Screenshot#1, originally uploaded by Alex Leigh.

For every action, there is an equal and opportunistic marketing reaction. This is the third law of selling, following closely behind “There is one born every minute” and “It’s as easy as selling porn to the Internet generation”

With my fly-to-crash ration running at about five quid a minute, and the weather outside reminding us why Atlantic storms are generally a bad thing, I bought this RC simulation from a real person in Leeds. Shopping by picking up the phone and having a conversation – honestly, I can see this catching on, although he was a little distracted by the tidal wave in the high street.

It was on the back of a recommendation off an Internet forum but it seems churlish even to mention that. So while the wind was attempting to wrest the roof from the barn and ducks floated serenely past the window, I plugged this into the ‘puter and sallied forth.

For only£20, you get some pretty graphics, complex physics and a controller that has been carefully crafted on the world’s nastiest molding machine. But no matter, this is no normal flight simulation – oh no, it’s uber nichey RC Sim. So is this important and what does it mean?

Well, you get that same sense of impotent terror as your plane disappears off screen while you twiddle mindlessly. The broken perspective of trying to control something that’s about as much an extension of your hand as your ear, and the whole unwieldy interface of rudders, elevators and ailerons, does lead to some spectacular crashing.

But it gets better. That’s free crashing without the whole arse of collecting the remains and buying most of a new plane. Obviously my methodical approach to landing horizontally chose the boring trainer with all the top speed required to hunt down a lettuce. And just as obviously, I soon became sufficiently bored to investigate more interesting craft. Mig-17 (twitchy as buggery, crashed), Flying Wing (never flying wing more like, crashed on take off), P-38 Lightening (woooahhh, crashed) and the Eurofighter (where the fuck did that go, crash) all received the hard ground treatment.

The Spitfire is fantastic tho. Especially if you’re method acting it with skiing goggles, bike helmet, gloves and a scarf at a raffish angle. And shouting “Ginger, watch your six, beastly huns coming out of the sun, tango, buster, roger, roger, Tally-Ho‘

Ahem.

If the winds even drop below storm force and the local fields become navigable by something other than a dingy, I’ll be back out there showcasing my new skills to an audience of bored cows. But I must remember it’s for real because a signature move of an inverted approach and half barrel roll to dead stick landing is probably not going to fly. I’m almost certain it’s going to crash as elemental physics are not so forgiving as those buried in a CPU.

I know at least one of you is eagerly awaiting the next installment of “A man’s odyssey with grout” but I’ve been too busy geeking out with my new toy.

I’ll get round to it soon. Oh, did I mention that link on the right over there? 🙂

A women walks into an office with a baby. That sounds like a set up for a joke but it’s not – rather a trigger for the unitary chromosome side of the planet to forget they are corporately conditioned to be employees first, and women second. Scary females from the accounts department, who are undisputed masters of putting you on hold for ever, are transformed into Earth Mothers with a penchant for cooing. It’s like bloke with motorbikes, they just can’t help themselves.

So the proud new parent pushes a pram down the corridor and half the office feels a gravitational pull similar to that of a dying star. But the rest of us have built in anti-gravity when it comes to pink, hairless and boring packages of tiny humanity. And we’re much the poorer for it but, on being trapped into peering into the cot, we still can’t quite see what all the fuss is about.

It’s like sleeping after sex. One side of a relationship lights up a imaginary cigar, congratulates himself on a job well done and rolls over. And instantly falls asleep while his partner wants to discuss the moment, the consequences,the exact level of affection he feels, or the state of the curtains. The distance between two X’s and a Y can be easily visualised by men thinking there is barely a degree of separation between crotchless panties and nice perfume when it comes to a romantic birthday present.

Or so I’ve heard.

Anyway before I offend everyone on the planet, let’s get back to babies. Except not for me of course – with two daughters already, statistically I’d be looking at a 3:1 ratio of fairies to football. And I’ll never again be ready for a face full of rocket propelled mashed carrot, a night made endless by two hours of sleep, and a level of dependency that puts your life on hold for two years. Don’t get me wrong, I love kids – I just don’t want another one.

So, being in touch with your feminine side and cautiously peering under the pram’s canopy will reveal nothing more than what morphs into a half eaten Mars Bar. Once you have decided they’re unlikely ever to play for England, you may as well give in and mooch about with all the other alpha males, indulging in some tribal crotch scratching.

If one were tending to the pragmatic, the obvious solution it to accessorise the little person with something interesting. That way, our fleeting glances and goldfish like attention span will be held by an object of interest. And we’ll trot out expected phrases “So has he got a big willy then?” / “Oh, a girl you say, right” and everyone can go home suffused in the joy that the centre of their world is at least at the periphery of ours.

I’d go with an XBOX. Or a guitar.

Its close to midday and something broken is lurking with a damp mark
Under the bulb light you see a gap that almost stops your heart
You try to fill but terror makes the gap bigger before you make it
You start to sneeze as bodged DIY looks you right between the eyes,
You’re paralytic

Cause this is filler, filler knife
And no ones gonna save you from the crack that’s at ceiling height
You know its filler, filler strife
Youre fighting for your life back, inside a bedroom, got to paint it tonight.

I’m a natural at this. Just tip me the nod, and I’ll happily butcher the next verse of Michael Jackson’s horror operetta.

This story starts in the hazy hinterland of house extensions where the builders misunderstood the architect’s drawing for a roof, and instead built us a slatey sieve. Consequences of this innovative roofing technique include the traipsing of endless charlatans pretending to be fix the problem, and a brave internal design concept best described as “find your inner river“. Generally with an inner bucket – okay I’m exaggerating a little, and my punishment was to be imprisoned in a plastery room with only a paintbrush for company.

Fuck* painting is dull. After the passing of geological epoch lasting all of ten minutes , – recorded by the weary swish of an apathetic paintbrush – I was inspired to invent a new DIY item. I have developed a “splatter“; take a horse (or any other ungulate) hair painting stick, deposit brush handle deep into paint, apply briskly to wall in the manner of a classic escaping prisoner, before abandoning on paint tin. And behold! One hour later, you have your splatter. It’s just one big bristle that doesn’t move much and should be thought of as a tool of mess destruction.

My request for an upgrade to a roller was met with the rolling eyes of someone who was once caught in the enfilading fire of a previous attempt, and the chance to work outside in a damage limitation exercise. Carol tends to patiently clean between the brick path with a stick and stoical expression. I chose powertools, and was happily re-enacting the battle of Alemain with nothing more than a pressure washer and a hearty “Ah Hah, take that you dirty hun“.

Two problems smartly rocked up and demanded attention. Firstly while cleaning one stone was extremely satisfying (especially as my phantom 8th Army bravely retook Tobruk), another 200 were lined up ready for inspection. Secondly, a pair of passing joggers – taking advantage of a brief dry spell – were accidentally** power gritted at around 100 MPH. Any protest died in their throats as, on turning to face their nemesis, they were confronted by a swamp monster shouting “Outflank the bastard, send Perkins ahead and get bloody Sidebottom to ready his commando unit“.

And while my lighting campaign was reigning terror on moss and dirt – dug in and ready to fight to the death – defeat was nearly snatched from victory as our supply lines were desperately overstretched. The Medusa of various leads and hoses tied themselves together in the manner of garden products everywhere, and brought the advance to a shuddering halt. Were it not for desperate orders signalling a swift hinge for the army of arm, friendly fire would have been concentrated on the plug socket.

100 PSI. Water. Electricity. There is going to be an Incident there on the scale of “Yes they’ve got machine guns and yes it’s a valley perfectly set up for an ambush, but we’re the bloody light brigade aren’t we?”

Cables untangled, we dispatched the remaining enemy stones into the garden now resembling a chilly Mediterranean. Not unreasonably expecting an extended period of R&R and possibly a nice sandwich, my hopes were dashed by a new objective of a similar clean up job on the Patio. My trousers were pressure blasted mud, my shoes a watersports park for lemmings, my fizog a face pack of PH balanced moss and, what’s left of my hair infused with the essence of water distressed dandelion.

But a man has his orders. And whether that’s from his C-in-C or his wife, he just jolly well gets on with it.

From Michael Jackson to the Crimea to Montgomery in North Africa. There’s a grand sweep of modern history you’re not going to get anywhere else. Whether you would want to is an altogether different – and possibly more pertinent – question.

* Sorry Mum. She told me the other day she nearly posted on this blog. God alive, leave me with my few remaining comb over shreds of dignity
** Ish

The headlines this weekend are laden with predictions of global recessions and doomed economies. And, unlike those purporting to be in control, I have a plan to help. The time has come to turn the Internet off. On first glance, this may seem a little radical, but difficult times called for desperate measures.

So desperate possibly, yet underpinned by flawless logic. Because if we take the hedgehog as a microcosm of everything that is wrong in this work-shy land, the implications are staggering. Of the 500 hits per day, say 10{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} actually spend five minutes reading something. Although half of that 500 only hang about long enough to trip the Spam filter with offers of free girl-on-girl mud wrestling pictures**.

Now assume that this plays out three days a week and we’re looking at a total 450 minutes per week. Multiply this by a years worth of weeks – stick with me here, we’re nearly done – and divide that total back into days to deliver a damning verdict on slacking. I know most people read this at work so – at best – TEN MAN DAYS of effort are lost just reading this blog***.

And when you consider this blog is merely bottom feeding at the edge of the great ocean of siren like content. So if double digit working days have gone reading this blog, how many wanking days have been spermed up the wall by the greatest success of the global Internet. So hit the big red off button and watch sales soar for Playboy and Hustler.

And there are other less obvious benefits; people would have to start talking to each other again, shops would be more than electric store fronts, the post office would suddenly become hugely important and – best of all – MySpace would close leaving gromitts to whinge in their own bedroom.

Obviously once the new order is ushered in on the back of this vote winning policy, certain trusted individuals shall retain access. Including all my loyal lieutenants.

Right who’s with me? 🙂

* Famous rock band. First singer died chocking on his own vomit. C’mon, how many clues do you need?
** They weren’t much good.
*** I know this to be correct as I have had my maths checked by an eight year old.

I hate Autumn* because it brings with it a slow death to life and light. Three months of decay and dark aren’t even the worst part – that special place in my heart is reserved for the million car drivers who cherish the idea of a dead cyclist for Christmas.

And then we have the chronologically inaccurate “shortest day” or the slightly more caftan “Winter Solstice“. It brings with it a false dawn, which continues to creep into the day for a couple more weeks, and not much else.

Follow that up with a week long period of things unwanted; presents, relatives and marketing confused with sales. This is a once in a year opportunity to get both fatter and poorer while a recent Honours crony cackles – dragon like – on their hoard. Only smugger and with slightly more arrogance.

So they call this the festive season. And if giving is better than receiving, I’m bloody delighted to dispense with the whole arse of a thing for another year. And as giving segues into giving up, then we’re starting 2008 with slightly less cars.

As I’ve alluded to Autumn is traditionally a dying time. Dead leaves fall to the ground, dead cats get buried underground except for Schrodinger’s of course. That animal, in my considerable experience, is neither alive or dead – rather extremely pissed off and ready for a frenzied kill.

Anyway, it seems the positive karma of adding ever more new frames to Al’s pantheon of benign insanity, has had a negative effect on other household transport. Specifically Carol’s car which, after ten years of constant abuse, has finally succumbed in a mechanically mirrored biorhythm of the long stiff mog. Small stuff started to go wrong before, one day, it emitted neither light nor sound regardless of the brutal electric shock treatment of the jump leads.

Anyway it’s suffered enough so we’re going to put it out of its’ misery and, until we’re safely back from New Zealand, we’ll be doing with just the one. This means more testicle shrivelling commuting for me, which is absolutely fine as it is about time I rediscovered my “Inner Notherner“. I’ve been far to nice to people lately, and I’m worried this may have set false expectations.

But come March, our new car buying strategy will be based on a continuing sexual innuendo purchasing approach. After the Wanga, we have a Jazz. Great little car, and I’ve already asked Carol if she would like a big pink one. Although the metaphor breaks down – a little – once I’d enquired if it’d take six inches of bulging frame in the rear.

* Yes I know it is officially winter. What of it? Accuracy is hardly the bedrock of the hedgehog is it? I’ve been cogitating. As in old-cogitating.

Swinley Jan 08 (7 of 7), originally uploaded by Alex Leigh.

Up the road is an odd institution where you can rent a dog for day. Let me quickly clarify this, it is for the specific purpose of walking it rather than any illicit acts with a hair trimmer, gaffa tape and a vacuum cleaner.

That’s a premium service which costs considerably more, especially if you’ve had previous history with the centre’s hamsters.

Anyway my friend Jason, who has admitted to hardly any acts of bestiality (but he is from New Zealand and – come on – it’s like a Welsh leisure centre out there), fancied a go with the a Prince Albert (I had to look that up – honestly – why would you want to to be pierced there?)*

The DMR is already being abused somewhere in Oxford by a mate who had all the skills but none of the bike. A bit Ying and Yang when you consider my multi-wheeled collection. However, this was a short-term one ride loan which clearly gave Jason license to thrash it in a way I found quite perturbing.

“I must ride it like that” I lied as he cleared off at a rate of knots not significantly distanced from bloody quick. Me and Roger gave chase and – because I’d craftily removed the granny ring (don’t just don’t okay) from his gear selection options – we caught him when the trails turned to “arrrghh that hurts”

And since Nigel managed to retain close formation with his pedals this time and the sun was shining, we shredded some warm mud for a short while before attacking lunch with significantly more fervour. Bits of the trails were still frozen, a significant chunk were giving us a big wet brown experience (I just can’t stop myself now), but there was still enough shoulder-dropping carvage to bring far more smiles that the mere miles would suggest. One second we’d be doing a middle aged housing conversation, before dropping it like a Premier League manager and getting on with the real stuff of life. If it’s this fantastic in winter, how bloody great is it going to be once it dries out?

I’ll never tire or riding bikes even when a short winter’s day is gone between prep-ing, driving, faffing, riding, cake-ing, driving, cleaning, beering. I may, at some point, tire of writing about it for which I’m sure you’d all be immensely grateful.

* Crossing your legs and eyes at this point is an entirely appropriate response. I cannot imagine the horror of Airport Security once you’ve decided spearing your cock might me an amusing way to spend a couple of hours.