OCTOBER 31
OH GOD it's Hallowe'en. Or Dress Like A Stripper Night. Unfortunately there was no Stormtrooper this year - instead the biggest pizza I've ever seen appeared in the lunchroom.
I mean Jesus wept, just look at it. It's three feet across and would only fit in the Mini if you put the back seats down. And even then I'm not sure you'd get it in.
That's not a box, it's a portal to another dimension.
Cold greasy pizza. It's like a flashback to those breakfasts in my university days. I tried a slice (like you couldn't see that coming) and it wasn't too bad. I think the last piece was polished off by one of the sports guys around 11pm.
OCTOBER 29
LADIES and gentlemen, boys and girls, it is my considerable honour to introduce my niece. She was born yesterday and hasn't been named yet so for now I'm going to call her Sprog. Both mother and baby are fine.
OCTOBER 20
ARE we all sitting comfortably? Good, then I'll begin the tale of Jasper, the fattest cat in South Wales, and how a group of determined sub-editors and designers kept news of his demise secret for eight solid weeks.
Back in the dim dark days of 1997, in a crappy 1950s office block in the fair city of Kairdiff, I worked as a sub-editor for Celtic Newspapers. Celtic was sort of a community-newspaper type publication which produced nine weekly titles. The reporters, news editors and photographers were in offices dotted around the South Wales valleys. The sub-editors and page designers were based in a central office. Everyone hated the job, the company and especially our useless editor-in-chief, meaning we'd frequently engage in the sort of hijinks you'd expect from 12-year-olds. Got that? Good.
Of the nine publications, a couple were outstanding, some were good, a few were OK and one was abysmal (mentioning no names it was the Cynon Valley Leader, based in Aberdare). One Monday a string of briefs (i.e. those short little stories that usually run down the outside edge of the page) appeared on the subs' desk, meant for page three of the Leader. They were edited, moved through the system and the page designer (mentioning no names it was me) got hold of them. "Hmmm...," this designer thought, "they don't quite fit. I'll have to chop the last one off, it's only about some dead cat."
Standard policy when holding back a story was to ring the editor (mentioning no names it was Gary) and let him know. "No worries," said Gary, "and thanks for telling me". I designed the page, sent it to the press, and thought no more about it. After all, who cares if Jasper, the fattest cat in South Wales, had just died?
The following Monday I was again designing page three of the Leader. I used to do almost all of Cynon Valley as it was a piece of piss; thanks to the editor's basic policy of "fill it with anything" I could bang out most of the paper on a Friday afternoon. Again there was a string of briefs and again Jasper was in there. Only this time it was at the top of the list which once more didn't fit.
I called Gary, told him the briefs were over and that the Jasper one didn't fit. "That's OK, no problem," he said, and I cut it. I told some of the other guys on the desk about Jasper's weekly appearance and an idea formed - to see how long Gary would keep sending that one brief and how long we could keep it out of the paper.
The following week Jasper made his third non-appearance. Then his fourth. Then his fifth, sixth, seventh and eighth.
Eight weeks. For eight weeks Gary sent Jasper - whose mortal remains had long since been buried in a garden or risen from an incinerator's chimney - to us, and for eight weeks we found an excuse not to put him in. Either the briefs were too long, there wasn't enough space, it was "accidentally" deleted, forgotten, lost or overwritten. One week I put it on the page, sent it to the press, told Gary it was finally running and then called the page back, took it off and re-sent it.
Gary never said a word about the non-appearance of Jasper. He was quite content to go on sending it every week and glad to leave the actual task of putting the paper together to us. (Rumour had it that Gary was actually the tea-boy and the real editor was lying in a shallow grave off the A4059 just outside Aberaman). Jasper only finally appeared when we needed to fill some space and in a last-minute panic used the brief - nine weeks after he'd snuffed it.
So there you have it. If you are/were a Cynon Valley Leader reader I'd like to apologise. Not for us keeping Jasper out, but for the bloody awful state of the paper in general.
OCTOBER 15 - LATER
1.21pm: AAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHH! It's too big in here! There's too much space! I can't reach the passenger door! The seats are made from some soft material! Why is the speedo there? Where's the clutch pedal? There doesn't appear to be a gearstick, just some odd handrest. And what do D, P, R, N and L mean??
1.21-and-a-bit-pm: OK... key's in the ignition, foot's gone for the clutch pedal, foot's remembered there isn't a clutch pedal, key's turned, car's started. Now, one of my fears about driving an automatic is that the car will shoot forward when I take my foot off the brake. Trouble is I can barely feel the pedals through the soles of my Doc Martens so I end up gingerly lifting my foot off the brake, moving forward, putting my foot on the brake and slamming to a halt. This is going to take a bit of practice. Christ, I wish I'd left earlier.
1.25pm: How does she steer this thing without going in circles? The steering's way too light for a car of this size and there's definitely a delay between turning the wheel and the car actually turning. I'm crawling down Ocean Boulevard at a steady 32mph (i.e. 20mph slower than normal) and trying to feel the accelerator through my boot. I keep hitting red lights and every time my left foot goes for the clutch pedal and I try to shift to neutral.
1.28pm: I've just looked at the petrol gauge (which for some reason is directly in front of me) and there must be all of a tenth of a tank. That means I'll have to shoot into the ghetto petrol station on the corner of Shoreline and Ocean. Great.
1.29pm: Does this thing take 91? Or 87? I'm guessing it's 87. I fill up and try to leave the petrol station. I'm pressing the accelerator and the engine's revving but I'm not moving. Ah - I'm in P. I think I should be in D. I move the handrest to D and we're off!
1.30pm: Bollocks! I left the iPod adapter in the Mini!
1.30-and-a-bit pm: And my Bluetooth! Double bollocks!
1.31pm: I'm on the start of the 710 and I'm staying in the slow lane for now. It's amazing how big the Corolla feels and I don't like it. The steering is too light but at the same time not very responsive compared to the Mini and the ride's too smooth. My speed's up to 68mph (ie 15mph slower than normal) and I'm sticking to it for a while.
1.44pm: ¡Hola Rosa!
1.45pm: Well I haven't crashed yet so I suppose that's one positive. But I'm still sticking to the slower lanes although I did scrape up the courage to accelerate to almost 70mph.
1.55pm: I've survived the 710 and I'm now on a short stretch of the 10 heading for the 5. Again I'm sticking to slower lanes and I'm not going over 65. I keep thinking the digital thermometer is the speedo (it's in roughly the same position as the Mini's digital speedo) meaning for the past few miles I've intermittently shat myself thinking I was doing 85mph.
1.59pm: OK, that was interesting. I usually take the curving exit from the 10 to the 5 at 60mph in third gear. I've just taken it at 35mph in D, whatever that is. And the understeer nearly had me going into the wall.
2.02pm: I think I've proved my theory that I should have left earlier as I'm still 11 miles from work and I'm already late. I want to speed up - I'm on a section of the 5 that's crying out for a nippy black car with a chequered roof - but every time I breathe in the general direction of the steering wheel the Corolla wants to leap into the next lane.
2.10pm: Credit where it's due, the God-awful transition from the 5 to the 2 is a lot smoother in the Toyota.
2.15pm: As I meander down the 2 I'm wondering if "Sorry I'm late, I was driving a Corolla" is an adequate excuse for when I get to work.
2.21pm: I'd normally take that curved transition from the 2 to the 134 at about 45. Today I did it going 28, convinced I was going to spiral off to the right.
2.28pm: I pull up in the car park at the office. I survived! Ev, you're a wonderful woman and I'd follow you to the gates of hell and beyond - but I never want to drive your Corolla again.
2.28-and-a-bit pm: Shit, I have to drive it home tonight.
ALL that was written before we discovered the garage wants to test the Mini with a cold start in the morning... meaning I have to drive the Corolla again tomorrow. Oh, and both sensors are shot so we're looking at $650 for the repairs. To quote Blackadder, "I believe the phrase rhymes with 'clucking bell'."
The Corolla's got its pros - comfortable, great A/C, er... Look, it's a perfectly good motor, it's just not for me. It's too big, not nippy, the steering's light enough to be used by a baby... it's just not a Mini. Conversely, Ev never wants to drive the Mini again as she thinks it's too small, the interior's like being in a cockpit and not a car, the A/C's not good enough, she hates manual gearboxes and doesn't feel safe in such a small vehicle. What can I say? The woman's obviously insane.
OCTOBER 15
OF COURSE the downside to owning a Mini is the cost of maintaining it. On top of shelling out $600 on a service a few weeks back, now the oxygen sensor (whatever that is) has packed up and needs to be replaced... for $400. The only glimmer of happiness is that the official Mini warranty has run out meaning I can take it wherever I want, which probably saves the best part of $200 per visit in labour fees alone.
But even that sliver of salvation has been blown out the door thanks to the fact that Ev took the Mini to the garage, leaving me to drive her Corolla to work. I've got nothing against Corollas - they're reliable cars and are great value for money - but they're too big and Ev's has an automatic gearbox. Anyway, when I got home last night I left this note on the Mini's dashboard:
I have a feeling Ev's going to kick my arse tonight.
OCTOBER 12
YOU took the short bus to school... and now you're driving it to work.
OCTOBER 11
NOTE TO SELF: Buy thinner T-shirts.
OCTOBER 10
NOTE TO SELF: Stop wearing white shirts when exercising. When you get off the treadmill you look like a furry beach ball in a wet T-shirt competition.
OCTOBER 9
101 REASONS WHY MERCEDES DRIVERS ARE INSUFFERABLE PRICKS
No1: Parking two inches in front of you at the petrol station, meaning you have to reverse out. The twat.
OCTOBER 8
I'M STILL walking two miles a day. Happily it's becoming easier but it can be a tad depressing when, shagged out and dripping with sweat, I finish the 20 minutes and realise I've almost - but not quite - burned off the bowl of cereal I ate that morning. Christ knows how far I'd have to walk to burn off a Ruby's Aloha Burger with chili fries and two cherry Cokes... not that I've ever had a Ruby's Aloha Burger with chili fries and two cherry Cokes. Oh look, there's Madonna!
Anyway, walking is one area where Sellout (my 80-gig iPod) proves its worth. Our treadmill faces a blank wall so it's not like there's an interesting view to keep my mind off the death threats my leg muscles are sending me. And we can't put it in front of the telly as there isn't enough room, not that I'd be able to see the TV through the burning sweat in my eyes or hear it over my cries of "Dear God kill me now".
Sellout comes in handy not only at the basic level of letting me listen to music, but also for its ability to distract me from the pain and effort of walking by posing such questions as "What in God's name is Toni Halliday saying on any given song off Doppelganger?", "Could someone please tell me the big deal about The White Stripes?" and "So exactly why have The Smiths not been knighted yet?"
Skipping tracks I can't stand but haven't bothered to remove probably accounts for another five minutes of walking time. Out of the 5,150 songs on Sellout, there must be about 250-300 I regularly skip and really should delete. If anyone can tell me what in the name of sweet zombie Jesus I ever saw in Arcade Fire, LCD Sound System, Bell X1, Future of the Left and Vampire "For Some Reason Everyone Thinks The Sun Shines Out Of Our Collective Arse" Weekend (among others), send an email to the usual address.
The other thing I've realised about the iPod is that for all its technological advancements over my old Creative ZenXtra mp3 player, the shuffle feature is just as crap. I mean, I love Killing Joke as much as the next person but four tracks off Pandemonium in one day? It's played "Every Day Is Like Sunday" three times in three days and if bloody "Ghosts IV" comes on one more time I'm going to chuck it at something.
But on the whole the iPod's been a boon to my exercise routine. Take tonight, for example. My 20 minutes were nearly up (usually a cause for celebration) when Mint Royale's "From Rushholme With Love" started. So I stuck it out and was rewarded with Echobelly's "Bellyache", "Metal" by Gary Numan, "Golden Age" by TV On The Radio and "My Favourite Dress" by The Wedding Present. At the end of all that I'd done 32 minutes without realising it. Result!
OCTOBER 6
EVERY day at about 1.30pm I pass the Rosa's Food van. Without fail. And it's always at roughly the same point on the 710 north. Sometimes I wonder if the driver sees me and thinks, "¡Hay el hombre en el Mini!"
OCTOBER 5
BACK in July Ev and me went to another antique store at the Orange Circle. As I'd recently done an antique-based update I decided to hang on to the photos for a later date. And it looks like that date's arrived.
The very fact that this is being sold should automatically disqualify this place from describing itself as an "antiques store". Antiques are Queen Anne tables or Louis XV commodes, not half-watched VHS copies of Beyond Redemption that were nicked from Hollywood Video.
A haven for tat or a KKK meeting house? You decide!
For some reason the thought of putting money between Miss Piggy's boobs is both repellant and arousing. And the fact that she appears to be holding the left one up while her right nipple is making a break for freedom isn't helping my confusion.
A cash register so tasteless only a rapper could love it. I was disappointed to discover the candlestick isn't attached.
Does the red one in the middle have a camera? What about mp3 capability? And why do the scroll wheels have those funny holes in them?
The new Zunes are out early.
For just $45 you could own this handcrafted lifelike statue of George Bush. It's even the same colour as the economy.
Nope.
No, this isn't what you get when you fill a whale's arteries with red Airfix paint and let it set. It is, in fact, a light fixture made from coral. Correction - it's a hideous light fixture made from coral and it's yours for only $2,500! While taking this photo I wished the Chocolate had a zoom as frankly I was scared to get too close in case it tried to kill me.
Don't worry - their eyes only follow you around the room if you're carrying food. Did the artist not realise they'd died during the preliminary sketches?
Oooo, tasteful!
WANT! I would have bought it but Ev would have killed me and besides, $28 is a Corgi Mini. One thing has always puzzled me about Stormtrooper costumes armour - why do they have that odd garter-like thing around their right knees? And yes, I know there are websites that describe in detail all the bits of the armour but as I don't live in my parents' basement I'm disqualified from going to them.
OK, I admit it - I owned this movie on DVD. For some reason I thought it might be good. It wasn't. In fact I'd go as far as saying it chugged donkey schlong. The sequel, however, is far better mainly thanks to the graphic deaths, the chestbursters, the acid blood eating through people's faces and the whole Alien/Predator-hybrid-in-the-maternity-ward sequence. And by "far better" I mean "chugged slightly less donkey schlong".
OCTOBER 4
WHY in God's name would you name a pair of daps after Peckham? For those not in the know, Peckham is a bloody awful borough in South London. Put it this way - you wouldn't expect to find trainers called "Compton", would you?
But into the cart they went. I need a normal pair of daps as my latest plan to lose weight involves doing two miles a day on our treadmill. My Doc Martens and cheapo hiking boots are no good and my knackered old Converse provide about as much support as the KKK does for Obama. I didn't want anything expensive so instead of Sport Chalet or Big5, we headed to Target and found a pair of Peckhams. Result!
I started the walking on Wednesday night and amazingly didn't drop dead. This gave me the courage to try again Thursday and after again failing to join the deceased I decided to make it a regular routine. It's now day four and I'm still not dead. Which is good.
OH GOD, the Hallowe'en tat has hit the shelves. No matter where you go your eyes are assaulted by shelves full of shite. And not just any shite - black and orange shite. When did they become the official colours of Hallowe'en? Mind you, I suppose if you're a Wolves supporter it would save you having to buy a costume. And talking of costumes...
They never had these when I was a kid, did they?
OCTOBER 1
I KNEW buying dad a new camera was a good idea.
Nice one!
