The Lair

People generally like mementoes of places that they visit. It’s true. A generation earlier, this memento would have taken the form of some ghastly ceramic ornament to adorn some glass walled cabinet. Someone I know swears by fridge magnets. Me? I just buy tshirts. Not to pack them up in a drawer and keep them around, of course. I generally buy them and wear them. No, not the drawers, the tshirts. Ostensibly, by the time the tshirt is hacked up and ready to throw away (so my optimistic reasoning goes), it’s time to visit that place again. No, I haven’t revisited most of the places I’ve been, but I can always hope, right?

But I have this friend, whom I shall name Fred. Fred has an even odder idea of mementoes. When he visits these fair shores, our boy Fred buys himself a copy of the Playboy magazine and takes it home. What he does with those magazines once he reaches home is unknown, but I’m desperately trying to dispell the mental imagery of mattresses, hand lotion and tissues from my mind as I type this.

Not that there’s anything wrong with secreting Playboy mags under mattresses and indeed err.. secreting things into tissues, of course. I’m just not sure I want to imagine Fred doing any of that. No offense, Frederick old chap.

The problem with Fred’s most recent visit, however, is that he forgot to buy his Playboy mag. This is (unsurprisingly, perhaps) where I come into the picture. I’d say centerfold but the thoughts of myself in any centerfold isn’t an image I particularly want to imagine either, so I presume this goes in triplicate for the rest of you lot. Right, so picture. Me. Playboy.

Read the rest of this entry »

Thank Gawd It’s Offal? Ornamental? Probably. But no, I meant Over.Except it’s not, really.

It only took 4 years, 1 month and 4 days. Ugh. And yet, although I say it’s over - it really isn’t. There is possibly another six months of life left in the carcass. Members of family and random onlookers are confused when I point this out - but the thing is that submitting the hefty document just starts the examination process.

But soul searching and searching for employment or chasing down seed money for a startup, as someone is hilariously suggesting to me, is for the morrow. Today I am off to … err .. have a massive hot shower, kick feet up and loll around in front of the TV. Hell yes. All I need is a pipe, comfy bedroom slippers and a tartan robe and I can be that grumpy old man.

And if the planets align tomorrow (and less likely, if GNER still functions); Ed should be visiting. So we can wander around York, get beaten up by the local BNP thuggies and otherwise have a merry old time. There is also a forecast of gale force winds for this weekend, which should enliven proceedings.

Ok, this is too hilarious to resist. York bans Bonfire Night. That’s tonight, by the way. Which is fine, really. I’ve been known to have a pyrotechnic bent in my misspent youth, but I honestly can’t say I care.

What is funny though is that I’ve noticed the number of fireworks set off this year have seen a marked increase. I’ve heard miniature explosions all through this weekend, as if the angry hordes of chavs who couldn’t set off their explosives under the guidance of the council (ha!) are blowing shit up anyway. Yes, I did call them chavs. I mean it. There was arson last year. And you thought stuff like that just happened with angry Parisian mobs, eh?

And in other news, the ongoing saga that is my thesis educational soap opera lurches from one crisis to another. For a change, I’m not actually responsible for any of it this time. And no, I still haven’t submitted because I was practically forced into a 30 day extension. Ugh.