Holy what. Yeah, I really have just gone and fallen off the face of the earth as of late, haven't I?
There's no way I can possibly recall everything that's gone on, though something tells me nothing significant has been happening anyway. At least, not until the last few days. I've been here in Aberystwyth with fabifox, squatting in Tarek & Holly's flat (nothing untoward, Fabi's simply caretaking until they come back from Ireland... also, he had nowhere else to go). And while it's been nice to be away, in reality I came down here to attend to some Serious Business™. That being: we now have a flat of our own here in Aberystwyth. I am finally moving the hell out. If I'm totally honest, I'm bricking it somewhat. It's been looming for ages and ages, but it's never really clicked that it'd ever eventually happen. But yeah... once I've seen my contract at Sainsbury's out (oh aye, I quit on Monday, so I'll be shot of it on the morning of Monday, 22nd July), I'll be moving down here. Not got a job yet, but I'm working on it.
Over the past few days, or rather over the past few nights owing to my nocturnal lifestyle, Fabi and I have been tramping around in the dark looking for small tupperwares containing random trinkets. They're called geocaches, and you locate them via GPS co-ordinates you get from the game's website. From there, you proceed to have a good rummage, add your own tat, write in the logbook... I suppose it's quicker for me to just post some voice recordings I made at the time rather than bang up a hee-uge missive.
We were looking for this cache, and were somewhat flummoxed by the thick spiky gorse bushes everywhere.
Same cache, which we triumphantly found after much drunken stumbling.
I made this recording while looking for this cache. Having taken the very, very scenic route down a steep, gorse-laden bush in the dark. Apparently, Fabi actually picked it up but then failed to recognise it, something he's only realised in hindsight.
Finding another cache the following night. Absolute utter darkness, and patchy GPS made this one quite tricky. Bugs evrywhere, too. Fun, though.
Right: I'll leave it there, I think. Gotta get packed up and bugger off back to Flint. Straight to work at midnight for a lovely lovely eight hour shift. Grmbl.
"I once killed a pensioner in... oh, are we still doing just expenses? I'll shut up, then." Alun
For whatever reason while sat here at the golden arches in Flint, imbibing crap coffee and eating pancakes notable only for their ridiculous sugar content, I felt suddenly compelled to whack a quick update out on my now sorely-negelected LiveJournal. Go with me on this one.
For the most part, I'm sort of just waiting. The big move out to Aberystwyth is basically on the verge of finally happening; soon as Fabi gives me the nod that he's secured somewhere nice, I'll be off. Well, over the course of about a month I will be, hopefully. Right now, there's nothing major to report. I'll say again, if you care to read my bitesized, nonsensical warblings you're best off checking me out on Twitter right now. Go there, search for the ubiquitous 'felixandrews'. I can't be arsed URL-fudging on my iPhone.
Oh: and Sainsbury's have, predictably, halved our annual bonus. They're wankers, but then we all knew that, no? Right, that'll do for now. Once I'm out and settled, it's my full intention to get back in the saddle and maintain my online presence a little more effectively (like you even care). For now, please bear with us as we sort out these technical difficulties. By which I currently mean: I have to cycle home in the rain, wearing only a shirt and trousers. Oh joy.
"It's my duty to inform you there is no candy in that office." Alun
It occurs to me that perhaps I'm not using this blogging symposium as much as I perhaps should. Mainly, that's down to me being stuck using an iPhone for my web-based shenanigans for the next few months - or at least until they allow me to tether it to my laptop and pipe my connection that way. If you still actually give a damn about my intermittent thought processes, you should probably go look me up on Twitter as, given the site's mobile-friendly nature, that's where most of my musing's currently at.
I'm actually off to Pan's for the weekend as I type this, so I should be able to post something a little more thorough in due course.
"I love this song - and I love it when amateurs sing the lyrics! But I hate baseball cards!" Alun
Life's been dull, much like always. Normally that wouldn't stop me from whacking out the odd entry here and there. What has knackered my flow (so to speak) is my acquisition of a new mobile phone. An iPhone, to be specific. As a device in itself, it's very nice indeed - capable of a lot more than my old Sony Ericsson was. The problem with it though is that, at present, I can't tether it to my laptop and hijack its data connection - which is what I've been reliant on for my online life, seen as my folks are such arseholes about the wired broadband (still hooked up singularly to my Dad's godawful desktop machine). Apparently when the iPhone OS 3.0 launches, tethering will be enabled - but until then, I'm stuck on the handset itself.
Anyhow! I went out yesterday for a nice day out in Cheshire Oaks with lighthisdeath, her girlfriend and panthras, and it was really rather good to get away from it all. Owing to my nocturnal lifestyle, I don't get to see people all that often - and even this time I was a tad comatose, seen as I'm normally asleep during the day. We saw The Haunting in Conneticut, a godawful psychological horror film that made absolutely no sense and wasn't even particularly scary - just very silly indeed. About the only memorable moment was a couple in the back corner who were so unimpressed with the picture they decided to get 'friendly', rather loudly. At least, I hope they were bored. I don't want to consider the idea that corpses and eyelid removal managed to somehow get them in the mood.
After that debacle we traipsed around stores, wherein Lynx and Kyo became very involved with a series of animal glove puppets. Then came Pan's arrival, coffee, a Chinese meal at Fuxion (fuck's he on?) and then even more coffee. I barely remember the details, but then I was barely awake for much of the time. I really enjoyed it, though -really nice to see everyone again.
Next week I'm off to Aberystwyth for a few days to see Fabi and Ed, possibly get together some of the particulars about the move in September (though probably not, as it's still a bit soon to be making any real headway on it), and generally mess around. I'm fitting the trip uncomfortably snugly around work, i.e. when I come back, I'll be going to Sainsbury's, not straight home, so I'll just have to see how that pans out. Also, on the May bank holiday we're planning on getting Fabi up here for a long weekend at Pan's place, but I'm not sure I can get the time away and neither is Fabi, so it may be a bit of a non-starter. We shall see.
Aside from that, life's not really up to much. My job's really knackering my personal life, and it's nowhere near fulfilling or well paid enough to be allowed to do that. Summer's looking like a bit of a write-off. Everything's sort of on hold until that move down to Aber, really. It's too damn far off.
"You do know that phrase wasn't meant to actually warn cats, don't you?" Alun
As I lie in bed waiting for my sedatives to kick in, I'm compelled to ask you all for something. Hope I can finish before I pass out - the fact that I'm punching this out through a numeric phone keypad means the odds are somewhat against me.
I'm extremely fraught, for various complicated reasons I shan't be going into here, but one thing has become patently obvious - I'm not a good guy. There are things wrong with me, and a lot of them. To cut to the chase, what I'm asking for you to do for me is provide an insight that I don't seem to be able to provide for myself. I want you to hold me accountable for my faults, my errors and my flaws. I don't care how trivial it may seem, how little right you may feel you have to be critical: be brutal, be contrite be cutting - but above all, be square with me. Generally, specifically, whatever. I need this.
And whatever you do, please don't try to be nice, to aussage my fears. Though the kindness is ordinarily appreciated, here and now it will do nothing to help me.
Been a strangely eventful day, today the other day, when I actually started writing this.
But where are my manners? It's been a good couple of weeks since I last got bored enough to warrant writing anything here, so I suppose I'd better detail what's been going on since then. Gives the whole place a sense of narrative logic, see? Without that there'd just be anarchy. Actually... I'll get back to that in a bit.
We're another dog down, although this one isn't dead, just being rehomed for his own good. Seth's been having trouble living with the rest of the pack for a while, now - he was frequently attacked by Amos and other dogs at shows and as such, he's been getting a little pre-emptive. It's a shame really, because he was just starting to develop quite a likeable personality after years of being quite aloof. He's down the road at my uncle's place until Saturday - I really must go visit him before he's gone for good.
I've been pulling nights at work for the last couple of weeks now - it's been tough going, but after a bit of nocturnal acclimitisation, I'm coping well enough. I'm not all that quick at things yet, much to the chagrin of some (read: one) of my colleagues, but in fairness I still don't really know my way around the rest of the store yet, having been stuck in the alcohol department since I started last summer. It'll come to me, in time. And even if it doesn't, I only have to last out a few months without getting sacked, anyway. Last week's been pretty awesome too, in that I was meant to be on holiday, but was asked to work through it. In conjunction with the extra day I also worked, it means that I was both consummately ham-shaggered and also effectively on £15 an hour. Which in fairness, is particularly nice. I'm supposed to have a fortnight's vacation in mid-March, but if I get asked to work that as well I'll be hard-pressed to resist. Adjusting my sleeping-pattern to suit the midnight-8am shift has been a little trying, but I think I've got it sussed now. I use a mild sedative, diphenhydramine (or generic Nytol) to help me sleep during the day, and it's really effective stuff. On days where I'm not working (and thus wide awake until about 5am) I've been crashed out in front of the TV with headphones plugged in, watching delicious House on DVD. Which is actually real nice...
It's a little terrifying to consider that in a little over three months, I'm supposed to be upping sticks and moving to Aberystwyth. Terrifying, but very exciting. It turns out that edilith wants to move in with myself and fabifox, which will make things proportionally cheaper and awesomerererer. Honestly, I genuinely can't wait to get the ball rolling on this one. Massive telly, my own desk, functional Interporns and scintillating company. Bitte schön.
Lastly today, do check out this particularly awesome little sketch of my girl Gemelli I had commissioned by Pachwork. ( BEST DELICIOUSNESS ) Also, go and get Dead Space. It's going cheap lately, and it's superb, shit-you-up-good-and-proper fun. I particularly enjoy maiming abominable creatures in zero-G environments and then hurling around their entrails with a kinesis beam. Yes. Oh, and it turns out I'm an anarchist, kind of. As in, an anarchist in the classical sense of the word - someone who disagrees with rulers, not rules. Which I discovered when I was reading a BBC News article about skinheads going speed-dating. Hmm!
Not long before I mount my trusty steed and hurl myself towards Flint to pull my first graveyard shift. I haven't had a lot of sleep, so I'm probably going to be suitably ham-shaggered at the end of it. Wouldn't be so bad if it weren't for the fact that straight afterward, I'm off to Glan Clwyd hospital to have my barium x-ray done. No idea how long that'll take, but the whole shebang is going to utterly tank my sleeping pattern. Still: the actual job looks like it'll be really rather not-so-bad. As in, it'll be a lot like my last job, but without Evil Tom. In his place is a guy called Dean, who I've yet to meet but have declared infinitely superior because he's managed to sort out my remaining holidays in a hugely professional manner. Having been used to get consummately dicked around over this sort of thing in the past, this level of good old efficiency is hugely refreshing.
So aye... I've got six days from the 15th-20th of this month, then a honking great two weeks off on March 8th-20th, neither of which I have a clue what to do with. Any ideas, anyone? I have literally no plans, right now. I have a faint itch to actually draw some proper 'finished' work (for what would be the first time in about two years), but not quite enough inclination to scratch it. Meh. I'd better be allowed to sleep properly. If my family start waking me up, skulls will be getting carelessly dislodged from spinal columns. Ahem. That is all!
Having recovered from my ordeal with Napoleon Bonapastry, I returned to work the following day with a sore gullet and a keen eye. See, work are wanting some bad dude to join the night shift, where nocturnalism reigns and the hourly rate is £1.45 above par. Seen as I'd be getting shot of a lot of the hassle of my previous role, wouldn't have to talk to any of the irritating managerial types anything like as much and would effectively counteract the recent loss of seven hours a week, I couldn't really pass it up. The extra money for the move will be absolutely invaluable. So, barring any hiccups in the paperwork I'm good to go from the 8th February onward. I work from midnight until 8am on Thursday/Friday, Friday/Saturday, Saturday/Sunday and Sunday/Monday - thus meaning I have 8am Monday through midnight on Thursday to myself. I can't quite figure out if I'm getting a good deal or not regarding my time off, seen as I'm not sure how well I'll deal with the shift in my sleeping pattern - I think I'll be sleeping after work rather than before it as I do now. But honestly, when I'm on holiday or out of work, I always tend to become a bit of an owl. I don't think I'll find it too difficult.
Let's have a think.
I don't quite get where I'm going with my life, right now. I mean, I'm moving out, or I sincerely hope I am. Had my reservations about doing it in the way I am for a while, but now I'm dead-set on going. Beyond that, however... I'm coming up somewhat short. I'm not educated, and I don't think I'm ever really going to have the means to pursue anything in that field again - quite apart from the fact that even if I did, I have no idea what I'd study. I don't think I have a passion for anything I could apply academically. I could be wrong though, because I'm worryingly poor and being self-analytical about anything of real importance.
This leaves pursuing a vocation - an apprenticeship or something similar. Short term this is the only realistic option for me, but I'm not sure I'm going to find anything I have any real passion for. And if I don't have any passion for something, I tend not to put any effort into it. I'm not really keen on the idea of rolling back into the industrial sector and, times being as they are, I probably won't be able to anyway (on a side note, I am quite sick of this recession shite). I'll have to see what's going around Aberystwyth way, as while I'm told opportunities are good, I'm not really sure exactly what those opportunities even are. I say I have no idea about what I want to do with myself, but strictly speaking that's not really true. What I really want to do is at least supplement my living with something artistic. I've long wanted to make a serious effort to pursue my creative streak, as I'm sure regular readers are sick of hearing - I do wonder whether or not the change of scenery, and in particular an increase in personal space, will actually aid that. There's always the possibility that my enthusiasm and the encouragements of others are all bollocks and that I'm actually just a dull, talentless hack.
I find it hard to gague what people think of me, too. I seem to keep losing touch with people I'm quite fond of, and it makes me wonder if people see the fact that I'm an alright, relatively inoffensive kind of guy in the beginning and then lose interest because, well, there's not an awful lot else there. I feel - and this may not actually have any bearing on reality - that I'm a pretty insubstantial, abrasive, unlovable individual who, by conventional measures, isn't much 'fun'. That, and everyone just ends up leaving me behind because I'm generally a bit of a failure. I feel a bit pointless, all in all. I'm not really any good at making other people happy, and I'm no longer able to keep myself happy either. Which would be ostensibly fine, if I were any use - but there's nothing doing in that department, either. The solution's simple in theory - get up and do something. The thing is, I don't know what that 'something' is, really... honestly, I need a gentle poke in the right direction on this, really. Let's not even start on romantic relationships, either. I'm fairly screwed up in that respect, so it's something of a non-starter, even if I did stumble upon an available Fraulein Richtig. Ahem.
Thanks for listening, and I apologise if I've not made much sense... I'm not great at articulating myself on matters like these. Commentary of any sort is much obliged, even if it is just in the name of a cheap laugh. I dunno. I'll shut up, now.
The story begins on Wednesday night with myself, hungry, on the prowl for something to sate my hunger. I spied a pack of croissants on top of the breadbin and proceeded to warm and butter them thoroughly. I take a bite eagerly... and proceed to get it wedged in my throat. Past my trachea, so I could still breathe - but it completely blocked up my oesophagus. I was utterly unable to swallow even a mouthful of water - it just welled up in my throat. In a show of characteristic stupidity, I decided to sleep on it after being unable to completely hack up the offending Gallic foodstuff. Sleep, of course, wasn't something I got a lot of - as the spittle in my mouth had nowhere to drain to, I had to constantly spit into a bowl all night, which wasn't much fun as you can imagine. In the morning my Dad and I trundled off to the cottage hospital in Holywell, and when we found that was shut we got referred to Glan Clwyd in Bodelwyddan, where I was shunted from pillar to post and eventually given an intravenous muscle relaxant to stop my gullet from spasming. It's been a long time since I've had a canula put in, and I didn't enjoy it any more than I did last time... I've always had a pretty bad phobia regarding needles and injections. I lay on a bed in the ward for a while afterward, allowed the drugs to work, caught up on some sleep... it was quite pleasant actually, seen as I was supposed to be in work. They were thinking about doing an endoscopy of my throat, but after the blockage cleared they decided there wasn't really much point. Instead, I'll be digesting a barium isotope and getting my irradiated innards x-rayed on the 9th February.
So yeah... I'm an idiot, partially. Not that you didn't already know that, I suppose.
Always seems to be I forget to write things up here around this time of year. I wouldn't mind, but it's not like I've had all that much in the way of distractions.
I'm not long back from a few days hunched up in Aberystwyth with fabifox, actually. Nothing spectacular happened, but we went up a hill in the dead of night, watched a cool Italian gangster biopic called Gomorrah at the Aber Uni cinema and general frivolities were partaken of. I think more than anything, I grew fond of the town itself during my stay. See, I'm supposed to be going to live there with Fabi by this summer and if I'm honest, I've been slightly hesitant about it all up until now. I knew I needed out, but I wasn't really sure that Aber was somewhere I wanted to be - but the more time I spend there, the more I feel it's going to be a good thing for me. It's a nice joint with plenty of things to see and do, as it turns out... so yeah. I'm itching to get settled more than ever, I think.
We also developed something of an obsession with a truly brilliant indie game called World of Goo. I've always believed in supporting independent developers, but even if you're not arsed about giving your currency to the little guy, this game is still relevant to you, because no word of no lie, it's probably the best game of 2008. Period. The central design principle of building wobbly structures is genius enough in and of itself, but the way in which they then expand upon that central concept in every concievable (and often inconcievable) direction and then veneer it with a charming Tim Burton-esque art style and witty, satirical and hugely geeky monologues... it's been a long time since I played something that's clearly had so much love poured into it. World of Goo is available through the 2D Boy website (linked beforehand) for $20, through Steam, Direct2Drive, Greenhouse and other download sources. You can also get a Wii version through the WiiWare download service for 1,500 Wii Points. Get out there and buy it, you bastards. MOM™ knows best.
I was informed towards the end of my time away however, that one of the Danes, Amos, had to be put down. Word is that he lost his rag and tried to attack my mother, wouldn't back down when he was told either. He's had a short fuse for a while now and he was prone to squaring off at the other dogs, but this is the first I've heard of him being indiscriminately aggressive. So they rang the vet and had him euthanised up at our field, where he was buried as well. It's sad really, because when he wasn't flipping his lid he was a nice guy, and it breaks my heart to think that I'll never see him again - but at the same time, however bad I feel it's nothing to what my mother must have had to go through. I'll make no bones about it - there's no way she'd have made that decision unless she absolutely had to.
In other news, work has cut my hours from 39 a week down to 32 - and much as I like having the extra free time, the £160/month I'm suddenly not earning is decidedly less palatable. I'm told it's a temporary measure owing to budget mismanagement over Christmas, but I frankly don't believe them. Meh. I might look into getting another part-time job to balance the books. We'll see. Also, Christmas and New Year's happened - but only just. Really, nothing of note happened, other than I worked a lot. Still, somehow I came out of the traditional spending season in a state of near financial solvency (well, relatively), so I guess it's not all bad. Right - it's unsociably late, so I'll quit now, methinks. Don't expect much in the way of news from me - there's nothing doing in the immediacy, far as I can remember. I might have a bit of a moan about something, but then I also might forget and, well, not. Tension!
"There's a big chunk of metallic rape coming my way!" Alun
Somehow, I've managed to survive twenty-three years without being run down by traffic, chargrilled by an electrical socket or slain by a wayward grand piano. Proof, were it needed, that the universe is governed by truly inexplicable forces.
Not much happened, and barring a few comments of Facebook most people forgot. Myself included, actually. I went out to Chester to get some Christmas shopping, came back to a family on the edge. Pretty miserable, really. Though I did see two men on tricycles with huge sombreros. And me without my camera!
As for the Christmas period... well, you might as well write it off as far as I'm concerned. Next Wednesday is the only day I get off between now and the 25th, so it's a good job my frugal-as-fuck shopping is mostly taken care of. Same goes for New Year, which is a huge shame, seen as how last year's with Pan, Fabi and Ed was so nice. Work in it itself has been horrendous as of late. Glossing over the fact I've been working at Sainsbury's for seven months now, I had my six-month review the other day, and shit did not go down well, cap'n. I'm quite willing to admit that my department's got its problems, but the fact is I keep that place running as smoothly as I can do under the circumstances, and a lot of the things that were cited are a long way from being my fault. I don't think I adequately fought my own corner really - well, in actual fact I was in tears owing to my wobbly nerves - fact is though, I think the implication is that I could potentially be turfed out the door in about a month's time "if things don't improve". Wasn't said explicitly, but the implication was there. Good job I'm in with the union, then - I'd have enough problems with this if I actually was avoidably screwing up (if I actually started faffing around not doing my job, half the warehouse would be irrevocably clogged up), but the fact of the matter is they've got no business pushing me around like this. I feel the need for a little retribution, I do.
Lastly today, I got the preliminary sketchwork the other day for a conbadge I bought from the über-talented Sangluna during RBW. ( Culinary manliness after the break! ) Bloody marvellous, it is - can't wait to see it finished up. Take care of yourselves out there. I'm not going to bloody do it.
So, I left last Wednesday for London and the RBW convention, and arrived home late Monday night. How was it, you ask? Meh. And I say 'meh' in the most ambiguous manner possible, as really I have no idea how I feel about it. It doesn't really help that the damn thing's held in the capital, as country bumpkins like myself are spending so long adjusting to the accelerated pace of the place that it somewhat distracts things. Everything is ludicrously expensive, too - we were thinking of catching a movie in Leicester Square and were duly horrified to discover it would cost us £12 - twice what I pay anywhere else in the country.
The Series of Tubes are pretty nice - a lot less hectic than I remember them being last time I visited, thanks in part to the Oyster card scheme, which really speeds up going through the turnstiles. Thing is though, I had a problem with my card. The card itself costs £3, and I wanted £10 of credit put onto it. The attendant gives me a sheepish, apologetic look as she tells me she put one too many zeroes into the card processing machine and ended up charging me £130 for the damn thing. I got it reimbursed, but thanks to the vagaries of the banking system it can take up to a week for them to credit my account with the refund, whereas they're all too keen to take my money out almost immediately. This, along with a £100 bank charge apparently dating from last month that came from fuck-knows-where, left me on the back foot as far as cashflow was concerned - to put it mildly. Good job I get paid this Friday - I might have to grovel to my folks about deferring rent until the New Year, though. Annoying, especially seen as I was all set to hit some kind of relative financial stability this month, too. I'm terrified the bank's going to do something nasty. They do have Krispy Kreme doughnuts in London, though. I've never seen them anywhere else in the UK, but I hope to high heaven they get around to nationalising them sooner rather than later. Portable diabetes they may be, but man alive... what a way to go. The maple syrup ones in particular are practically narcotic. We ate rather a lot of them, until we were quite ill.
Anyway, before I get too bogged down - the convention itself was badly-organised and woefully lacking in any real substance, but still somehow managed to have its moments, most of which were fuelled by the people rather than the setting. I actually spent a large part of it all perched in the 'Dealers Den', an area in which budding artists can flog their wares to the rest of the con-goers. Unlike last year's Anthrocon, I wasn't blatantly the least talented person in the room. Just like Anthrocon however, I didn't get much in the way of meaningful work. One or two commissions of a droll and eerily similar subject matter. But then, as I put it - it's hard to market yourself to people who have no money. That said, one guy whose work is roughly equivalent to the standard I was at a decade ago, managed to make about four times as much money. A little galling, really - but then, I don't really have a knack for customer rapport when I'm busy being a manic-depressive about the standards of my work. The first day in the Den was notable in that I was sandwiched between panthras (who was the Nazi Germany to my Poland) and a purveyor of freaky sex toys. No, really. It's just not possible to take anything seriously under those conditions, with the people gathered to your right slapping each other across the face with improbably-proportioned silicone animal phalluses. Equally improbably, said prosthetic penis salesman was actually a pretty cool guy, very open about his trade and quite willing to let me use his awesome laser printer to rattle off a few references. A less likely friend I never have made. He accidentally left behind a (mercifully) packaged silver shaft on my desk as I returned for day two, to which I drunkenly mused "...have I been given a complimentary vibrator?"
But aye... there were lots of odd little moments (remember any more, Pan, Fabi?), like my little session belting out falsetto glam-rock songs on Rock Band; us musing about the Tube being converted into a commuter rollercoaster as a man in a crocodile outfit rode alongside us; laughing like drains at Top Gear (is it bad that something on television was probably the highlight of the week?); meeting and greeting a small selection of wonderfully nice and talented artsy-types - and so on and so forth. I think with a little more prior planning from all concerned, RBW could grow into something pretty decent. As it stood though, it was pretty shambolic, especially when it came to the timetabling. While patrons went off the schedule posted on the website, staff appeared to be organising things based on an entirely different concept of the passage of time. Hmm. There was a boat party on the Thames on the Saturday night, wherein I failed to have much fun, seen as I barely knew anyone, don't touch alcohol and was wearing too little to bear the biting cold on the roof (so as to watch the city drift by). Mind you, there was also a wonderful exchange we had with minor furry 'royalty' while we were there:
Fabi: Oh hi, who are you? Crome: I'm Crome. Fabi, Myself:[vacant expression] Crome: My mate (shudder) owns FurAffinity. Myself: Ohhhh... I'm sorry to hear that. Fabi: Where's the search?
My mother has this irritating habit of opening all the windows and doors, ostensibly to 'let the house air out'. Thing is, what with the air temperature erring a little near zero centigrade right now, this tends to result in coldness where no man has any business being cold. And she wonders why we're all constantly ill.
Also, I'm back at work, and my God is it depressing. In fairness, work has actually been done in my absence for once - but management are doing their utmost to evoke Delicious Rage™ from all and sundry. About two weeks ago, shortly before I left for RBW (which they'd managed to completely forget about) I was called to the office for a discussion with Tom and Paul regarding my work-rate, which was apparently too low for their liking. They've never really had much of a grounding in reality. Their conclusion was I need to be more efficient, and since then they've done almost everything possible to make efficiency utterly impossible. Seriously cannot be arsed with this anymore. I'm hanging on until March/April for that 3% bonus and then I'm off, ASAP. Fabi keeps on about a flatshare in Aberystwyth, and while I've been hesitant over the past few months about the idea for various reasons, it seems like a really good idea about now. I kinda need this. Oh: also, ( Puppy #10 ) IT NEVER ENDS.
Right... off to bed. For once it seems I have no real short-to-mid term plans - nothing doing for either my birthday (although major thanks to panthras for that incoming Muzz commission), Christmas or New Year. So I dunno... I guess I'll write again whenever something happens. May not be for some time, so, you know... turn the lights off on your way out. Cheers, boss.
“Ah it's me on Houston station. ___ from me own bay really. London's a lot bigger than I remember it. In 5 yrs since I've been here so little bit dawned on me hideously lost already and yeah I'm waiting for David to turn up. Should be about 20 mins or so then we just heading out over town. No idea what we doing. Harry turns up tomorrow, the con is on from there on so to speak and then yeah that's about it really. It's a funny old place this. I've seen 2 Cartney Bailey Kings and lot of builders and Buckingham Palace is tiny. Anyway hope you're all well. I'll probably you know I bet you all ___. I can be asked.”
I got asked something by a customer today. It's been asked before, and it's always well-intentioned and off-the-cusp, but that doesn't stop it from stinging.
"What are you doing here?"
It's not something I really have an excuse for, after all. I come from what many would view as a pretty enviable position, that of being theoretically able to do quite a bit of what I put my mind to. I'm not being boastful - it's the honest truth. I'm not an idiot... or at least I wasn't. Could've been an artist, linguist, writer, programmer, lawyer, scientist... instead of which, I am none of these. I'm not only none of these, I'm none of any. A non-entity. A failed person. I don't know what it is I want to do with my life - which is fine, in principle. If you can get away with having an inadvertantly fulfilling existence then more power to you. As it stands with me however, I'm both directionless and miserable. For the time being, I've just given up on any sense of ambition I might have had. Whereas before I was drifting because I didn't know how to do what I want to do, now I'm devoid of propulsion because I don't know how to make myself want to do what I wanted to do. If that makes any sense. I have that feeling where I really need to talk to people, but have no idea what I'd talk about, if you catch my drift. And hey - if you don't, I can't say I blame you.
Weirdly, I've spent the last while reading my LiveJournal, backwards. Inexorably regressing into the past. Bugger me, I was practically cheerful back then. And the comments... so many comments! People used to give a toss about all this bollocks I write! What the hell happened?
Oh - I've stumbled upon a truly awesome little service known as TunesBag, which lets you upload music and share it, in seemingly limitless quantities. Sounds illegal, no? Well, because it's hosted in Austria, apparently not. Currently it's in closed beta, but I just happen to have the ability to invite people in. bossgoji, I'm thinking you in particular would totally dig this service, but if anyone wants in, leave us a comment and I'll fling a link into your email. It's a bit special, is this.
RBW this time next week, which is terrifying. As expected, I've done no work, but to be honest I couldn't give a toss about that anymore. If I feel like it, I'll scribble while I'm there - if not, well who cares anyway? I'm just looking forward to being in London for a bit... I've managed to get a return coach for £11, which is crazy-good-value. So yeah... I'm looking forward to it, I guess. My opinion seems to change every damn day, but that's just me being me, I guess. Ho-hum.
Basement Jaxx - U Don't Know Me (JaxxHouz Klubmix)
]
Today's predominent bioneurochemical result is a feeling of utter despair, but as that's mainly down simply to me being a bit of a dick (again), I'll neatly sidestep the whys and wherefores and just talk about the actual going-ons of my life. Which in fairness, have been pretty cool - just clouded in a funk as dense as cold Marmite. Unfortunate!
Foremost, fabifox and I made the trek to an unassuming restaurant in Newcastle Emlyn, to attend an event that future generations will know as Chips With Llamasoft. Because that's what it was. Yes. Actually, the journey itself was a little interesting... after getting a bus into Cardigan we then had to get a taxi to take us the last leg into Emlyn itself. Public transport in south-west Wales is, for the record, fucking abominable. Anyhow - our taxi driver was a bit of a character... as Fabi put it, he was a bit like a certain hairdresser who unfortunately I can't find a YouTube video of to illustrate my point. But never mind: we know what we mean. Said driver is also an author... an author of some decidedly off the wall fictional literature. For instance, the book he's currently writing (I think it's to be called The Life and Times of a River, or something) is told from the perspective of a duck. Who is eventually has his feet frozen into a river and is eaten by foxes. Apparently, this is all described in quite graphic detail. He also spoke of a book about a cockney who could only speak French, though whether or not he's actually the writer of this tale, we couldn't quite make out. But yes... quite an odd fellow.
We arrived in Emlyn a fashionable twenty minutes late, and duly we wandered into the chippie. It had a seating area in the back where Jeff and Giles would be sat - so of course I naturally wandered through the wrong door and into the kitchen, almost. After some lively cajoling, I finally found the right door and was instantly recognised thanks to my stupid Indiana Jones hat. What followed was a thoroughly pleasant hour of fish, chips, meeting, greeting and casual swearing. Instantly I was derided for being the only one who didn't drink tea, and thereafter we all got along swimmingly. Giles waxed lyrical about the software industry and his experiences with recreational confectionary, Jeff raised the ire of a mother and her precious seven-year-old, spoke of 'paperwork' and belched spectacularly, and the whole affair was... surreal. But quite wonderful at the same time. It's a little odd though - though Minter and Llamasoft came to my attention through my love for videogames like Llamatron, Gridrunner and most recently Space Giraffe, the real common ground between us was something else entirely... let's just say it's a small, surprisingly populous world. Because I'm a grade-A fully-rigged ocean-faring pillock however, I completely forgot to take anything for Minter to sign, whereas Fabi got has Commodore 64 and two of his flatmates' shirts scrawled upon by Jeff ("I can't figure out which way womens clothing goes... I think I've said too much"). Inexcusable, given I have a mint-condition (no pun intended) ZX-81 Spectrum lying around somewhere. But still: there's always next time. We've been cordially invited to meet the sheepies at Llamasoft International Headquarters, see. I'm trying my hardest to remain rational and cool about it, but out of nowhere I'm on speaking terms with a software firm I've always had immense respect for, and there's no denying that's pretty fucking awesome. Oh: happy birthday Giles. I know we got you a card, but we did amateurishly forget to sign it until the last minute.
The rest of the weekend was spent in Aberystwyth with Fabi where, honestly, not a lot happened. We watched a weird B-movie with his flatmates and I saw edilith and her crowd on campus, but I was kinda hazy the whole time for reasons best left undiscussed. For that, I apologise: I'll try harder next time, honest. Though in my defence, your university's idea of 'cake' does amount to a violation of the Geneva Convention. It chemically burned my tongue, for fuck's sakes. I should try drawing something. Probably just going to end up playing Fable II, though. Or maybe watching Season Four of House. For the infintessimally small precentage of the populace who actually give a toss, I still haven't gotten a single thing scribbled up for RBW, and it's four weeks away as I write this. And that is why I fail! Cheerie-bye!
The real ire of my life right now is the way in which I have all these wonderful ideas for sketchwork while I'm out doing my job, complete with pseudo-witty titles and a reasonably detailed M.O. complete with musical accompaniment. Then, when I arrive home to put pen to paper, it all just fizzles away meaninglessly. What little I can recall no longer seems as unequivocally awesome as it did when I was at Sainsbury's in dire need of a distraction. Day in, day out. Skydiving solar-powered soldiers, little purple dresses, caramel, Median Central Station, acrobats, I♥NY, ubiquitous fanservice... some of it's still there, kinda. But it's fuzzy. I don't even get as far as putting pencil to paper, most days. I just keel over and do nothing. Well, not nothing... but nothing useful, certainly. Right now I'm devouring a box of Wine Gums while writing this drivel, for instance.
I'm severely torn up over this... realistically, there's no way I'll have anything produced for RBW so long as this mindset prevails. This whole scribbling malarkey used to be what I lived for... I feel a little abandoned, truth be known. I don't really have anything else to speak of... mrah. Actually, you know what? Maybe there's a reason 'muse' and 'music' share so many letters. I just had a bit of a brainstorm while doing the dishes... I do love my little iPod, sometimes.
In other news: my bike has lost another tyre and my right foot is comprehensively müllered after an ill-advised swing of the leg at work. It's all generally going a bit Pete Tong. Bugger this. Cheer me up, someone. Oh - and happy birthday, Pan-san. I know I said it already, but... posterity is a powerful thing. Actually... no it isn't. I'll shut up, now.
"And then we take the craaabs, and put them on our eeeyes!" Alun
Not much is doing, despite the broad swathe of time between now and my last post. My job is absolutely killing me... management, who really are the only insurmountable obstacles I encounter in my vocation, have been particularly irksome as of late. They decided to tidy the lock-up where all the booze is stored yesterday, as Cath of The Jungle has decided there can be no stock spilingl out into the corridor like before. The problem is, now I'm not even allowed to leave things out temporarily as I work my way to the back (it really is a tiny cage... there's no real room for maneuver), thus exponentially increasing the amount of faff involved in doing my damn job. Tom, my immediate boss and hereby monikered Evil Tom for identification purposes, has been his usual traggoty self, too. I handed in a holiday form to him on September 9th for instance, to book off time at the end of November for the fast-looming RBW. The only reason I remember that date so precisely is because I saw the sheet again only the other day, it having been discarded near checkouts at some point and handed back to me. I was, and still am, quite incensed. So I did the only thing I could think of doing as an act of vengeance: added in a few days off next weekend to go and see Fabi and Ed in Aberystwyth, with way under the four weeks' notice usually required (though because the sheet was dated the ninth of last month, it'd look totally kosher). Handed it in to Evil Tom with my best "¬____¬" face on and watched him squirm. I have no idea if he did it deliberately or not, but either way it's negligence, and if he decides to dick me about any further then I'm getting the union involved. I knew I forgot to cancel my membership for a reason... kinda.
He also wants to change my schedules again, this time to fit around a curious, horrific tradition known as the Plinth Change. Every third week, the promotional shelves at the ends of my aisle have their stock changed, usually resulting in loose bottles everywhere and a general pain in the jugular region. For whatever reason, he wants me to work Wednesdays on these hallowed weeks and take my day off elsewhere. I'm gunning for Saturday, as that'd give me a full weekend to recouperate/go places every once in a while. Evil Tom will probably not be keen, but I need to start hardballing this or he's just going to walk all over me again. It's that, or he can stick it up his arse. My job's absolutely destroying me as a person, simply because I'm too drained, mentally and physically, to make constructive use of my free time. I have an opportunity to correct that, and I've simply got to take it.
So aye. Let's stop talking about my tawdry, pointless job for now. Gets my goat, and it's my fucking goat for a reason, y'know. Next week, hopefully, I'm off to Aber. This is A Good Thing™. Especially as we might try and get down south to finally, finally go for chips with Llamasoft. Giles has been trying to get a hold of us, something I've only just remembered, so I'll have to get onto sorting the particulars as soon as I can.
My phone is self-destructing, it'd seem. If I try to access my stored numbers, it instantaneously borks and gives me the White Screen of Death. Thus, I can't really phone people. Kind of defeats the whole point of a 'mobile telephone' if you think about it. Might see if I can milk T-Mobile for a replacement. Maybe even a nice new model. We shall see.
Also, looming worryingly close is the aforementioned RBW. Last time I went to London was five and a half years ago to get my Gamecube signed by Shigeru Miyamoto, so it'll be good to see the place again. I remember it as being pretty awesome, and I've got a lot more time to explore the place this time around. That, and there's a boat party as part of the con'. I am so going swimming in the Thames if it gets dull. But yeah... I'm forming plans to actually produce work for sale there. Having spent forever looking for something I can use to present stuff in A5 (it turns out I'm being quite obtuse in going for that particular dimension), I think I'm going to get a binder with various random pieces hurled in, and sell them off individually. Prices vary based on how good the work actually is and also whether or not I actually want to sell it. Need to work up conbadges, too. Of course, this is all well and good - but if I don't do the work, it's all bollocks really, isn't it? The internet distracts me, so I'll be trying to stay offline for a bit to get things sorted out. If you desperately need me for anything, email or text me. I see now that this con' represents a chance for me to turn things around for myself as an 'artist', and I really should be grasping that with both hands.
Oh, and Amos' health is actually improving quite drastically, if you were wondering. He had an MRI scan and it seems the problem with his spine is a lot smaller than was thought. He should recover, given the right amount of due care and rest. Also, ( I haven't seen a ladybird in ages... )
"What's big and small at the same time? A big egg." Alun
So here's the thing: I want to be an artist. Specifically, though not necessarily limited to, a character artist / cartoonist / animator. I have some fuzzy goals regarding things I want to accomplish, various gimmicks and ideas and whatnot.
I've been this way, on and off, since I was but a kid... doodling was one of the few things I felt I had real skill in, at least back then. I'm more realistic and a lot more modest about where I lay in the grand scheme of things nowadays, but the fact is that I'm still better at it than most, even if that's not really been good enough for me most times. I used to draw constantly... I'd fill whole sketchpads with ink, scribble at school when I thought I could get away with it... they were never works of at by any means, but they represented real ideas, something I hoped to render more fully when I had more time, and more panache. Drawing's the only thing I've ever felt I was born to do.
At least... I did. The last couple of years have been a severe dry-spell for me, creatively. Something's missing. I occasionally get the will to attempt something, but if I don't have anything in mind, I won't get beyond a few meaningless lines. If I do, I'll get the base frames all wrong a few times before giving up. It's not fun, anymore. I don't approach work with any sense of anticipation. There's no longer the sense of wonder I vaguely recall having as you watch an idea take shape by your own hands. Here's a telling thing... I used to daydream about the subjects of my art as real life passed me by, at school, at work, at home. Now, whenever I try and draw... I daydream about life. I distract myself from what's supposed to be my own distraction. People frequently tell me that I'm trying too hard, and while I kind of get their angle the fact is that as far as actually knuckling down and spreading some pigment goes, I'm not working at all. With RBW coming up, I really want to have a small amount of work done... I have a few ideas rolling around, but when it comes to sitting down and acting on them... I can't. All my inclination goes the moment I start putting theory into practice, because these days it does, unfortunately, just feel like work. It doesn't calm or soothe, it just makes me angry, frustrated and upset. Just like my real job, in fact.
As I've said: my art is a large, defining part of my character. I've been walking along without it for a long time, and I believe it's fairly clear I'm not who I was as a result. I certainly don't feel like a complete person these days. I don't think it's a matter of circumstance, either... I could do with far better conditions for being artistic, but then I've been in far worse and never let it stop me then. The real problem is in my head, and I just don't know how to fix that.
In short... I need help. From what source, I really don't know. Have any of you been in a similar predicament? Even if you don't have any answers, do you at least know what I'm talking about? tl;dr: I still can't draw, waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah. Also, I might have written something almost exactly like this before. Several hundred times. Still: it holds true, so up yours.
As you're no doubt well aware, I am in the business of selling alcohol to drunkards and ingrates, five days a week. What you may not know is that I'm also the self-appointed unofficial regional salesperson for Talisker Single Malt Scotch Whiskey. Reason being, Talisker is the only distillery on the Isle of Skye, and my aunt Cathy actually works there as a tour guide. Thus, whenever I'm asked to recommend a ludicrously expensive bottle of crusty old peat water in a fancy presentation box (i.e. whiskey), I always try and recommend the ol' Talisker. At £28 a pop, some of that's got to be going to the extended family, surely?
Incidentally, I've managed to sell two bottles of the stuff, both this week, and one being to a particularly strange fellow. And by 'strange', I mean Spanish. I was sorting out a load of new lagers with a co-worker when he drew my attention to a portly, bald gent gesticulating passionately at the Scottish firewater. I quickly figured out he was speaking Spanish, an achilles' heel of mine as far as western European languages go. German, I'd have been fine. French, I'd have managed. Spanish? Oh, traggots. As far as actual dialogue went, this is basically what happened:
My Good Self: "Err... español?" Señor Coñsumer: "Si." My Good Self: "Ah. Ny'hablo español..." Señor Coñsumer: "Baaaah!"
What followed that, however, was a genuinely amusing exchange of flailed arms and incompatible tongues. The guy spoke not a jot of Queen's, but he certainly meant well as he rattled on in his own language, utterly incomprehensibly. My maths also failed me, as using only my fingers I somehow managed to tell him the Glenmorrangie had been matured for twenty-two years, rather than the twelve it clearly stated on the box. He ruthlessly outed this inadvertant bullshit within moments, and I felt quite stupid. On his way out of the aisle, he also stopped at the red wine, picked up a bottle of rioja and made a profoundly disapproving face. Ah, the joys of self-deprication. I liked the guy, I really did! But yes: using only the power of limb-flinging, I managed to sell whiskey to a foreigner. Awesome. The rest of the job has been bollocks, though I'm supposedly going on some kind of '101' course for people who know sod-all about wine... whether or not it'll be any good, I've yet to ascertain.
As for the rest of life at large... that Polysics album is absolutely tremendous. But then, was there ever any doubt? That and my rediscovery of Sigur Rós' latest has, however, sparked off something quite important: my imagination. It's been a long time since I had the sort of equilibrium needed to just freewheel inside my own head like some idiot-savant hamster, and by gum have I missed it. There seems to be a real push for me to move to Aberystwyth next year - more from Fabi and Ed than myself, actually. But then, I do need a bit of a kick up the arse. Thing is, if I can maintain this kind of mental momentum until then, wherein I'll have actual space, time, resources and a semi-willing individual to bounce my insanity off... well. Maybe I'll finally deliver on all those whimsical dreams I keep wittering on about. We live in hope!
Amos is... kinda doing alright. For how much longer, we're not sure. Right now he's having an MRI scan done on his neck, after which we'll have a better idea of what's actually wrong, and also whether or not there's anything that can be done for him. Still hurts to see him as he is, though... he was so different not a week and a half ago. Right now he just looks depressed, totally fed up with proceedings. I miss our little fights... he used to split my lip open like crazy. Bugger.
Oh, and hello (or should that be apologies?) if you're reading this tripe from my Facebook page. It'd seem I've discovered the joys of RSS, so I don't have to write crap twice and now nobody is safe. Muahaha. Right, I'm off for some Rock Band, methinks. It's been a long time coming, but I think I'm on the verge of Going Jaffa on guitar. Momentous, this is. Toodles!
Early September is cursed, I'm convinced of it. I need a fucking hug.
First up: I'm broke. Again. Worse than usual. Due to me completely failing to pay attention to my outgoings, the bank has completely knackered me with charges. A bad thing, but really it's my own sodding fault. I get paid on Friday, which means it shouldn't be a cause for concern for too much longer, unless my account continues to be frozen despite the magical healing abilities of payday - but alas, I need to tighten my belt to prevent this from happening again. Hence: I declare this next month to be The Month of Bupkis. No going out (sorry panthras), no buying crap, cutting down on my food budget... absolute minimal expenditure until my next payday, four weeks on Friday. The one exception I might make is coughing up for hotel costs, as RBW is at the end of November and it could do with sorting. But that'll probably be it. Unless I cave in. Which is not without precedent. In addition to retaining money already earned, I think it would be just dandy if I actually went about earning some more. Hence, I'll be trying to get into the conbadge trade. I don't have any recent examples of any kind of work, so I'll need to rattle off a few before I can really go to town on the ol' whoring out malarkey. Out of interest to those concerned, how much (in your native currency) would you pay, from me, for a hand-drawn conbadge? I think realism kind of goes hand-in-hand with actual sales, possibly. Blergh. Also: what conventions are coming up Stateside? Advertising towards that particular crowd should yield rich pickings. Y'know, hopefully.
But wait: there's more. Amos, who you may remember from the YouTube Video I posted of him lolloping around like puppies do, has been diagnosed with a degenerative motor-neuron disease - for want of a better way of putting it, he's got the beginnings of canine cerebral palsy. It came on real fast... he's not in any discomfort right now, but he's unsteady on his back legs. I don't know how long he's got before things start getting really difficult, but it breaks my heart to see him go this way. He's such a character - an inquisitive, cheeky little git, but so affectionate. There are problems with thoroughbred dogs - it's a side effect of all the inbreeding - but I had sort of hoped we'd gotten lucky here and ended up with a healthy brood. I don't know how my mother's taking it all... she's not reacting much, but you can see she's upset. It's obvious she really doesn't want to talk about it right now, so I'm just leaving it be... but y'know. It's a bit of a kick in the craw.
My one consolation: We Ate The Machine, the new Polysics album, just right now landed in my lap. And for the record, I ordered it before I knew my finances had imploded. I shall give it a listen, and let you know what I make of it.
Currently quite some way beyond frustrated. Work is just an absolute nightmare: not a fucking jot was done while I was away, meaning I've had to attempt to pick up the slack. It's not really working thus far, and I'm swimming in more booze than I know what to do with. My immediate boss, an extremely intense young man by the name of Tom, is getting right on my nerves as well. Working an entire department by yourself isn't exactly simple, and it gets exponentially less so the more stuff is screwed up - which, by my return, was a hell of a lot. Paraphrasing enormously, the only assistance I was offered were a few choice words of motivational wisdom - namely, 'work faster'. Bastard. There are times I wish I were actually stupid enough to be hornswaggled by corporate management technique... maybe then it wouldn't irritate me so much. To add injury to insult, the diabolical Welsh weather and my shitty mountain bike conspired to have me killed last Friday - wet brakes and tyres meant I completely failed to slow down at a busy crossing. I bailed off the bike but still managed to slide well into the road. I got away with a dodgy right arm, hence I'm here typing and you're not at my funeral - still, it was a bit on the close side.
One thing, though: out of sheer respect for one customer's brazen audacity, I now have to plug a random band I admit I haven't bothered listening to yet, The Joy Formidable. See, I spot a random woman perusing the wines, looking like she was a mite befuddled. So, doing my usual bit, I ask if there's anything in particular she was looking for. I try to be of use, rather than be a salesman. Anyway: she replied "No... listen, do you like music?" It was a very awkward non-sequiteur, and I did rather wonder if I'd just heard the codeword for some clandestine meeting gone horribly wrong. Bemused, I simply answered in the affirmative, and before I knew it this woman told me she managed a band, and handed me their calling card. Which was weird, frankly. I don't know if she's just desperate or something... but anyway, do give them a listen, if you're so inclined.
So... err. Can't remember what I was going to write about. I have a funny feeling it might have been important... but then, maybe not. I forget! I have gotten rather into Team Fortress 2 and the Steam platform as a whole, recently. While my laptop's not really up to the graphical requirements and my connection (oh, lawl) can't work fast enough, the game is still good fun. I never used to be much of a PC gamer, but I think I'm changing my ways a little... maybe someday I'll buy El Zomba (i.e. my broken-down desktop computer) some shiny new parts and turn him into a nice little gaming rig. My Steam ID is felixandrews, incidentally. If you fancy hurling a grenade into my face, do give us a buzz. I'll be the one lagging to hell and back.
As a final note? By Odin, am I sick of the weather here right now. Fucking miserable.
"I love you too but I'm gonna mace you in the face!" Alun
Wow. This Google Chrome malarkey is a bit of allright. No, seriously - it's in its opening beta and it's easily better than Firefox. Faster, stronger, better, etc. I'd be getting it in if I were you.
So aye! I'm in Wales' deep south with fabifox - though not for much longer as, strictly speaking, I leave for home later today. It's been a pretty awesome patch of temporality, as it always is down here. Watching films, geeking out on the Internets, playing lashings of Team Fortress 2 and Starcraft, wandered around with edilith and Dom... it's been nice to just be an utter wastrel for a while. Fabi bought himself an Eee PC - one of those tiny little 'sub-notebook' laptops with flash memory instead of a conventional hard disk. Running Windows XP, we're being consistently surprised at how well it handles itself. Plays a mean game of Unreal Tournament, it does. The battery life is astonishing, too. I'd be tempted, were I not utterly broke at present. Yeah, again. Quiet you. My one gripe is that I haven't scribbled anywhere near as much as I'd hoped to... but then, that's just me. I am rather crap at following any sort of commitment, after all. Manly!
It's my brother's birthday today, I'm hopelessly skint and, after a straight day's travelling (after a real late night) I'm straight back to work on Thursday. Which I'm not all that happy about. And we never did manage to go for chips with Jeff Minter, despite me playing loads of Space Giraffe to perhaps somehow will proceedings on. Or something. Spare a thought for Pan, though - he's just come out of knee surgery. How it's gone, I do not know - but I'll give him a ring tomorrow, see how he's holding up. I shouldn't imagine he's too bad, but you never know.
Right... off to steal some softwarez, possibly kip for a bit, before facing up to the day proper. Wish me luck, buckets and spades. I might post properly when I get back, if my short-term memory isn't utterly fragmented.
"That is the most ambitious upskirt shot I've ever seen!" Alun
“Ah god back in Shrewsbury song on the radio it reminds me of Canselvania(?) Hitler(?) and well, a couple or hrs behind but I've got a Danish, I'm alright. Yeah all there is to it really. ___ and windows you could stick your head out of like something out of a movie. Anyway got a hr to wait I've probably said that before. I'll see you ___ bye”
Ugh. I don't know what the hell's wrong lately, but I'm absolutely exhausted. Like, physically falling to bits. My left thumb and knee are protesting in the only way they know how, and I have a stinking cold, brought on by the ludicrous cold/miserable snap in the weather we've been having over here. I think it's mainly work that's been kicking the proverbial out of me, though. My God, it's been busy. Tesco decided to go three-for-twenty on crates of lager and bitter, so of course my corporate overlords decided to play copycat. In spite of the fact that, you know, we were woefully understocked for such a promotion. So yeah - it's been a bit maddening. I now regularly swear at any and every thing that even vaguely irks me as I cycle home, making me seem like a high-speed Tourette's lexicon. Mmm.
My brother and room-mate Neil bought the most ridiculously oversized amp yesterday. Well, it's not that big, but compared to his last one, it's huge. So huge in fact, that it won't fit in our room. Meaning conversely, I now have to put up with less of his repetitive, noisy twangings. Result! Off to Fabi's on Wednesday, for a whole eight days! We're not man-lovers, honest... but I really can't wait. I'll be on Skype and Messengers and I'll be free for openCanvas sessions and bloody allsorts while I'm there, wooooo. But mostly, we'll be indulging in some hard-earned lulz and I'll be attempting to resuscitate my flagging career as an 'artist'. Should be good! Might even voice-post on the train to Aberystwyth. I love doing those, with their retarded auto-transcribing thingy.
"Look at him... half Iago, half Fu-Manchu... all bastard." Alun
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dizzy
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