It would be lovely to report that the weeks worth of tumbleweeds rolling through this electronic wasteland were a direct result of a life so filled with excitement and joy. This is sadly not the case. Nor have the creative pathways of drivel been blocked by a foolhardy attempt on sobriety.

It’s worse than that. I’ve been busy. But not busy/interesting or busy/useful more busy/bored or busy/work. The latter came as quite a shock but next years’ budgets wait for no one and there is enough inventive accounting flashing through a thousands spreadsheets to keep us in shredders for a year. My thankless task is to catalogue the project list for next year which is to words what the budget is to figures.

To label it merely dull would be a affront to the glory of English language. It reached high to touch extreme tedium, treacled away hours though dreary and latterly become marooned on an island of mind-numbing boredom. And my reward? Well let me lead you in by explaining it was about as much fun as you can have with a ladder. In winter. Which is not much.

In between was nose-in-the-trough Rugby laid on with four course meals, fifteen different ways to get pissed and some nice cheese to follow. Sandwiched between was a rugby match enlivened only by 82,000 drunken overcoats attempting a Mexican wave. It was more a flaccid handshake performed by the terminally uninterested. It put me in mind of a spontaneous outbreak of Parkinson’s disease.

I drove, didn’t drink and felt worthy. And with the following morning bringing a swaying ladder and some Frank Spencer type action with a bucket, I’m rather glad some bastard hangover didn’t join me up there. If anyone feels the urge to understand the mind numbing task that is cleaning external paintwork, please refer to a previous paragraph for a selection of appropriate adjectives.

To complete a weekend lacking a certain sparkle, my eldest daughter “ who lives outside the rules of self evidency; for example don’t try and eat an elephant” is merely a sulky challenge “ abandoned her thousand toys and rigged up a new game in the kitchen. Simply put, it showed a lively seven year old shrieking weee” as she rotated rapidly through open space, defying gravity by dint of hanging onto a cabinet door.

Somewhat beyond the operating parameters of said door I expect, which is probably why we found it on the floor with crying child desperately explaining I didn’t know it’d break”. Pass me the elephant.

Passably grumpy now, I was confronted by an article by that tosser Nigel Havers’ ranting on about how cyclists are trying to kill him. Normally I wouldn’t waste electrons calmly rationalising why the bloke is a complete dickhead but maybe he’s right. I’d certainly sign up to any club (especially if it came with a club) that roams the streets of London hunting down smug pricks allowed a shouty mouthpiece in the Times.

It’d be a small sample but hey we can have fun with just one.

EDIT: having just re-read Havers’ article and remembering how his last badly argued, poorly researched spite was properly put in it’s place, I may just write that article.

There’s no F’in snow would be the traditional response to a global warmed planet, where grass ski-ing looks to be the next big thing. Except for today where outside it is mostly white and wintry. The garden has disappeared as has one of the children. The other one has built a snowman which has some interesting anatomical details and a “belly like daddy’s” apparently. Snowballs have been thrown, cold hands desperately blown on and some hill based bin bag action looks on the cards for lunchtime.

I’m not that cheap – it’s just what kind of idiot would buy a sledge if you live in the South of the country? Unless for nostalgic value. But at 7am, this was the scene outside the front door. Already “Angry of Aylesbury” was calling any radio station desperate for content and lambasting the railways operators, the gritting companies and anyone responsible for public services.

As you would expect, not much is working with the road blocked by those special people who fail to understand snow traditionally has an adverse effect on braking distances. The railway managed to shunt the odd carriage to London but the platform was filled to capacity with boot stamping, miserable commuters waiting for anything train shaped.

So I heard anyway. Our road doesn’t appear on any gritting map and while there was much sliding and damaging of hedgerows, almost nobody was getting out. We have a local councilor living in the road who maybe could have called in a favour if he wasn’t marooned behind a jacknifed van.

I took the road bike out for a laugh. It wasn’t that funny actually with 100psi in 23cc tyres. Each pedal stroke flipped the bike sideways and left you cursing through a mouthful of snow. The mountain bike fared somewhat better but I think the enjoyment would have faded if a slidey journey to the station offered nothing more than the chance to ride home again.

According to the weather fairies, our massive four inch dump will be nothing more than slush and ice tomorrow. It’s about stopped now but it’ll be fun while it lasts.

A few more snowy shots Here.

Must have been fun for the rest of you going to work 🙂

Steve “Watlington” Watkins a few years back when he had a proper bike. It looks a bit like that outside today with a proper wintery minus five frost and ice on every flat surface. Obviously that’s not our back garden in the picture nor does it have Steve in it right now. Which is good, because much as I like Steve, he and I have a drinking game that started about five years ago and shows no sign of abating until we’re both hospitalised with Liver cirrhosis.

It’s a simple format; turn up at the pub and start drinking until one of us falls over. And fun as it is, 10am is probably not the best time to play it.

EDIT: I’m stunned. Two bits of free to use technology working first time and without any difficult rooting around in the complex underbelly of the hedgehog. Which makes it exactly the opposite of almost any Microsoft product. I’ve decided today is Microsoft bashing day and I bet their quaking.

I’ve already had quite alot to say about the sheer pointlessness of devices that claim to do anything you could ever possibly want but, in reality, do nothing very well at all. My SmartPhone nestles perfectly into this category with it’s head banging slowness, bastardised Windows apps and general unsuitability for making an receiving calls.

Occasionally though, the camera is quite fun.

If this works, it’s a direct post from Flickr. So I fully expect this picture to turn up on some other poor buggers’ blog. Good job I decided not the post the one with the goat then.

EDIT: Bloody Hell, that’s clever. I can now post pictures directly from the useless, over-hyped, irritatingly smug annoyance of the phone to the blog. How did I ever manage to survive without that?

Technology has the habit of creating fantastic solutions for which their are no obvious problems. You don’t agree? I give you Windows Vista and, at which point, the defense rests.

It does seem unnecessarily brutal to declare open season on grouse and pheasants on the Glorious 12th or whatever it is. Because these birds are already heading towards extinction without dying of natural causes. I mean what could be more natural than being chased across a wild moor by blokes with sticks, desperately lumbering into the air to escape and then being blown into a thousand pieces by an aristocratic inbred called Toby with a thousand acres and a shotgun?

No, these birds are going the same way as the Dodo with their slavish adherence to a road crossing style that lacks a certain survivability. They stand there safe on the side of the road, cocking their heads and looking stupid and static until the EXACT MOMENT you are beyond any safe braking zone. Then “ belying an acceleration not obviously anatomically possible with those chicken legs “ they take a bead on the centre of your bonnet and make a spirited beaklong plunge under the wheels.

The first time this happened was back in my student days when we lacked both money and any common sense. So before you could say botulism alert�?, we backed over it to make sure, chucked it in the boot and took it home with us. After plucking it using all the fastidious preparation techniques one can apply with a fireaxe, we hung it in the garage and waited for the smell to subside.

Disappointingly, the final carve up merited only a buffet pork pie’s worth of meat and a slimy, gamey taste that lingered for days afterwards. So when it happened again more recently, I just sighed, got out and beat it to death with a tyre iron. It’s the way it would have wanted to go I think.

On Sunday, a third bird made swift passage under the nearside wheel and a glance in the mirror revealed it had not been a killing blow. Now my car “ racily awarded Towing car of the year” by What Caravan “ does not have a tyre iron or a jack or anything else traditionally useful for braining stupid animals. Well it may do, but they’ll be hidden away under flaps, widgets and flanges and I felt putting the poor thing out of its’ misery was of a higher priority than reading than ringing the garage, and asking where the sharp things were kept. Clearly not in the drivers seat.

All that came to hand was a rolled up copy of the Times. This seemed a little cruel to admonish the pheasant for its’ stupidity by applying said newspaper across the nose in the manner of puppy punishment. It might have killed it but only through boredom and anyway I hadn’t even started the crossword.

It’s mad eye rotated frantically, but that was the only thing that was moving unless you count some unpleasant twitching. I couldn’t leave it there in pain so “ sighing again “ off came the shoe and the poor sod was dispatched. The single killing blow I was aiming for was compromised because half of my body “ the bit with the eyes in it “ was turning the other way. So only when the tarmac had been given a good kicking did my random flailings finally deliver the coup de grace.

I’m not sure kicking it into a ditch and throwing some soil over it constitutes a decent burial but the whole episode hardly rang out with dignity.

If I’m reincarnated, I have a nasty feeling that there may be squawking and shotguns in my next life.

This is clearly the month for rubbish retro sci-fi gags even after my pithy Battlestar Gallactica pun failed to crack a smile. It did however trigger a scarily intense e-mail from one of my more “ how can I put this politely “ factually keen readers. Apparently they didn’t do Hyperspace in the original BC except in episode 37 when Bulbon the Destroyer Of Sprouts tricked Captain Picard into handing over the Flux Capacitor. Or something like that, but whatever let me just air my response in public “ I DON’T FUCKING CARE, ALRIGHT?

Glad we’ve cleared that up.

Anyway in preparation for a date with a destiny, that I would happily have run over broken glass to break, my early evening reading was the refreshingly kaftan Mung Bean Times incorporating ˜What Lentil’. Yes, dear readers, I’m going to admit on an open blog “ or Chronicle of Angst as I’m increasingly thinking of it as “ that a relatively healthy and not totally mental bloke went to Yoga.

The vision that’s impossible to shake is made up of a room full of Cassandras’ and Skys’ clothed in tie-die shirts and leg warmers, chanting runic base lines and inserting purple painted toes into jewellery infested ears. Add a dash of dreary music easily categorised into relaxing tunes to slash your wrists by” and some way out hippy imploring us to locate our inner child, and the whole foot laceration begins to look like the less painful option.

Obviously there were no blokes except me and a few of the women were certainly of the original bra burning generation. But not all of them “ one of which was my wife as I cravenly refused to go on my own. In case someone gave me a jostick and insisted on adorning my person with occult jewellery. And as for the instructor “ well let me tell about Darcie, who is supple enough to throw a leg carelessly into the next room while elegantly rotating on a single finger. And “ apparently I didn’t really notice as Carol was yoga-matted right next to me “ she was pretty damn hot too. Fellas, consider this “ extremely athletic, the perfect figure and probably susceptible to the odd recreational pharmaceutical. Quite a combination I should think, if I were thinking about it. Which I’m not but the rest of you, go fill your boots. Or something.

Anyway it was bloody hard “ stop sniggering at the back “ and while ladies who lunch stretched languid muscles with irritating ease, I was all trembling veins and slouchy posture. Twenty years of cycling has reduced my hamstrings to a length better suited to a 10 year old child. Whereas my flexibility would be better matched to an 80 year old man with arthritis. Or possibly rigour mortis.

Blokes generally like lifting big weights or sweating in a manly manner while sucking in their gut and thrusting everything pelvic in the opposite direction. But this isn’t like that at all, it’s all the pain you can handle by pitting opposing muscles in an uber bitch fight and there really aren’t any winners. Except “ and it’s not without some grudging am I writing this “ an hour later, all sorts of previously unseen rotational vistas had opened up.

Thankfully for all my stereotyping, mung bean made a late entry into proceeding when we all had a much needed lie down with the lights off. Someone even brought a blanket. I was doing my best to relax but¦ (edited for reasons of not wishing to die horribly by cheese grater) instead found myself thinking that this wasn’t quite as silly as originally envisaged.

As the great man/dwarf/Jedi may once have said Practise the art of Yoga or touch your toes you will not”. I had a far better line for the old loppy eared one but the thought of the cheese grater made me reconsider.