hirez: (Bunny Eye)
Already appeared on FB )

The Jovesday people were back in force again this afternoon. Queueing for the bus at the wrong time like they were going to a theatre hidden behind the electric car chargers and city-bike stand on the edge of the car-park where Bath stops. The bumped against me like cows, not expecting me to be quite real. And yet there I was.

I feel vaguely guilty about 'ruining' tools, but I have bought a cheap and nasty screwdriver and filed a slot in the blade, so I can open electrical goods and repair them like the sort of person who has a shed filled with things that will come in handy one day.

There's a house opposite with a couple of pallets in the front garden. I am very strongly tempted to ask the nice people if they have plans for them.

I also found a whole pile of scratty phonecam pics that never made it to any sort of bolog. I should bolog them and then they will have meaning.
hirez: (Default)
The other morning, I walked past a bloke from the 24-hour glazier fitting some temporary chipboard to the shop next to one of the matching kebab emporia, which meant stepping off the narrow pavement while not diving under a bus.

I have watched one too many ${Acronymic and increasingly implausible crime franchise} programmes because my first thought on viewing the grim state of that pavement was 'Ooh. Blood spatter.'

I suspect that the Roman name for Bath was actually 'Bloody hell they're a lairy bunch when they're bladdered.'
hirez: (Bunny Eye)
They're building a vast new shopping thingy in Bath, which will no doubt remain half-empty for a couple of years. It's made of steel and concrete and big low-loaders trundle up with great flat plates of Bathness that they bolt to the outside so it looks like the rest of the pretend buildings there. They could be making the same thing in a different town with a different local stone and the flat plates of locality would probably come from the same factory.

It's pish, of course.

I walked through the edge of the Slaver's Market at the weekend. It was as if a copy of Grazia had come to life and been invaded by shoppy-shoppy people. It'll be just like that. Fucking nowhere.

Anyway.

For the thingy in Bath, they dug a massive pit and planted some green tower cranes. Now it's dark in the evening, the cranes are spotlit from below. They looked a bit odd on the walk back to the station; there was something wrong about the scene that I just couldn't place.

On the way back home from London the other week, I dozed off for a while. I woke up when the train stopped at Bath, leaning against the window.

Looming over me was a lit-from-beneath green tower crane with a great glowing object at the one end.

It took me several seconds to work out that I hadn't accidentally fallen into the plot of 'Quatermass and the pit'.

The crane with 'Seasons greetings' in a yard high lit up sixties font at the counterweight end still gives me the fear.
hirez: (Bunny Eye)
(It's a Janitors B-side)

Shameful admission (for a British chap, anyway): for the last several years, I've generally avoided the right-wing hate weblogs (Little green footballs, et al) because reading the poisonous filth that they peddled made me angry and depressed. Lord help any country with people like that thinking their side's in charge, basically.

For the last couple of days, I've actually been going out of my way to look for right-wing lunacy so I can laugh at the silly sods. Which is clearly a dreadful character failing on my part.

It seems that our lot are blaming a cynical media and shouty webloggers for the current public distrust of the political machine. Now, I might be an apolitical lackwit (not true, I just dislike arguing with the clearly wrong) but perhaps it's because they're a hopeless shower of shite who have comprehensively destroyed any remaining socialist ideas they may once have stood for. I mean, I'm just thinking out loud here.

Startlement: Ma & Pa went off to Whitley Bay for some random bun-fight the other weekend. When we stopped off on the way back from that there goth-bothering for tea and cake, it transpired that Ma had been kept awake by the couple in the next hotel room shagging enthusiastically.

It's a pretty rum state of affairs when a chap's mater can describe the noises that occur during athletic gay sex. (Ron Pickering commentary optional)
hirez: (irradiated)
You can colour me moderately peeved. The local GP has had more trade out of me in the last four weeks than in the previous four years and I am now sucking down Erythromycin every few hours (pauses for Usenet Joke), the Saab failed its MOT on a couple of stupid things (a blown bulb and the alleged bendy-pipe between manifold and exhaust. Since the exhaust was recently replaced by the muppets at Shit-Fit, who were looking at the Volvo section of the parts-book while attempting to bullshit me into believing that 'all them scandawegian cars is the same, innit', it would surprise me only very slightly to learn that they'd made a bugger of the job. Anyway, I'm not in a useful state to piss about with bloody garage-morlocks, so the MOT-Mob can fix it) and because the bloody lurgi bloody started on bloody Friday the weekend was a bit of a disaster.

And. Went for a wander round the Bicester Temple Of Shop, which seemed to be stuffed with teenagers either practicing their apprentice-hardman gait (just waddle about like you've got some terrible affliction of the testicles and they've swollen to grapefruit size) or admiring each other's Ugg knockoffs. Christ what a bunch of bastards. On one hand, there was Happy Purchase at the Tog24 and TNF stalls. On the other, I'm going to start firebombing jeans shops if they don't buck their ideas up quick-smart.
hirez: (tank)
There are too many people.

There should be a cull.

We can begin with the poor fellows afflicted with distended testicles or suppurating penis or whatever other terrible accident forces them to sit on the tube with their knees at an angle of 45 degrees. Shooting the infection-site would be a mercy and put them out of our misery.
hirez: (Happy cycling)
The clearly splendid types over at Lineout Records are giving away a(n) MP3 by the new model ELRmy (Yes, I read the NME in the 80s. I can handle it.) and it's very fine racket indeed. Howling guitars and lush production values. I am very much looking forward to seeing them in action on Friday night. (Is it sold out yet?)

Otherwise I've been having a wonder about that there fashion thing. The only sleeveless things you generally (for very small values of 'generally') see for blokes are g*th/metal t-shirts that have been hand-modified and wifebeater vests, and those are just underwear with an attitude problem. For the wimmins[1] everything comes in sleeveless (angle-grinders, pianos, sideboards with matching nests of tables. Everything.) as well as fully-sleeved. I can sort of vaguely see that in some sort of fashion-tradition manner, especially the 3/4 sleeved variant. I'd either be pushing the things up or pulling them down. Er. Probably. Were I given to wearing that sort of thing. Anyway.

However, it makes no sense at all for technical clothing. Either you want maximum wicking coverage and/or protection from the elements, or you don't. Gender presentation has bog-all to do with it. (Unless there's some complicated effect with sweat production in different areas that I wot not.) Yet blokes get the cap sleeves and the wimmins do without. Huh?

Wossatallabahtden, geezah?


[1] (c) YKW.
hirez: (safety chicken)
Entirely unsurprising goings-on concerning the eDonkey network: http://blogs.securiteam.com/index.php/archives/801

(In short, bogus swerver responds to legit (FAVO) query, so instead of happy pr0n or cc-licenced mp3 or whatever, you get virus/trojan-encrusted nastiness. Best not do that.)

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