I've lost while walking her is the most exercise I get. That's her at the top, by the way. Sexy bitch!

Pain is currently worse than before as I am doing little jobs around
the house, plus have found a game online where I can shoot zombies for
abou 15 minutes. This is good as my concentration span has decreased
and I find it hard to...what's that smell? Why are my legs there?

I have finally got my subscription to Fortean Times sorted, I think. I
have a brown corduroy cap that looks better on me than it ought to, a
cool walking jacket, a hydration unit, a pile of birch logs from
Sutton Park and hope to finish the shed in the next 3-4 weeks, so
Autumn doesn't look too bad. As long as I have no troubles with me
nuts, Winter should be quite cozy too.

My friend Dave, who I lived with before, has moved into a house 3
doors down so "hilarious" Terry and June style fun is never far away.
Last week, I helped him fix a leak in his kitchen sink! Yeah, crazy,
or what! Next month we'll be checking local council smoke regulations
for a bonfire we might have! Zany, us?

Being blonde.

The best way to make yourself unrecognisable, according to Ian Fleming in Moonraker, is to shave your head and grow a big moustache.

As the proud owner of a goatee set, I already have the tash.
Maybe to encourage weight loss, or because a change was needed, I shaved my head.

The idea was I would measure my progress in line with my follicular development, and keep cooler when out and about. Well, it has been warm recently, with sunny skies, walks to do and exercise to sweat through. Short, or no, hair means I'm less conscious of sweating me pods off, and I can remain fairly incognito.

Or I would, if not for my sunburnt shoulders, and what that meant.

See, when you get a tan, the white bits are usually, legs, feet and bikini areas. Get a tan, THEN shave your head, and you end up looking like Tor Johnson's younger brother, or a Manga villain meets Cockney mechanic, Minty the Killer, or somesuch. White skin, dark stubble looks blonde gunmetal, spesh against a bronzey skin.

I'd blame the booze, but I needed a drink afterwards, and sunstroke has yet to occur.
I, for the time it takes to colour my nut, am unofficially dark haired yet blonde and, officially, scarey looking.

Maybe that's why I deleted all the numbers in BOTH my mobiles instead of coping them onto the one SIM card.

Sloth?!

Hola!

Where was I?

Oh yeah.

“Sitting on me rump doin’ nuttin!”

Although, to be fair, life has been burbling along, he said, putting his hat back on…?

Recap!

Been to hospital for a consultation, operations on my wrists to decompress any pressure in my carpal tunnels have done all they can, which is nowhere near enough. Still getting pain, almost as bad as it has ever been. Consultant recommended I have an MRI scan to detect where the other pressure on the nerves could be, with the clever money going for my neck, shoulder or even brain, rather than the Isle of Wight, although bookies are still taking bets on that.

Started physio, lovely girl, freckles,(not her real name), gives good info and advice, but I pity her boyfriend. Seriously, any mugger who fancies his chances will end up mangled if she gets her coconut crushing paws on him. Think she operates on the theory of scaring the problem out of you, which is fine, as long she doesn’t mind mopping up afterwards.
Her scare tactics have ensured that I’ve been doing the exercises she advised, so my mobility has improved, but I have yet to go for an Aquacize session at the local pool. The thought of me, and my pot bellied gorilla body, reach two three fouring with a gaggle middle aged women does not appeal.

Sarah, my physio, also said I am to increase the amount of endorphins I receive. Two ways to do this – do something pleasurable or buy them online. As the second option involves having brain chemicals syringed from the original owner and then into my head, I’m getting back to some serious enjoyment. Well, trying to.

Trouble is, I feel guilty about so many things I have a problem having fun.

Examples?
Boozy chats with mates in a pub leave me worrying about cash, weight, liver and so on.
Internet, like pc use, hurts my arm and neck. Besides, I should be mailing or blogging or apologizing for not doing either or doing something creative.

So, instead, I am living the closest thing to The Dream I ever have done.
I am still having a massage once a week and doing some voluntary work in a charity shop sorting their books out.

Oh yeah, jealous now?

Found that I was being isolationist again and needed something to force me out and about. A guided walk scheme, for health, looked interesting but I was always knackered when it came to doing it. Plus, my sleep patterns what they are, 10 in the morning is not always a good time to let me loose in the local woods. Some squirrel could come back and find me asleep in his bed, telly on and his Hazelnut HobNobs munched into oblivion and my tumtum.

Taking some stuff into a charity shop, I saw the sign asking for volunteers and enrolled. Now, for around 6 hours a week, I shovel Danielle Steels and Catherine Cooksons into the shelves, already creaking under a Wilbur Smithload of tat. Lawrence Llewellyn Bowen and the GI diet means that there are more cookbooks, home decoration and gardeners bibles being thrown out these days than you can shake an Alan Titchmarsh pork and chocolate Changing Rooms Ground Force calendar at. When I started there, the shelves and storeroom resembled a scene from Apocalypse Now, especially scenes at the bridge. Having spent 3 hours trying to alphabetise the “female fiction” (“Of course you’re the best, I always snore before climaxing”), I freaked out when someone asked if I knew if we had anything by “her who writes the books about the woman, you know, from Liverpool”. A couple of charity donation collectors found me two weeks later, slumped in a bar in Hanoi, not far from Hay-On-Wye. Once dried out, I went back into the madness and found I fitted in. So far, I have had a woman ask for a copy of Mein Kampf for her husband (anniversary gift?), a bloke looking for a book on law called Archibald (“It tells judges and lawyers what to do, yeah?”), and plenty of others, apparently just mooching, who then turn and tell you the ISBN and catalogue number of the book they once read on holiday in Crete 12 years ago, what happened on the holiday, what the food was like, how long they spent throwing up, how dirty the hospital was and what their own doctor said when they came back from the coma. Oh, and there’s a woman on the cover, do you have it?

I do enjoy being busy, organising, helping with the odd query and spotting the tiaras among the tat. Just wish I did not have such a manky arm so I could spend more time and effort there. As it is, I am not going in today as my arm’s a bit buggered and I want to spend more time there tomorrow, setting up for an inspection on Friday.

Doing this has taken over an hour and a half and I am beginning to seize up again.
Time for drugs, a shower, get dressed, a quick tidy and a nap before bedtime.

More news, as I snooze.

Of all the probs I could have mentioned...

We seem to have a ghost.

I have asked it to be good and not misbehave and hope it hears and understands.

Nothing, and I do mean nothing, explains what happened tonight.

Been here a week and five days, settling in well, doing little jobs as and when they are needed. So far, all is well with the general fabric of the house, no bad feelings, glimpses out of the corner of the eye, as usual, but nothing to suggest unusuality.

Til tonight.

I get a pack of cigarettes, nine in there, from a coat in the hall, walk into the living room, take one out, throw the pack on a sofa and go outside for a smoke. An hour or so later, I decide to have a bath, after another crafty flute. I have been downstairs, from living room to bathroom, since my last drag. Fags? Here boy! Nothing.

Both sofas are taken apart, looked under, furniture moved, rubbish searched through, plant pots outside interrogated while my bath water runs.

In the end, Liz gets some more, along with another bottle of wine (she liked the first so much), and I wait for the day that I find a Marlboro Lights pack wedged under a kitchen unit.

More drinks, TV, Liz gets tired and decides its beddy bye bo-bo time,.I’m online and drunk, the natural prey of Bid Up TV. A voice cries out “Oh yeah, I got em”, and Liz shouts down that ciggies are go! ….

Where?
Trapped in the turnips of her jeans?
Bundled in discarded clothes for washing?
No.
Actually IN the bed, a place where neither of us had been that eve.
Add to that that said ciggies were in the bottom of the bed and only discovered when Liz came to remake the bed BEFORE getting into it.

I have seen ghosts. I have heard ghosts. I have been around when things went missing, only to turn up where they never where..

Tonight does not dismay me. To some, having just moved into a new house, it might
seem like deliberately bad service by old staff under a new manager. I don’t see it like that (even if Word is playing up).

Losing fags is an occupational hazard of smoking and drinking. Not having had a drop until after looking for my eight faggy friends only misses a point.
I don’t intend to smoke indoors, so reserve the right to have my property unmolested.
Anyone wanting to mess with my stuff messes with me.
And, undead, not gone over or just plain devilish, I don’t spook easily.

Skills to pay the bills

Thanks Mark, for that phrase.

Yep, things are not too bad, considering.

The title refers to the way in which I have been dealing with solicitors, estate agents and twats in general, well enough to be able to say we mave a move date of 10th March.

Hurrah, you may cry. Maybe not. Maybe a low pitched hum, or confused kitten "meep" is more your style. Hey! I ain't prejudiced!

A quick recap to cover things I haven't yet.

The Boosh (live)
Excellent! Unlike, say John Shuttleworth (who I admire greatly), the Booshy boys are able to re-use old material in a way that doesn't leave you groaning "not THIS again!" Some lines were done the same way they've appeared on stage, radio and tv, the magic came from the fact that it still made you laugh. Rich "Bob Fossil" Fulcher cracked the lads up and I honestly thought he'd been riffing on a spliff when he gave us "Bigleg", the tv series he'd been starring in back in the States. Needless to say, it was not only part of the show but Rich, not Naboo, saved the day, an unusual ending for the Boosh, and very welcome because of it. I also made a t-shirt the night before (for "made" read "scribbled on") featuring my own version of what a Stocky Jesus logo would look like. I got glances, let me tell you. The "backstage at the Brits" crowd, all hair product and clothing with attitude, looked at me and wondered. What, I didn't ask, but I felt clean and honest, not styled. When wearing the wrong hair fudge means social exclusion, I walked tall, smiled a lot and didn't take it seriously at all.

Comedy is a serious business, so much so that the Boosh are playing, and filling the NIA. Forget Kanye West, shoot yer way into that show! Who knows where they'll go next. The interview on the dvd of series 2 reveals that they had to write all of the second series from scratch, as they had used up all their old material. Let's hope the collaboration continues.

The latest offering on BBC3, Snuff Box has plenty of comedy credentials, Boosh fondlers Fulcher and Matt Berry, Arthur Matthews as script consultant - what more do you need? A freakin' invitation? I was unsure, before, as yet again, the promotions department at the Beeb seem to be a hibernating hamster called Miss Jenny who thought she might be getting a migraine and had better lie down in the dark. With some Hob Nobs. With "3 pints of piss and a knobcake sandwich" getting loads of trails for it's 5th (5th!?!) series, you'd have been forgiven for thinking that Snuff was a gamble, a "let's see if we can get another Little Britain, fuck it, these are supposed to be funny (in a way we don't really get), but we've got to spend the licence fee on something" experiment. Well, bean counters, it worked. I was very pleasantly surprised, enjoyed many moments, welcomed the story/sketch format familar from Little Armadillos and The Young Ones, and really look forward to the rest of the series.

Carla, the dog I walk occasionally, cut her hind leg badly Monday. A whole pack of tissues, just to clean her leg of the blood, left me twitchy. I'd dropped her lead, she kept running off, thinking I was playing, and I needed to get her home. Lead was found, dog cleaned and calmed, Anne called and a trip to the vet vetoed. I stayed there with her for over 2 hours, stopping her from opening the wound up by licking it. Of course, every time I got up, she got excited and blood flowed. Popped back up that evening after not hearing from Anne, but all was well. She now has a terrier megaphone collar that stops her licking it. I'm looking on ebay for one my size.
I'm back up there this afternoon, for a massage, so hope things are ok. Otherwise, I may end up a few inches shorter with a slipped dick.

My hands are buggered again, maybe the cold, maybe the reading I did recently (The Algabraist by Ian M Banks) but definitely the attempts to dismantle a wardrobe. The little repair in the bathroom and to the outside wall left me achy but eager to try and find my limit of activity. As it is, writing, clutching, holding for a period of time, carrying things and juggling are all out. Doing this is giving me gyp, but I'm overdue a blog and want to do something before internet access unavailable.

Read back some of this and agree that I need more sleep and that this entry shows it.

Still snaffling bits from Pandora, downloaded some other stuff from somewhere else, including a Birmingham based band's track that was a)about the landing of the Daleks and, b)banned by the BBC. A couple of Dead Kennedys, a Fall track and a Prodge piece as heard on the Beeb's Winter Olympic ads and I was happy.

DVD wise, I got the second seies of Booshness, plenty good things, including pilot episode, "Tundra". Different titles, Dixon as played by Richard Ayoade and an audience laughing along. Oh yes, well worth a visit. Also picked up copies of The Nutty Professor (J.Lewis) and Where the buffalo roam (B.Murray) for 2 quid each in a Bearwood charity shop.

Hurrah for this, you say.

Yes.

Next?
Get the move sorted, rest me paws, learn about podcasting, write material, listen to some tunes, and see if I can face my biggest demon at the moment - whether I can read a certain book. Oh yes, I'm worried.