Adventure Rocket Ship

This is entirely accurate. And you should read Ted Chiang.

In other news, the steampunk anthology that contains a JHR story continues to sell. The Americans seem to like relics of empire.

Today's discovery was that through careful idleness I had managed to accrete a complete set of credit-card statements from November 1989 to the present day.

It's been something of an odd afternoon reading back through the things and discovering the difference between what I felt like writing on LJ and what really seemed to have been going on. And indeed remembering what happened in the 90s by means of a sequence of monospaced financial postcards from my previous selves.

Many of the early 90s ones go 'Fuel, record shop, curry house, fuel, off licence, pizza, clothes (Gap or Cult Clothing it seems), book shop, fuel.' And that seems normal.

I don't remember why I ended up at the 'Tasty chinese restaurant' in Chippenham in August 1996, mind. Although that looks like a busy sort of time because a couple of days earlier there's an entry for 'Mokham's of Digbeth' which would have been the place handy for the Mercat in Birmingham, which, um, Children on Stun/Libitina? Something like that.

Of course, those are the nice bits. The less nice parts concern the ebb and flow of the balance. For instance I discovered that over the winter of 2001/2002 I failed to even open the bills. This is so entirely unlike the me that I think I'm used to that I'm at a loss to explain it. The version of events on LJ is completely unhelpful because that's the other part of my brain desperately holding on to nice things to think about.

In short, Pontrilas.

Some number of years ago... Ok, it was the Phoenix festival with the Stuffies, Poppies & Neds on the same bill. And Stereolab, Shellac, The Grid, Iggy Pop, Carter, The Fall, Gary Clail, Killing Joke, Buzzcocks, the Inspirals, Renegade Soundwave, Swervedriver, Skunk Anansie and, er, the Ozrics. I could, if I were a bigger tosser than you might expect, lay claim to having seen the lot. However, all I can remember is watching the Stuffies and thinking 'Bloody hell this is good' and, er, the Ozrics, where I was mostly thinking 'Shutup you bastards I have a hangover.'

Anyway. On day one I got myself massively sunburned and since I didn't have anything long-sleeved, I had to wander through the markets stalls that clustered together for protection against the startling prices of the 'workers' 'beer' 'company', who's thing was a jolly right-on spiel about collectivism, but who supplied grim ale at 'ye gods how much?' prices.

(I see from the wikipeejah that they do seem to have sensible credentials. Perhaps things have changed in nearly two decades. Who can say?)

So, um, I found the nearest long-sleeved garment that was both cheap and black and wore it for the rest of the festival. And indeed for the next yea-many years because it was just one of those good garments that fitted with what passed for my lifestyle, had pockets that were sensible and was both warm enough in the winter and cool enough in the other bit to just be a happy thing to have.

Obviously I lost it in one or other move, and because the balance of my mind was disturbed I forgot to care about it for a decade or so. It's shit when that happens.

Because I started to care about that sort of thing again in the last few months, I have been vaguely poking at the internets. However, since all the remembrance I could manage was 'Dyed back, probably Dutch mil surplus going by holding the label up to the light and squinting' progress was basically bollocks.

However, yesterday I discover that it was indeed Dutch. Issued from 1960 to 1980 and the key bit was the herringbone weave. There aren't any on the internet.

Since I was going for a potter into Bristol with a handful of films for the posh chemist (Photographique, who appear to be doing well and who now carry a Nathan-leaning selection of films and cameras. Including the tiny Japanese efforts that are rubbish on purpose and I was not tempted by one of those, no not even slightly), I decided to keep going as far as Hotwells to see what the estimable Messrs. Marcruss had lying about.

All the good camo in the world, as it turns out. Also a street filled with surly footer fans and an awful lot of riot vans.

If I had come by car, I would have been able to fill it with Danish M84, Marpat, Belgian jigsaw pattern, knockoff German splinter-pattern, a splendidly Futurist Italian design and some 'iconic' American jackets that looked like they'd been shat out the back of a frightened tank. No herringbone-weave Dutch field shirts, though.

I would also have been caught up in a massive post-riot-van tailback, so probably a lucky escape for all concerned.

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.

It's still only Thursday? Excellent. Having an unstructured week makes the time pass more slowly.

Thus far I have: Slept about the same amount as usual; bought a walking stick and a breadmaker, thus bringing the middle-class edifice to its knees; had to explain Moorcock to an excitable curry-house audience; cycled across Bristol in straight lines for a laugh (At least I know the location of Bristol Central Lawn Tennis Club now. Should I be among strangers at a party and the question asked, I can leap forward with a location-based answer) and then walked several miles home with a puncture; written some words; had occasion to use the internet for the purposes of making enlargements of holiday snaps and, um, some other stuff.

A notable and tiresome failure has been the idle quest (a chap must never give the agents of commerce the idea that their existence is anything other than a vaguely necessary evil for keeping the proles at bay) for black boot-cut jeans. Not one blasted shop, boutique or hut within the environs of that benighted pit up at Cribbs Causeway sold such things. Shops are just rubbish and must be stopped.

Via the well-controlled Making Light (who had wrabbed his norman lunch) we find a Wisconsin Scrap Trip and a farting rainbows t-shirt.

How many of y'all are going to be far to uberg*th to be spoken to in Leeds this weekend and thus save me the trouble of making smalltalk? (The malevolent sorts will get in my face, just to watch me squirm, obv.)

Pleasingly and tiringly random.

Yesterday, belted to the Palace of Spanners Reversed (where jarkman lives) on the premise of creativity. And lo, there was creativity. And lovely old maps. Who knew of the Coombe Hill Canal? I didn't. Something to visit in the near future, yes.

(Note to self: steampunk proto-computer produced backups on particularly long stair/hall carpet using modified Jacquard machine and didn't use a program counter. VLIW? Bit density of average stair-carpet? Possibility of stego-carpets?)

Today, toddled to Oldbury-on-Severn nuke station to discover visitor centre very shut and anti-terrorist weave-across-the-road concrete blocks everywhere. Felt a little like Mark Thomas, taking pictures as the Nice Security Man approached.

Oh well.

Engaged in Accidental Commerce. Now have a Sony phone with a strangely CGA UI for a third the price of the previous contract. I have my doubts about any of it working.

The last time I went to the Nice Shop to buy some proper running shoes, they had me pile up and down St. Michael's Hill (it's steep, even for Bristol) a half-dozen times in different examples so they could 'check my gait' and watch me expire on the pavement afterwards.

This time, I biked up there, piled up and down St. Michael's Hill a half dozen times, biked home again and then expired in a heap.

Progress. Excellent. (Pardon my enthusiasm, this business of a 'beginner's running club' at work is (a) rather fun, and (b) kicking my arse.)