Sherlock Holmes used to talk of a 4 Pipe Problem? when pontificating on a complex mystery involving an overgrown dog, a villainous character superbly defined by the simple culinary definition of a bad egg? and the odd dead body. From this our hero pulled together the wispy threads of evidence before delivering the guilty verdict with hardly a tip of his ever present deerstalker hat.

My life isn’t as complex as that but roll forward a hundred years and watching the England football team becomes a four beer problem.

Continue reading “Watching England.” →

From the times today

Well that’s university funds well spent. Did they go visit these turretless tank driver’s co-workers and friends to discover if they were arrogant wankers as well? Actually they needn’t bother; I’d wager they are based on no research nor statistical corroboration other than bouncing off these pointless symbols of supposed status and actual twatiness.

Jeez, that must be most pointless piece of research since men would rather watch football and drunk beer than discuss shoes?. It’s put me in mind of the IG’s.

That’s warm if you live down south and wet if you venture into the Penninian rain shadow that is Manchester. My arrival at the city limits triggered a downpour that if not exactly biblical certainly made you wish for rubber shoes and some anti-smiting cream. Having covered the hundred and seventy miles from home to Manchester in just over two hours, it only took me a further hour to find the hotel.

That’s the problem with technology you see. My PDA/TomTom thing reverted to the ground state of anything running WinDoze which is a blue screen, an unhelpful error message and the occasional apologetic electronic chirp. The backup plan of a printed map with detailed directions would have worked so much better had I completed the simple sequence of print, collect and carry. One out of three isn’t bad I suppose.

After attacking the city in a one man pincer movement, the Hotel appeared (well not exactly appeared as teleportation is still a young science) all concretey and welcoming out of the gloom. I then handed my car keys to a man I’d never met who aside from a Liverpool accent and a pair of Winkle Pickers looked every inch the valet parker they’d promised. I never expected to see the car again but my faith was partially restored in humanity the following morning when – aside from a tired looking interior obviously the result of a night’s hard taxi-ing – the vehicle was returned with the same number of wheels, and hardly any new “custom bodywork” as I like to think of the litany of every increasing dents.

The hotel was another one of those contemporary ones. You know, sink on the outside of the bathroom, remainder of bathroom designated a “wet zone” meaning everything you own disappears underwater and you must gain rapid surfing skills to remain upright on the way back into the bedroom. There was a mirror in the shower for shaving that had it not steamed up within one millisecond of the water being turned on may have had some possible use. The whole place was designed by a women because one of the few joys of hotel occupation was cruelly denied me.

I speak of leaving the toilet seat up. Being surrounded on three sides by women in my family, it’s a guilty pleasure not oft repeated. The sense of power being able to stumble into the bathroom unencumbered by difficult aspects of motor control involving seats and er, other things. But no, the flusher was cunningly hidden behind the seat meaning short of punching a hole in the ceramics, there was no way to have the whole seat up experience.

I will obviously be writing to the manager to complain in the strongest possible terms.

I didn’t bother with the in room dining on the grounds that there is only so much lettuce a man should see in his lifetime. And one day, I’ll rediscover the knack of sleeping in hotels. Last night failed to blaze that trail of discovery sadly.

Behold the tool wall. Imagine a expensive funnel directing building traffic to a defined end point. This best describes the journey from a useful outbuilding to extended house. And at the cusp of that funnel is a vertical representation of all things tool shaped. Not that I’m obsessed or anything but this is about as good as it gets.

For some reason, my picture links seem to be broken, rather than try and fix then, here’s a link

Once sufficient elbow room is allowed, there’s the capacity for a biblical event that’d make Noah consider the rising of the water as localised flooding. You have to think big when considering the consequences of a talentless Alex, armed with dangerous hardware and aimed at an unsuspecting bike. Really don’t consider this as a victim, what we’re really talking about is a blast radius.

Still it’s all indoors and unlikely to frighten the horses so I’ll file it somewhere between a hobby and a mental illness. Somewhat like this blog which has crested a hundred posts and , more worryingly, attracts five hundred hits a day. Surely you’ve got something better to do.

No, I haven’t in case you were going to ask.

It’d be great if it was wouldn’t it? Well yes, I’ve just burgled your house in broad daylight, sexually abused the dog and sold your children into slavery but hey what’s that DONKEY going to do about it?”

But even allowing for nonsensical animal metaphors, it really is. I may, in a moment of unconsidered candour, admitted to being red-green colour blind when it comes to those bastions of the highway code; the humble traffic light. In a volte-face even more brazen than Sven’s tactical mastery of his forward line, I made a silent pledge to respect the red this morning. I was the only one. Entire legions of cyclists from Tour de France Wannabe’s to Halfords specials breezily ran the lights much to the consternation of crossing pedestrians and crosser motorists.

While I was trailing notionally in this rolling roadblock, my place astride the moral high ground was uncontested. Oh the glorious hypocrisy of my strident pleas for us pedal pushers to respect the highway code. Growling asshole” at every RLJ’r, I felt a faint surge of pride at my restraint “ either than or it was a somewhat unplanned bowel movement. And as only non light running colleague muttered it’s not like I want to get to work any earlier”. Good point, well made.

So as I wafted into the changing room borne aloft on a lingering sense of worthiness, the mobile crime scene that is riding in London slammed the door behind me. Someone had stolen my deodorant. Yep, nicked, filched, ˜arf inched “ however you want to categorise it, a fellow commuting bloke (unless it was a very self confident women desperately in need of a quick blast of Lynx) has had it away on the hoof.

While I’ve become immune to the threat of damp towels, the occasional ˜borrowed’ shower gel and fair weather squatters stealing my space, this is way beyond the acceptable direction of travel. I wouldn’t have missed a couple of cheeky squirts in the spirit of shared smelliness but the entire bloody tin?

So I’ll be filling my ˜hot spare’ with pepper spray and installing a couple of trip wires and web cans to catch the bounder on camera. Failing that, pass me the donkey.