Friday, September 23, 2005
Ahoy hoy!
Hope you are all acceptably well and feeling the joys of autumn around your nethers. I'm in surprisingly good health if you don't count some random knobbly bits on me groin and a worryingly insistant itch. I also went to a dentist for the first time in six years or so yesterday. It was a strange experience. I've never been frightened of going, I just couldn't get a booking anywhewre for love nor money, in the end Gill had to use her insiders knowledge to get me an appointment. Needless to say, the layers of sediment that had been building up had to be removed by a rather fair young dentist wielding what felt like an anglegrinder, which had been passed to her by her barely hominoid milkfed gimp (thanks, Black Books). I had thought it traditional that it's the dental nurses who were the fresh young hotties, not the dentists themselves, but I guess I've been out of the game a long time. Anyways, once the proceedure was underway I couldn't see anything through the veil of tears and flying plaque debris...
The car is dead, by the way. It left me in the lurch (or more accurately, lurched me near to death) once too many, and then was condemned to death by Gill's dad, who could see that it had been on fire at some point in the past, and the fact that it had passed it's MOT was little short of a miracle. It barely made it to the junkyard. The man who cheerfully sold me two dusty, septugenarian headrests (on which, in all likelyhood, some poor bastard had expired) for £10 the previous week, relieved me of the car, headrests and all, with no offer of recompense at all. I couldn't shake the feeling that the onus would be on me to ask for payment, but I hadn't been in the situation before, I didn't know what to do, I felt vaguely threatened by his barely hominoid milkfed gimp who was lumbering around tearing whole panels of old cars using his toes, and the near-deafening hum from the powercables overhead, along with the nearby graveyard all combined into some sort of Lynchian nighmare scenario where I was more likely to feature in a crimewatch reconstruction than receive payment for the rustbucket. Ah well, not so easy come, easy go.
Kult Film Korner.
Times running out, so just two kwik shouts out to 'Wisconsin Death Trip' which was like a tourist board film made by particularly depressed goths with access to a century's worth of film archives- well worth a look, and 'A dirty shame' which is recommended to all John Waters fans, and everyone else can suck on my love truncheon.
Aido 'Let's go sexin' Potato.
Hope you are all acceptably well and feeling the joys of autumn around your nethers. I'm in surprisingly good health if you don't count some random knobbly bits on me groin and a worryingly insistant itch. I also went to a dentist for the first time in six years or so yesterday. It was a strange experience. I've never been frightened of going, I just couldn't get a booking anywhewre for love nor money, in the end Gill had to use her insiders knowledge to get me an appointment. Needless to say, the layers of sediment that had been building up had to be removed by a rather fair young dentist wielding what felt like an anglegrinder, which had been passed to her by her barely hominoid milkfed gimp (thanks, Black Books). I had thought it traditional that it's the dental nurses who were the fresh young hotties, not the dentists themselves, but I guess I've been out of the game a long time. Anyways, once the proceedure was underway I couldn't see anything through the veil of tears and flying plaque debris...
The car is dead, by the way. It left me in the lurch (or more accurately, lurched me near to death) once too many, and then was condemned to death by Gill's dad, who could see that it had been on fire at some point in the past, and the fact that it had passed it's MOT was little short of a miracle. It barely made it to the junkyard. The man who cheerfully sold me two dusty, septugenarian headrests (on which, in all likelyhood, some poor bastard had expired) for £10 the previous week, relieved me of the car, headrests and all, with no offer of recompense at all. I couldn't shake the feeling that the onus would be on me to ask for payment, but I hadn't been in the situation before, I didn't know what to do, I felt vaguely threatened by his barely hominoid milkfed gimp who was lumbering around tearing whole panels of old cars using his toes, and the near-deafening hum from the powercables overhead, along with the nearby graveyard all combined into some sort of Lynchian nighmare scenario where I was more likely to feature in a crimewatch reconstruction than receive payment for the rustbucket. Ah well, not so easy come, easy go.
Kult Film Korner.
Times running out, so just two kwik shouts out to 'Wisconsin Death Trip' which was like a tourist board film made by particularly depressed goths with access to a century's worth of film archives- well worth a look, and 'A dirty shame' which is recommended to all John Waters fans, and everyone else can suck on my love truncheon.
Aido 'Let's go sexin' Potato.
Friday, September 09, 2005
Okay, first up, sorry for leaving y'all swinging like a spare schlong for a while. It's been an interesting couple of weeks.
Spent the weekend after my last post in Scarborough, after getting a lift of John. Gill's family were staying in a really cool 4-story house overlooking the harbour and we got a great weekend weather-wise. For entertainment we mostly walked a lot, but also took a boat to go and look at some seals, which were very cute but singularly nonplussed by our presence and refused to bounce even one ball of their noses- so poor show. We also went to 'Terror Towers'. For those who've been to the Dracula experience in Whitby, you know what it's like, for the rest of you, it's kind of like a ghost train except you walk it rather than ride it- alone. I must say, it's significantly better than 'Dracula', though still endearingly cheap and tacky. Still, it was scary enough to put the shits up Gill, who insisted we leave half way through when a voice over the PA warned children and people of a nervous disposition that the next scare was a big un and to use the emergency exit. However, the emergency exit still had a few scares and Gill wouldn't go out through it on her own. Ho hum.
So I returned to steel city alone for another working week, and again, frittered my time on pointless activities (sniffing pidgeons, avoiding direct eyecontact with the cats, stalking greengrocers, telly, playstation and beating off) before John delivered the car on wednesday. Now don't get me wrong, I wasn't expecting a lamborghini, in fact I knew the car was a bit of a banger. I had, however, been assured that it was 'a good little runner' and perfectly reliable despite it's age. I have since discovered this to be untrue on almost every count. As soon as I got it home, I took it out for what was to be a quick, experimental cruise around Hillsborough. Yet as soon as I pulled onto the dual carriageway, 2 minutes from mi casa, she just died on her ass. Um....
So I got her rolled into the bus lane and sat there thinking up my next move. As I hadn't got her taxed yet, I couldn't call for a tow. Presently, I got her re-started, but thanks to Hillsborough's enigmatic traffic system I was chugging about for the guts of half an hour before I got her home. 'Don't worry about it' says John to me 'She's just been stationary for too long, once you've thrashed some of the grit out of the carburreter she'll run fine'. Again, lies. I did take it as far as Clayton West to collect Gill from John & Ali's place, and thanks to Gill's Dad giving me good directions, that was almost trouble-free. But things have been sour since then. I had just about gotten used to the car dying out every time I slow down; in fact I was becoming a master of the seamless hill/uphill start, when some fucking guy at work says the trouble is the tick-over tuning is off, and re-tuning is a very simple proceedure. He showed me where it was and we fiddled with it,and lo she was idling just dandy. Until I went to take her home. Now, rather than dying out when she doesn't get enough gas, she was no longer responding to the accellerator at all- just growling randomly whenever I changed gears. Eventually she died again (I should point out that she always does this at the most awkward junctions) and took a good 20mins to decide to re-start. So yesterday I re-fiddled with her and suddenly she was running like a smelly, elderly dream. I took Gillo for her first driving lesson, and went to the junkyard to pick out some nice headrests. All in all, I was feeling rather smug. Until this morning when she stopped dead, facing up a steep-assed hill, in the middle of all the bastard morning traffic Sheffield six could throw at me. I'm not looking forward to the journey home one bit.
Finally, I've been adding to my ever-growing arrangement of fantasy jobs. Before the holiday I was considering a vocational training course. Plumbing most likely. Then, while in Scarborough, it occurred to me that I'd never seen a comic shop in Scarborough, Whiltby, Hornsea or anywhere else on the yorkshire coast. This in itself isn't very intrigueing, but these places are awash with skaters, goths and other subculture types who make up comic shop bread & butter clientelle. So since then, I've been thinking with glee about the possibilities of opening my own little dungeon. What do folk think? Should I go for it? Anyone want to invest?
Aido 'Cross my palm with crosses' Potato.
Spent the weekend after my last post in Scarborough, after getting a lift of John. Gill's family were staying in a really cool 4-story house overlooking the harbour and we got a great weekend weather-wise. For entertainment we mostly walked a lot, but also took a boat to go and look at some seals, which were very cute but singularly nonplussed by our presence and refused to bounce even one ball of their noses- so poor show. We also went to 'Terror Towers'. For those who've been to the Dracula experience in Whitby, you know what it's like, for the rest of you, it's kind of like a ghost train except you walk it rather than ride it- alone. I must say, it's significantly better than 'Dracula', though still endearingly cheap and tacky. Still, it was scary enough to put the shits up Gill, who insisted we leave half way through when a voice over the PA warned children and people of a nervous disposition that the next scare was a big un and to use the emergency exit. However, the emergency exit still had a few scares and Gill wouldn't go out through it on her own. Ho hum.
So I returned to steel city alone for another working week, and again, frittered my time on pointless activities (sniffing pidgeons, avoiding direct eyecontact with the cats, stalking greengrocers, telly, playstation and beating off) before John delivered the car on wednesday. Now don't get me wrong, I wasn't expecting a lamborghini, in fact I knew the car was a bit of a banger. I had, however, been assured that it was 'a good little runner' and perfectly reliable despite it's age. I have since discovered this to be untrue on almost every count. As soon as I got it home, I took it out for what was to be a quick, experimental cruise around Hillsborough. Yet as soon as I pulled onto the dual carriageway, 2 minutes from mi casa, she just died on her ass. Um....
So I got her rolled into the bus lane and sat there thinking up my next move. As I hadn't got her taxed yet, I couldn't call for a tow. Presently, I got her re-started, but thanks to Hillsborough's enigmatic traffic system I was chugging about for the guts of half an hour before I got her home. 'Don't worry about it' says John to me 'She's just been stationary for too long, once you've thrashed some of the grit out of the carburreter she'll run fine'. Again, lies. I did take it as far as Clayton West to collect Gill from John & Ali's place, and thanks to Gill's Dad giving me good directions, that was almost trouble-free. But things have been sour since then. I had just about gotten used to the car dying out every time I slow down; in fact I was becoming a master of the seamless hill/uphill start, when some fucking guy at work says the trouble is the tick-over tuning is off, and re-tuning is a very simple proceedure. He showed me where it was and we fiddled with it,and lo she was idling just dandy. Until I went to take her home. Now, rather than dying out when she doesn't get enough gas, she was no longer responding to the accellerator at all- just growling randomly whenever I changed gears. Eventually she died again (I should point out that she always does this at the most awkward junctions) and took a good 20mins to decide to re-start. So yesterday I re-fiddled with her and suddenly she was running like a smelly, elderly dream. I took Gillo for her first driving lesson, and went to the junkyard to pick out some nice headrests. All in all, I was feeling rather smug. Until this morning when she stopped dead, facing up a steep-assed hill, in the middle of all the bastard morning traffic Sheffield six could throw at me. I'm not looking forward to the journey home one bit.
Finally, I've been adding to my ever-growing arrangement of fantasy jobs. Before the holiday I was considering a vocational training course. Plumbing most likely. Then, while in Scarborough, it occurred to me that I'd never seen a comic shop in Scarborough, Whiltby, Hornsea or anywhere else on the yorkshire coast. This in itself isn't very intrigueing, but these places are awash with skaters, goths and other subculture types who make up comic shop bread & butter clientelle. So since then, I've been thinking with glee about the possibilities of opening my own little dungeon. What do folk think? Should I go for it? Anyone want to invest?
Aido 'Cross my palm with crosses' Potato.
