hirez: (dissent)
Today, being the Sunday before a bank holiday and thus the sort of day where one should be eyeing up a hangover, either departing or lumbering over the horizon, we got up early and went to the shops.

Everyone else in Bristol seemed to have stopped at home for the moment of hangover crystallisation or for the ceremonial calculation of an upcoming hangover's potential.

I have no idea what the SI unit of hangover might be.

The bloke who owns the farm shop (Mike. An actual farmer.) had some theories about Bank Holiday People that he had plenty of time on which to elaborate.

People who pitch up early are steamingly hungover and aren't fit for anything but staring into space and gibbering quietly. They just want breakfast. (Which is why the shop bit was deserted) But buy the time you get into the early afternoon of the actual bank holiday, you get the people who've had to spend an extra day with the rest of the family that they go to work to avoid. If they're turning up at a farm shop that lives where NE Bristol peters out into countryside, then they've not managed to arrange going away for a weekend and are going to be in an extra foul temper with themselves and the people they go to work to avoid, with whom they have had to spend an extra day. So they take it all out on the staff.

Er. Good.

Apr. 23rd, 2012 11:43 pm
hirez: (dissent)
http://www.news.ku.edu/2012/april/23/outdoors.shtml
hirez: (Q-309)
In common with many of my peers, I was the victim of the local paper's photographer when in a band as a teenager. (We were mostly in bands as teenagers, right?)

The thing that you have to do, because either the readers, the photographer or the photographers assumption of the readers is/are significantly thicker than planks, is stand in a row against a thing and clutch your instrument (ooer) so that the nice people know that it's a picture of a beat combo (no popular here) rather than a surly mob up before the beak for pinching copper's helmets (ooer^2).

Non-name snapper's inspiration does not appear to have moved on in the last quarter-century. Other than in sheer quantity.

Mostly right: http://www.jwz.org/blog/2011/05/nightclub-photography-youre-doing-it-wrong/ most especially the thirteenth item.


[1] Peel, obviously.
hirez: (safety chicken)
BO-BO

hirez: (muddy)
Bad thing: waking up in the certain knowledge that if you even think about moving your calf, it's going to cramp up lovely. And then moving it in an odd way anyway, so as to get maximum enjoyment from lurching up and trying to massage some sense into the thing.

You know, I begin to think that my brain re-ordered that sequence of events. Like the way you can have a subjectively long dream that climaxes with the alarm going off, when what must have happened is that your subconscious shat some alleged-rational explanation into your forebrain in sheer terror at the loud noise that just happened.

Good thing(s): The sun's out, the sky's intense, it wasn't as parky on the ride in this AM as it was yesterday and I have Pere Ubu's 'Waiting for Mary' stuck in my head.

As far as I know, 'Cloudland' wasn't well-received by the purists because there's a veneer of shiny pop over the atonal skronk and unhinged lyrics. I rather care for the LP. Indeed I rather wish I'd got a copy of that particular track on the work computer, instead of it lurking unreachable on the Winders box at home. (That was a probably futile hint)
hirez: (psyche-out (ii))
Some years ago, I was rather put out to discover that rather than being about an international assassin with a glamorous companion, 'The hitman and her' featured that well-known Deltic collector Pete Waterman playing grim disco at lurching proles.

"There's a price on yer 'ead, facker, an' I'm 'ere ter collect. But first here's a bangin' disco plate from Sinitta."

At best, television can only ever be slightly disappointing.
hirez: (muddy)
Much better. It's amazing how well endorphins regulate one's mood.
hirez: (irradiated)
Davenports beer at home.

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