..International Yorkshire day! Well on august 1st (which I foolishly thought was today)
for further details.
To celebrate my home county I’m going to drink so much Yorkshire Tea that I develop at least one of the following symptoms:
Tanin/caffine poisoning (technically possible – The politican Tony Benn was once hospitalised after drinking too much tea, it’s a true fact, you can check it on your interwebs)
I’m also going to eat my own body weight in Yorkshire pudding. Huzzah
Today is a bright but unnaturally cold day. For various reasons I’ve been unable to do some of the things that I need to get done this morning so I decided to go for a stroll. Parks become alien places on a Sunday morning. Androgynous, lantern jawed joggers hurtle past like orbiting comets sponsored by the Nike corporation. Dog owners watch as their animals willfully molest, sniff and bark at each other. Woozy clubbers wearing beanie hats squint at you as they stumble home clutching badly rolled joints in their shaky hands.
I’d estimate that on average about 60% of the British public is in bed, suffering some sort of hangover on any given Sunday morning. That takes a lot of the ‘normal’ people out of the park equation, leaving me with my own private zoo of freaks and weirdos to people-watch. You have to be careful though. A solitary male strolling though a park on his own on a morning could himself be mistaken for a paedophile, drug dealer or mugger waiting for a victim (in the minds of the Daily Mail reading proletariat at least). Thats the problem with Sunday mornings – they turn everyone into an oddball.
Much has been written about the aforementioned movie by people better qualified to review it than I. However to paraphrase Albert Camus – Homer Simpson is the one movie hero we all deserve. Two dimensional as he is, he is still more plausible and realistic than the teenage superheros, wizards and action heroes of this summers other blockbusters. Also I’ve had the "Spiderpig, spiderpig, does whatever a spider pig does…" song stuck in my head all day.
Today I’m skiving work to finish moving house and to overcome the beef hangover that I seem to have acquired. Yesterday I had a delightful roast dinner provided my friends (and wibreaders) Richard and Sarah. I’m an occasional and accidental vegetarian so it’s taking my body a while to adjust to the sudden inrushing of meat products and I feel as though more than twelve hours later I’m still digesting. I wish more of my wibreadership cooked me food…
I need to head over to the Llama House (see below) soon with some more stuff so I’ll keep this entry short.
So after two years in my last house I am finally moving out. This requires me to sort through a lot of debris, paperwork, old books and photographs and decide what is worth keeping and what to throw away. I don’t want to that to sound like some life-coaching metaphor. It’s just a chore not some karmic, life enhancing experience. I found a selection of passport photographs charting the last ten years of terrible haircuts and terrible clothes.
I haven’t done a top 5 for a while so here is my top 5 unexpected things I found in
1) 20 pounds worth of tips from an old bartending job I did (and assorted Euros and other foreign currency)
2) A letter written from my past self to my future self (very odd… I remember writing it, but I don’t remember the whiny self-righteousness that characterizes said letter)
3) My NUS card from 6th Form (aged 16, I look absurdly young)
4) Assorted compilation tapes featuring obscure 90’s indie, lovingly pirated with callous disregard for copyright laws.
5) A lightsaber. (toy not real. I was given it as a present to mark the release of Episode 2 and then forgot about it)
Permit me to geek out a little here. Transformers was one of my favourite toy selling, market saturating, franchises so even at the grand old age of 26 I’m a bit excited. I found out using the Transformers name generator that my tranformers name is RUMBLESTRIKE. Check here for your name:
Also I found a great quote on www.kotaku.com about Megatron: "Like the return of an old friend. A gigantic old murderous, robotic friend"
I’m halfway into moving to a new house. The landlady is I think South American and therefore many of the hangings and rugs in this house seem to feature pictures of llamas (the furry mammals as opposed to the tibetan spiritual leaders). This I find endearing and mildly disconcerting in equal proportion.
I quite like llamas and I think they rank in my top 5 favourite land mammals. What disconcerts me is that the friendly looking llama print rug on the floor (which depicts two llamas standing in some rural idyll) appears to be made from actual llama skin. Although I am not vegetatrian, the message that this rug says to me is "Hey llamas are cute, but they’re even better when they’re dead".
I’ve just noticed that my last two open letters were themed around hair. Maybe that says something about my own relationship with hair. Who can say?
Hair is not, and has never been considered "a weapon to be used for devastating effect". The great armies of Macedonia, Sparta and Rome did not go to war armed only with thick, bouncy locks of hair. Nor did Roosevelt, Churchhill or Hitler. I doubt very much that Messers Johnson and Johnson would like to be associated with National Socialism anyway. Please amend you advert forthwith.
P.S. If I knew a guy like the male model you’ve picked for this advert, I would probably hate him. I refuse to be your target market.
Dear Girl On the Bus,
I have watched you as you pull strands of your own follicles between your molars and chew away. I have seen this and wondered – why do you do this? I have noticed that your hair is a rich chocolatey brown colour. Perhaps as a child you were denied chocolate? Perhaps your parents were too poor to give you snack foods and so instead took snippings of your own hair and forged them into fake bars of chocolate. Therefore as an adult it seems natural to you that follicles of Dairy Milk sprout from your head. You seek out bearded men so that when you kiss them you get the lush flavours of dark cocoa in your mouth.
Maybe it is a bizarre form of synasthesia or taste blindness? I will never know, Girl On The Bus, I lack the neccessary courage to ask. I hope that one day you will find this letter and tell me.