It's always late at night

2004-08-05T05:25:00.000Z

Well,

As a dedicated Mac user and somewhat of a devotee, it was something of a shock to hear of Steve Jobs little dabble with the old cancer surgery. It is in fact late at night, so late that the sun's come up. Insomnia spell is about to break. So though old Steve can't hear me, and probably couldn't give a rat's ass who the hell I am, get well soon, buddy. You're smart and you've got style. That's important.

Wired News: Apple Fans Pull for Jobs

2004-07-15T23:46:00.000Z

Guardian Unlimited | US elections 2004 | Advertiser drops Whoopi after Bush sex joke

Man, you know, this is getting a little scary. Joe Strummer said in Know Your Rights that you have the right to free speech, as long as you're not dumb enough to use it. Now, as she mentions, Slim Fast has a right to protect its business. But it seems like there's something particularly insidious about the media over the pond these days. Granted this is a Guardian story -- i.e. them Yanks sho' is crazy -- but this makes me nervous, along with the last entry here. OK, I know it's not Night of the Long Knives stuff, but as the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave, there seems to be very little of the above in both decisions.

It's bedtime again. G'night.

2004-07-10T06:35:00.000Z

I was reading the Guardian, and of course listening to the radio when I came across this strory of an obssessive scientist who terrorised a load of public service workers because he was somewhat unbalanced. I remember hearing about it, and then figured, my god, a life sentence for stalking? That must be some pretty heavy stuff. And actually, it was that heavy. He firebombed people's homes and cars and drove them completely nuts.

What else is new? Well, listening to Radio 2 an awful lot these days. As I am right now. And it's a little distracting to be frank. And it makes me feel a little bit old. But the other thing I do like is that I'm going to enjoy Jonathan Ross's lovely radio show.

All Saints. You know, I'm really happy that Shaznay has finally come along with shimmery, wonderful pop that she does. I am kinda pissed off that I read somewhere that she's to become the British Beyonce. Bollocks! Ditto Jamelia! As much as I like Beyonce, Shazza and Jamelia, I'm fed up with our obsession with the USA in that, "we can grow a cheap imitation of anything that they do" kind of way. That's definitely how we do in the UK. And you know: it sucks. Like the umpire that Mark Phillipousis recently had a go at at Wimbledon.

Bejeezus, talk about an inferiority complex and a lack of national direction.

2004-07-09T10:53:00.000Z

I'm always incredibly happy to find out the folks at Angry Alien have something new up their sleeves. Okay, this isn't new, but it's one of my favourite things to see on the Web. Silliness and the Web go hand in hand.

Cartoonist's Block.

Last thing, I really do have a hankering for Fall Dog Bombs the Moon by David Bowie. Get well soon Mr Jones, stay off the burgers and fags, too.

2004-07-08T10:06:00.000Z

I've quit trying to write at night because in the end, you sometimes just want to crash out in your bed and sleep and sleep and sleep.

I need to think of what I'm going to do with the day today. Besides sit under my loft bed and write about the various things computers can do for creative folk. To consider how a neo-mullet's peculiarities can be rendered acceptable but for the grace of Flash and Photoshop. Oh silicon, who art in my processor, hallowed be thy motherboard on my bus as it is in my bedroom. (Or creative studio of course.)

Yeah, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of Microsoft, I shall fear no PC, for Apple art with me.

Yadda yadda yadda.

Now then. I'm sat here under the loft bed listening to my favourite radio station and in some peculiar way, there's a Dido track on.

I've got this peculiar Dido problem. It's like something about yourself about which you can feel shame. Not dangerous shame; not like paedophilia or something. But it's just that I have a bizarre sexual fantasy about Dido that makes me feel that I not only have lost my mind, but also my taste. There's something peculiar about the way she smiles when she sings, and I'm absolutely captivated by the fact that her name is Dido, she makes these coffee table albums, and she talks like, excuse the horrid turn of phrase, but fuckin' 'ell, a pikey. This rearranges all my wires and the only way I can reconcile is by imagining her in a pair of polka dot granny pants. Yes. Deranged.

Other good things. A conquering of my miniscule tobacco problem. That's happiness. A general feeling of physical fitness, a rediscovered liking for housework, and the ability to let go of all the stupid earthly things that make you miserable. Oh, and my new iBook arrived!

Okay. So now I've done the stupid blogging thing. I've sat here and written about the drivel in my life that I imagine the Web needs to just have a piece of. It really needs to know about Dido and granny pants. Wrong. But on the other hand, the other thing I've decided is a good thing is to say sometimes, who gives a shit?

2004-07-07T10:34:00.000Z

Colony Models

Have just found this site, and for no reason, I find it spectacularly rivetting. Perhaps it's the geek in me, secretly. Maybe I really do want to have my own model railway, or even, God forbid, I'm a trainspotter after all.

Indeed!

2004-06-09T10:23:00.000Z

Okay, it's not late at night, but I've also realised this can be a good way to get the wheels of the writing mind greased up.

So let's see. What should I consider before heading into the latest greatest article writing stint of all time?

Today, it's PJ Harvey. What is it about her that freaks me out? I think of her as a champagne or a stinky cheese that somehow you're pretty sure you should like, considering oneself a London sophisticate, a groovy metropolitan metrosexual (whatever the fuck that means!!) and all that, but I just don't. I don't get her. Don't really like her music all that much. Kind of arty, ungroovy, self-indulgent though worthy. Just doesn't grab me, no matter how much I open my mind. Oh well, that's life.

Anyway, time to get back to work and shuddupa my face.

2004-06-07T18:02:00.000Z

It's summertime in London. What does this mean? Well, London's a funny place, if you're not from London. We're all happy that the dreary rain and greyness has lifted for a while, replaced by sunshine, skin, green, the great outdoors, frisbee, park football and smiles, but summer in London means more than that.

It means hot, sweaty commuting. It means striking rail and tube, and the stink caused by the garbage that rots in the street when underfunded local councils are unable to pick up all the trash generated by us metropolitan folk. But personally, I prefer the sunshine, anyday, despite it all.

2004-05-11T15:06:00.000Z

Well,

It's been quite a while, as usual. I always seem to start this way but what I figured is that you have to kind of ease into a blog, otherwise you get exactly what's happened to me; a lot of crap that anyone would be stuck finding a use for. But the reason I came back was to talk about my little trip yesterday. Yesterday was one of those days when London's really lovely. Only for part of the day, however. Most of the day it was as grey and bleak as the outlook for the rest of my life, really. But late in the day, there was blue sky and a reasonable amount of warmth. It was well worth going outside for.

But if we can do the Tarantino here, the day before I'd fixed my bike. It has sat there rusting, attached to a bike rack, for around two years. I was going to get stuck into a bit of extra debt to get myself another one, but I tried it, and as most of it was still spinning, I thought, what they hey. I'll fix it. So I repaired the knackered back brakes and yay! Working bike.

So I grabbed my camera and took off down to London's wonderful South Bank, along the Thames, taking pictures of Festival Pier, the Millennium Wheel and other odds and sods on the river, just to give myself a bit of a lift. It also got me exercise without the futility of having to tread the treadmill at the gym. How tedious. So there I went.

Also, today, finished Eats, Shoots and Leaves. A bit disappointing and basic, though it got me thinking about punctuation and good reasons to avoid Radio 4 I must say.

Ah well. Dull and dreary. That's my outlook just now.

Oh, and here's something that drives me nuts, though it's so lame it's almost laughable. The British (Nazi) National Party has a grabbed a hold of Flash and decided to disseminate its message. Blimey. Swamped nation indeed.

http://www.bnp.org.uk/images/movies/mayday08.swf

Actually, they can just fuck off.

Shame I can't post those pics. Would have liked to have shared that with someone. C'est la vie, eh? Cheers Robbie Neville.

Bye.

2004-04-19T22:10:00.000Z

It's not so late. I'm just sat working on an article I should have done ages ago. Still not sorted out a bunch of tax stuff I should have, either. Well vexed about that. Been feeling very up and down this year, you see. Sometimes reasonably okay, other times it's almost impossible to sit down and write, feeling like the world like the shitty treadmills at the gym, where you run fast, go nowhere and have to see the same crappy KISS FM TV videos of RKelly waxing on about how he met a shorty at an after show party, which featured homies, food and Hummer limos. Invariably, it gets to the point where R or whomever has to put a do not disturb sign on the door of his big bootied beauty.

The one problem with the gym of course is when they show a Beyonce video and I feel all overcome with desire of the unattainable. As that song says, she does something to me! I think it's something to do with her attitude and her fantastic hips. I hope the Atkins monster doesn't come and turn her into a pile of gaunt nothingness. With her long line of weaves, I fear she'd just turn into a human mop.

Still, I suppose I should start going again, as I'm starting to get middly again. Need to shape up or else I'll end up like blinkin' Maradona. Bloated at 42. Though I suspect my lack of a notable coke habit fueled by excentricity and sizeable wealth will help prevent that. I'd just keel over. Okay. Enough already. Must work to live, live to work, gym treadmills "The stretch Navigator, there's food everywhere as if the party was catered". Aarrrgh!!!

2004-02-20T01:15:00.000Z

It's called Boys on the Side, and the Radio Times has given it 4 stars. It's supposed to be really good. I swear it's dodgy. BTW, I went out tonight with the lady who bodyslammed my heart. So am tender tender.

2004-02-20T00:51:00.000Z

Christ. I forgot my usernaME AND it's taken ages to find out what it is/was. Anyway, found it. About today. A lot of writing and working. And then I went to a birthday do and saw a band I thought was okay, a band that sucked so badly it was insane -- it was like flippin' a bad version of Deacon Blue at their fucken worst and a band that was like Evanescence, but not horrible or anything just not my scene. I saw this at the Carling Islington Academy, the worst place on earth to see a band. It's like some dick cheese in marketing dreamt up the most sterile place to see shite bands he could think of. And I swear to god there was a bouncer there ready to eject people from from bum rushing the stage. Yeah right. And like the only beer on tap is pretty much Carling and their urine on tap. And Grolsch. Of which I've had too many. And now I'm back home. Perched up in my loft bed watching a lame movie starring Whoopie Goldberg and Drew Barrymore. What the hell is it? I must find a BBC site and find out. Coz it's on BBC 1. And I don't have a Radio Times to tell me what the hell I'm putting myself through. Life is at present a cross between a blessing (in reality for I'm not ready to snuff it) and a curse (because it seems like something from the worst absurdist movie you could think of). Christ. I should go to sleep and dream dream dream. Last night I dreamt that 50 Cent was telling me everything I needed to know about the England football team, and that I was watching Frasier and the episode featured dialogue that could only have been written knowing that Ledley King scored his first goal for England last night. And creepers, this is a pretty crappaholic flick, man. Bleedin' hell! Gimme a break.

Somebody help me! Must wee, and then sleep. I'll let you know what in the hell this pisspoor flick is when next I write. Hopefully I'll be well sober by then.

G'night.

2004-02-19T01:18:00.000Z

I didn't mean to start a new blog tonight. But I couldn't resist. The idea was to actually write in my own private diary rather than begin a blog of stuff for all and sundry to read. But I went ahead and did it anyway.

Tonight it's been a real mellow affair. As always there was too much television, but because it's cold and crappy in London tonight, there was also a nagging hunger that I couldn't seem to shake. So put on the big purple coat and slipped down to Sainsbury's for milk, shower gel and a packet of snacks. This time round, it was lightly salted Organic Kettle Chips. They're absolutely gorgeous. I think they're Kettle Chips. I know for sure they're lightly salted, and that they're also rather tasty.

Other things I did included watching ER, which I've been off for quite some time, as well as a programme showing why chicken bought in super markets often has weird black marks above back of the hocks. Know why? Because broiler chickens are bred to mature so fast that they often can't stand up and spend much time lying in their own excrament. The urea in the ground winds up burning them and you wind up with marked chicken. Chicken got soul indeed, Col.Saunders.

Then crawled up into bed, wrote a news story for one of my website clients and began this. Perhaps it will help me to sleep, provide a little focus for my mind to share with fellow Blogger people in the ether. Maybe this will be my first and last entry. Who can say?