Should any of you clever people out there in the world be able to do this for me I'd be very grateful.
Drop me a line at rossalandouglas[at]gmail[dot]com and I'll whip the pdf file over to you.
"Write whatever you want, just don't name names."
So from here onwards anything to do with my work will contain veiled references to people I work with.
We had our opening night on Saturday with a private function for friends and family and all went smoothly. A good time was had by all and there was no drama. The new crew are a good bunch of people to work with and I can see myself settling in nicely. Some of them are old friends and some are new people to me but they all seemed perfectly reasonable and able to do the job.
First off there's The Big Boss Lady who is a very old friend of mine from way back in the mists of time and her hubby, who shall be referred to as Man Mountain, who are the owners of the place.
Next on the list of staff is The Lovely Gee who is a great laugh and who is the sister of the BBL.
Up next is Dexy's, or alternatively The Midnight Runner, who is a workmate from a previous place of employment for me.
Next in line is Tomb Raider. (A sweet young woman who will be irreversibly corrupted by me within a month or so of her working with me on a regular basis.)
The other member of staff, and whom I am yet to meet and therefor does not have a nickname, will be known as T'other One until I get to meet her and see what she's like.
As I'm sure you know, I live in Scotland (Good job by the way it's a lovely place, the work you must have put into the Highlands was above and beyond...) and we as a nation are undergoing a crisis on a magnitude never known before in these here parts.
The trouble is that it's way to hot. There's a heatwave going on just now and we as a race are ill equipped to deal with it. More than 35% of the population is ginger and the rest are fair haired, have pale skin and burn like sausages on an unattended barbecue if we are in the sun for more than 21 seconds a day.
When I grew up in the 70's I only ever had one bath a week unless of course there was a family gathering going on, in which case we were scrubbed to within an inch of our lives so we didn't show ourselves up, whereas now I'm having to take three showers a day to try to keep from spontaneously combusting.
So Lord, all I ask is that you put down whatever it is you're working on at the moment and do something about this heat.
Yours, hoping that I'm not tempting your wrath,
Anyway, to get you up to speed on the trials of life as experienced by yours truly I've quit my job and have a couple of days off until I begin work at a new place.
The old place was, to be perfectly blunt, a breeding ground for bigots, bawheads and belligerent old bastards that was slowly driving me insane. The new place however is under new management and is the dream of a dear friend of mine who is stupid enough, Oops, I mean willing enough to hire me as a manager.
In other news...
I'm now a reviewer for an international news agency and as such will be working during the festival fringe reviewing comedy shows and judging acts for contention in an international comedy award. Anyone know a good pseudonym?
Coded by, and posted on the blog of, phydeaux3 this code is easy to install and works a treat.
To get the coding for the tags as a cloud click here.
There are generally only two kinds of adults who play in swing parks in the wee hours and neither is the kind you want to deal with in the early morning.
The first type is the drunken man who is on his way home after a night on the tiles. Generally affable and good humoured the drunk, upon seeing you, will ask if you want to play with them. Memories of The Bad Man are forced to the front of the mind of the passerby and more often than not they take to their heels without a second thought. Trust me, I know this from having been both these people in the past.
The other type is the most dangerous. The female drunk. Avoid this person at all costs. Do not attempt conversation of any kind and never approach them. If you're lucky the least you'll get away with from asking if she's OK is a slap in the face and the worst is either a) An irritating itch in the groin area b) Syphilis or c) a fifteen year stretch at her Majesty's pleasure.
Personally I fit into a class of my own when it comes to early morning swing park ventures. I'm the type who knows that all the worries in the world can be shunted from your mind by having the wind blow through your hair.
Which is exactly the reason I'm off to play in the swing park...
If you're anything like me the first song on an album can make or break it and in this respect The Ting Tings do not fall short. The first song, Great DJ, is possibly the catchiest song I've heard since The Farm released Groovy Train. Great DJ is followed by That's not my name, a tune that defies even my jaded old pop pallate and manages to make me join in on the chorus.
From then on in The Ting Tings manage to produce a finely honed album that does what all good pop music should do, make you tap your feet, and does so with a touch rarely seen these days when music is churned out through a giant music mincer in a factory where Simon Cowell is the head slaughterman.
More often than not the second and third album are what a band ends up being judged by and if We Started Nothing is anything to go by then we're going to be hearing a lot more of the Ting Tings. Watch this space.
Ducati 1098 on the track.
Valentino Rossi on board the Honda NSR 500
Mick Dohhan sliding the Honda NSR 500
MV Augusta F4
Kevin Schwantz on the Lucky Strike Suzuki
Barry Sheene leads the way.
Barry Sheene painting.
Nori Haga on the Yamaha world super bike.
Kenny Roberts on board the Yamaha 500cc
Cigarettes, and a strange scrabbling noise from the windowsill of the bedroom possibly caused by a roosting pigeon, are my only distractions from the thoughts that buzz around in my head like a swarm of malicious bees hell-bent on keeping me awake.
Soft music has failed me tonight. There is no point in using music to drift away when the lyrics only cause more random thoughts to pop into my head.
"God Dammit! Why won't you let me get some sleep." I curse, to only myself and the thing that is making the noise on the windowsill. There is no reply from the thing and the only thought that passes through my mind is "Exactly who are you talking to?"
Small Mercy's like a wireless connection to the Internet which allowed me to escape from the miserable surrounds, even more miserable decor, and still more depressing customers whenever the doom and gloom got to me and I felt like walking out.
The other way of escaping I found was the jukebox. Which, despite being mostly populated with the latest dance chartoppers, golden oldies, seventies music and the eighties big-hair-and-make-up shit that was dull then and is even duller now, actually managed to keep me sane.
Top tunes these last few weeks have therefor been as follows...
Jeff Buckley - Lilac Wine.
Peter Gabriel - Biko.
Madness - Our House.
Queen - Killer Queen.
David Bowie - Starman.
Pink Floyd - Wish you were here.
Ha! Got you.
So, without further ado, I present to you, my best bits.
While flicking through a copy of woman's weekly that a co-worker had brought in to read while she was on her break I stumbled across the craziest advert I have ever laid eyes on.
"HOW TO TALK TO YOUR CAT."
"Open up a whole new communication between you and your cat."
If you're a cat lover like me, and wish to communicate better with your pet for a deeper, more loving relationship, then you'll want to out how to talk to your cat. And that's where a new guide -"Your talking Cat" - can really help you... especially when it comes to understanding what your cat is actually saying - not just what you think she is saying.
It goes on to make the claim that "Cats are scientifically proven to possess certain telepathic powers for reading the true mindset of a human companion." Now, I'm no scientist and I openly admit that my reading of scientific journals has been poor of late, but I'm sure if humanity had invented some sort of device that can detect telepathic ability I'm pretty sure I'd have heard about it.
Anyhoo, the advert then lists a few of the things that the book can help you read your cats body language, facial expressions and meows to decipher such things as...
- Why your cat rubs you to show affection.
- Why your cat circles in your lap before settling down.
- Why your cat blinks.
- How many different ways your cat purrs.
- How your cat sizes up your friends.
- Why your cat always seems to come over when you're reading or doing paperwork.
- Why your cat doesn't like being stared at... yet sometimes stares at you.
- Why your cat may panic if you oversleep.
- How your cat knows when a disaster is about to take place.
- Why your cat likes to explore open pipes or even inside paper bags.
- And many, many other questions answered.
As I'm a believer in the free sharing of information I'm about to answer these questions for you. Not just to save you the sixteen quid but to save you from having to suffer the embarrassment of having someone see the book on your bookshelf and asking you what the fuck you were drinking, smoking or injecting when you purchased it.
So, here are the answers.
- Why your cat rubs you to show affection.
- Why your cat circles in your lap before settling down.
- Why your cat blinks.
- How many ways your cat purrs.
- How your cat sizes up your friends.
- Why your cat always seems to come over when you're reading or doing paperwork.
- Why your cat doesn't like to be stared at... yet sometimes stares at you.
- Why your cat may panic if you oversleep.
- Why your cat knows when a disaster is about to take place.
- Why your cat likes exploring open pipes and paper bags.
Should you still wish to buy this book then please remember not to let your cat see you reading it. Why? Because as soon as you sit down to read it the cat will see that you are interested in something other than itself and the following thought will pass through it's mind...
"Why isn't the food bringer paying attention to me? I'm going to go up there and dig my claws into it. Maybe it'll rub my ass and make me horny. Then I can go and lick my own cunt for an hour or so."
who shall be known during life cycle by the name Ross Douglas."
Sssssccchhhheeed the disembodied voice from the speakerbox in the corner. (Until the voice crackled into existence the speakerbox had been playing standard elevator Muzak.)
The room itself was like a padded cell minus the padding. A blank white floor (12' by 12') was framed by blank white walls and a blank white ceiling. The speakerbox in the top left hand corner of the room and the small raised platform that I was sitting on were the only things that prevented the room from being a perfect cube.
I was naked, I was completely bald, I had neither nipples nor belly button and, most disturbing of all, I had no genitalia.
"What the fu..." I began to say, but was interrupted by the voice from the speakerbox again.
"Report for duty independent consciousness number 3-7-23-46." Repeated the speakerbox.
I looked up at the speakerbox and wondered who independent consciousness number 3-7-23-46 was. The thought occurred to me that perhaps I was independent consciousness 3-7-23-46. "Who me?" I said, pointing at my chest.
"Yes you." Said the voice from the speakerbox.
I stood up and took the posture of someone at attention. "Erm... Independent consciousness number 3-7-23-46 reporting for duty." I said.
The speakerbox spoke again. "You are to report to initial programing."
"Ok." I said. "How do I get there?"
The speakerbox voice spoke again. "Bloody tech guys, why can't they remember to program a door into the shell." The voice said, a tone of disbelief apparent. A doorway appeared in the wall ahead of me. I walked towards it and it swooshed open with a noise exactly like that of a door on the Starship Enterprise.
The room in front of me was about the size of an average elevator and had been decorated by the same people responsible for the room I was about to leave. The only differences between the two being the size and the lack of anywhere to sit. I stepped into the room and the door closed behind me with the same Enterprise swoosh.
The speakerbox in the corner of the room spoke again. "See, that's the kind of thing I mean; They can't remember to program a door but they always program the doors so they sound like you're about to enter the turbolift in Star Trek. I hate those guys." The voice said.
"I'm sorry, are you talking to me?" I asked.
"Whoops. Sorry about that independent consciousness number 3-7-23-46, I didn't realise I'd left the microphone on." Said the voice.
"No problem." I said.
The door swooshed open and I stepped out.
I stood in a room roughly the same size as the room I had first found myself in. A white chair sat in front of a desk, also white, which lay in the middle of the, yes you guessed it, white, room. On top of the desk was a large bundle of folders stuffed with paperwork. Behind the paperwork sat a man in blue coveralls. "Good life to you independent consciousness 3-7-23-46." Said the man, who's voice I recognised from the speakerbox.
"Yeah. Errm. Hi." I said.
"The folders on this table contain every piece of information you need to know in order to live your life according to the scheme of The Grand Whazoo; May he giggle for all eternity; You are to read and remember them." The man said.
"Excuse me? The Grand Whozoo?" I asked.
"The Grand Whazoo; May he giggle for all eternity." The man said.
"And who, may I ask, is The Grand Whazoo?"
"May he giggle for all eternity..." Added the man, as though to indicate that the saying of the name The Grand Whazoo should immediately be followed by the words "May he giggle for all eternity.
"Yeah, that cat. Who is he?" I asked.
"He is The Supreme Being... The Creator, The Architect, He is Jesus, He is Bhudda, He is Allah, He is Yahweh, He is Jah Rastafari, He is Brahman, He is Shiva... He is The Grand Whazoo, may he giggle for all eternity."
"So far as I can see, "He" is The Great and Powerful Oz." I said, making it clear to the man behind the desk I wasn't going to fall for any of that mumbo jumbo. "Now who's in charge?"
"You fail to understand." Said the man behind the desk.
"No, dipshit. You fail to understand. You fail to understand that if I'm not talking to your supervisor in as soon as possible I'm going to give your interior designer a fucking heart attack."
The man behind the desk blinked out of existence and was replaced by an elderly gentleman. "Hello Ross." He said.
"And who the fuck are you?" I asked.
"I am whom you seek." The elderly gentleman said.
"So you're The Grand Whazoo then?" I questioned.
"Indeed I am." The Whazoo replied.
"Got any ID?" I asked.
The Grand Whazoo laughed and clicked his fingers. The white room blinked out of existence and the whole of the universe was laid out in front of me. "Good enough?" The Grand Whazoo said with a grand sweeping gesture of his arms.
"I was thinking more along the lines of a driving license or a utilities bill but I'm willing to let you off." I said, even though I was almost dumbstruck with the view.
"Trust me, you wouldn't want to see the utilities bill for this place and my drivers license picture makes me look like I should be on the sex offenders register." The Grand Whazoo said, with a detectable hint of humour in his voice.
"So Ross, what seems to be the problem?" He asked.
"I've got a few questions." I said, still looking around at the magnificent view all around us.
"Fire away." He said.
"Why am I here?" I asked.
"For many reasons. The details are in the files if you'd care to read them." He said.
The Grand Whazoo clicked his fingers and the universe blinked out of existence to be replaced by the sterile room with the file filled desk.
"As the attendant said, the files contain all the information needed to live life your life according to the grand scheme." He said.
"And what if I don't want to live by your grand scheme?" I asked, wondering what I was doing questioning the supreme being and also pondering exactly how much wrath and vengeance I was about to experience. The Grand Whazoo tipped his head slightly to one side, like a dog who's just been shown a card trick.
"Strange." He said.
"What's strange?" I questioned.
"As with all other creatures of your type your first instinct was to challenge the authority of the grand scheme; This is basic programming; But when faced with The Ultimate Being, having been shown the entire Universe in the blink of an eye most of them choose to develop a passion for reading." The Grand Whazoo said. "It would seem that you are... Different. Unique even."
"Well, that's me. So what now?" I asked.
"Now you will become the Independent Consciousness known as, erm, oh bugger I've forgotten it... Sorry." Said The Grand Whazoo. With a click of his fingers a shining steel clipboard appeared in his hand. "Ross Douglas." He read.
The Grand Whazoo clicked his fingers and the lights went out. It was pitch black. In fact it was darker than that. Imagine you built a torch that instead of emitting light, emitted dark. Now imagine you put a bulb in it with the power of a billion suns. Now imagine switching it on. It was that dark.
Like a small single star above, a light eventually appeared high above me.
Muffled sounds began to filter their way into my still, dark, world.
Time passed again. So I attempted to trip it up, but failed miserably as Time doesn't have a leg.
Slowly the small pinprick of light that had appeared above me grew in size.
Time passed once again. I apologised for attempting to stop its forward progress and hoped it wouldn't be to hard on me.
Without warning a klaxon sounded. A klaxonish sound reverberated through my dark world, hurting my ears and causing me to cover them with my hands. The klaxon stopped as suddenly as it had started and was replaced by someone speaking in some kind of jargon.
"Tea miner win minwin tent ant mountain" Said a voice. I thought for a second I'd developed some kind of hearing disability after spending so much time alone without anything to listen to when I realised that the reason I couldn't hear properly was that I still hand my hands over my ears.
"T-minus one minute and counting" Said a female voice. Her words were clear and had a consonance so perfect that if the best songbird of the world were to hear it they would explode in a fit of jealousy, feathers and innards.
"Independent Consciousness number 3-7-23-46 ready to disengage universal consciousness, prepare endorphin assistance for host carrier." Said a male voice. The male voice was so dissonant that if the worst songbird in the world were to hear it it would explode into a bloody cloud of feathers and innards through the sheer joy of knowing it was not the worst thing to listen to on the earth. (The Grand Whazoo likes there to be balance in all things.)
"T-minus Fifty seconds and counting." Said the angelic female voice.
"Endorphin injectors charged and ready to fire." Said the opposing male voice.
"You men are all the same, it's all about the injection isn't it." Said the female voice.
"You love it." Said the male voice, suggestively.
"T-minus Forty seconds and counting." Said the female voice.
"Awaiting order to discharge Independent Consciousness." The male voice said.
"You see, it's always "inject" this and "discharge" that with you lot. Is it any wonder women prefer the company of other women?" Said the female voice.
"Admit it, you love it when I talk dirty." Said the male voice, with enough suggestiveness in his voice to make a nun become a cock-hungry whore overnight.
"T-minus Thirty seconds and counting..." Began the female voice. "And for your information I happen to find the way you talk abhorrent. It is degrading and disgusting to say the least. It may be OK to talk to your male counterparts like that but I assure you it is not OK to speak to me like that. I have a good mind to report you to The Grand Whazoo; May he giggle for all eternity... T-minus erm, Sixteen and a half seconds and counting." The female voice continued.
"At least I can talk and do my job at the same time love." Said the male voice, sarcastically.
"You absolute bast... T-minus Ten seconds and counting... ard. Said the female voice, as though to make a mockery of the male voices previous statement.
"Fancy a shag?" Said the male voice.
"T-minus five." Said the female voice.
"Pull your coveralls off." Said the male voice, commandingly.
"T-minus Four." Said the female voice, accompanied by the sounds of clothing being hurriedly ripped off.
"Yeah, that's it." Said the male voice, a tone of pleasure in his voice.
"Tea miner dree." Said the female voice, making me check to see if I had my hands over my ears. I didn't.
"Prepare for injection." Said the male voice, his tone wavering.
"T-minus Two-Oooooo." Said the female voice, her pitch increasing.
"Release imminent." Said the male voice, straining.
"T-minus wu-u-u-u-ONE" Screamed the female voice.
"FIRE THE MOTHERLOAD!" Shouted the male voice.
The small pinprick of light exploded. It was bright. Very bright. Remember the torch that gives off dark? Imagine its opposite. Imagine it being switched on. It was that bright. I kept having to close my eyes for the next minute or so until they got used to the light.
The next thing really freaked me out.
The first thing I noticed was that I had suddenly developed nipples, a belly button and, most importantly, a penis. The second thing I noticed was that I was very small and very slimy. The third thing I noticed was that I'd just been smacked on the ass by some guy wearing a surgical gown and glasses for no reason. (I'm pretty sure the glasses were for a reason, it was hitting me that felt unnecessary.)
"Who the fuck do you think you're hitting ya specky cunt!" I yelled. Instead of the words travelling from my brain to my mouth, and being relayed to the person I'm talking to via a perfectly good voicebox, they travelled from my mouth to the ears of anyone within earshot as a loud and prolonged "Wahhhhhhhhhh, Wahhhhhhhhh, Wahhhhhhhhh."
"It's a healthy baby boy." Said the voice of the swine that had just assaulted me in front of several witnesses, as I was handed to a surgical gown wearing bystander and was plonked down onto a towel covered set of old fashioned metal scales.
Several faces appeared above me. Fingers poked and prodded at me, lights were shone in my eyes and things were put into the holes at both ends of my body. I protested by letting loose a volley of verbal assaults at my torturers but once again all the words I tried to say came out as loud Wahhhhhh's.
I was lifted from the scales, along with the towel that had protected me from the cold steel, and
was carried across the room to almost exactly the same place as I had been so recently assaulted at. "Thank fuck for that, they're gonna put me back." I thought.
I was handed to a person who was, for some strange reason, lying down while everyone else, myself not included, stood. The person was warm and smelled beautiful. Small beads of sweat ran off her damp hairline and her eyes shone like the stars that The Grand Whazoo had shown me.
"Holy Fuck!" I yelled. (To everyone else in attendance it sounded like "Wahhhhhhhh," [deep breath] "Wahhhhhhh!" but to me it was "Holy Fuck!" believe me.) Deep in the eyes of this person who now held me in her arms I, once again saw the universe laid out.
"Mother?" I said...
This story is true. Certain details have been fleshed out for dramatic effect and I'm not quite sure if the guy who assaulted me wore glasses for health and safety reasons or if he needed them for medical purposes
And when did all this take place?
Exactly 36 years ago today.
Happy birthday to me.
As these posts are a bit of a task to plow through I've only posted two of them. I hope you enjoyed reading them as much as I enjoyed writing them. Thanks.
 Unless of course you stop reading at this point 
 Which is highly doubtful as you're the kind of person who when they see a footnote indicator zooms down to see what it says.
It seems like a lifetime, or at least a Main Era — the kind of peak that never comes again. San Francisco in the middle sixties was a very special time and place to be a part of. Maybe it meant something. Maybe not, in the long run... but no explanation, no mix of words or music or memories can touch that sense of knowing that you were there and alive in that corner of time and the world. Whatever it meant...
History is hard to know, because of all the hired bullshit, but even without being sure of 'history' it seems entirely reasonable to think that every now and then the energy of a whole generation comes to a head in a long fine flash, for reasons that nobody really understands at the time — and which never explain, in retrospect, what actually happened
My central memory of that time seems to hang on one or five or maybe forty nights — or very early mornings — when I left the Fillmore half-crazy and, instead of going home, aimed the big 650 Lightning across the Bay Bridge at a hundred miles an hour... booming through the Treasure Island tunnel at the lights of Oakland and Berkeley and Richmond, not quite sure which turnoff to take when I got to the other end... but being absolutely certain that no matter which way I went I would come to a place where people were just as high and wild as I was: no doubt at all about that...
There was madness in any direction, at any hour. If not across the Bay, then up the Golden Gate or down 101 to Los Altos or La Honda... You could strike sparks anywhere. There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning...
And that, I think, was the handle — that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil. Not in any mean or military sense; we didn't need that. Our energy would simply PREVAIL. There was no point in fighting — on our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave...
So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark — that place where the wave finally broke and rolled back.
Hunter S Thompson - Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.
It's been about three weeks since I started my new job and without fail whenever a new face (new to me anyway) comes in the most popular question is "What football team do you support?" To me this suggests one of two things. Either A.) They are brain-dead. Or B.) They are mindless idiots who measure a man, not by his deeds or his actions, but by which colour the overpaid Prima Donnas kick an inflated pigs bladder around a field he supports wears.
Both of these things are not good. Not good in the extreme if you ask me. I mean what kind of retard judges a man based solely on the football team he supports? Yes, you got it, the kind that likes to drink heavily, watch football and beats the shit out his girlfriend on a regular basis. In other words, my customers.
Seriously, what is the mindset of someone who will come to a judgement on someone based on whether or not he follows the fortunes of the same football team as he supports? To me that's as moronic as it can possibly get. It's akin to judging someone by the amount of sugar they take in their tea, if they prefer cheese or pickle on their sandwiches or whether they like cheese flavoured Doritos or cool original flavoured.
So what, I hear you ask, is my answer?
Well, I don't support a football team because football is as interesting to me as shoving a cocktail umbrella into the urethra of my penis and seeing if I can open it. In other words, it's not high on my list of things to do. In fact I would say that shoving a cocktail umbrella into my urethra is way above joining the herds of football fans on the planet because I don't want to lower my intelligence to that of a retarded monkey who suffers from down syndrome.
 Football as in Soccer.
 I've come to the conclusion it's a combination of both.
This was not an easy thing to accept at the time, as I was standing behind a bar trying not to scream in someones face "YOU'RE AS INTERESTING AS A SECOND HAND TEABAG! GET OUT MY SIGHT BEFORE I STAB YOU IN THE HEAD WITH A PEN!", so I focused my concentration and tried for somewhere closer to home... Specifically, Wales.
Don't ask why my mind chose Wales, because I don't know. Of all the places I could have chosen that are closer to my house than Mozambique, which is six thousand and forty three miles away, at the time Wales seemed as good a place as any. Despite the fact that to my knowledge most of Wales is as interesting as watching flies fuck.
After at least a minute of focused concentration I gave in and tried for somewhere even closer to home. More precisely, home itself. The place that, technically, should be the easiest of all. After another couple of minutes of intense and focused concentration I opened my eyes to find that I was still standing in a dive of a bar, in a crappy suburb of an even shittier city.
To my utter surprise the person, whose face I was attempting not to scream at, was still standing in front of me talking away about the most mundane thing ever to have breath wasted on.
"Hello..." I said. "Anyone home?"
"Eh?" Came the monosyllabic response.
"I was just wondering if you were planning on noticing that I'm as interested in this conversation as I am in sampling chocolate covered dog shit." I said, praying that the person to whom I was speaking would chalk it up to humour and not punch me in the face.
The gimp laughed and continued uninterrupted, due to me being busy attempting to make their heart grind to a scrunching, and hopefully very very, painful halt. Once more I was confounded by the powers that be and the person did not seize their chest and die in abject agony.
"Look, sorry, don't take this the wrong way will you but this whole conversation is the mental equivalent of sweetcorn. It's only purpose is to waste my energy." I stated. Making damn sure that the look in my eyes, and on my face, conveyed my heartfelt sincerity on the matter. Jackie Braindead, however, was having none of it. And continued.
For the next five minutes or so I focused all my energy onto making my head go thermonuclear and explode, hopefully taking out as many of these idiotic people as possible. Call it a Smart Bomb... Yet again I was unsuccessful. Though to be fair I did have quite a good headache which may either be ascribed to the concentration level or the annoying sound of their voice, and promised myself that I would try harder next time.
Then came three of the most beautiful words I have ever heard in my entire life...
"Well, that's me."
I steadied myself on the bar, as I had been slightly confused by the the words.
"What?" I asked.
"I'm off." The troglodyte said, draining the dregs of his glass and picking up his mobile phone.
A "Hallelujah" resounded in my head and a small brass band began to play an upbeat tempo'd tune that wouldn't go amiss in a hip and fashionable club in Bourbon Street. Did I hear right? Had the gods observed my plight and saved me from having to listen to the ignoramus in front of me?
I watched in stunned silence as the neanderthal pressed buttons on his mobile and waved goodbye as it headed towards the door.
"Aye man, so anyway, mind I was saying she said that he said that the wifey from the chipshops daugthers cousins pal told her that there's some bird doing tricks for taxi drivers to avoid paying the fare... Well you'll never guess who it is..." It said into its mobile as it walked towards the door, leaving me to ponder if there was some kind of mental deficiency they suffered from that made them talk utter crap constantly.
I turned around and looked at the old guy at the end of the bar who, like so many others in pubs across the world, sits quietly, observing, collating and calculating the ups and downs of pub life and only ever says one of three words at a time*, and raised my eyebrows in a way that I knew would convey the sentence "That guy's a test of your patience is he not?"
The old guy lifted his glass and took a long, drink.
"He's a fucking arsehole and the sooner he's killed by a runaway truck the better." He said.
"Pint?" I asked.
"Nip." He replied.
* The three are the following,..
And 3. "Taxi."
To download the full size image click on the thumbnail.
And for those of you who just can't get enough of big wave surfing here's a truly amazing video documenting the evolution of the sport itself from the early pioneers of Pipeline, Waimea bay to the modern day surfers of waves such as Mavericks, Jaws (or Peahi as it is also known) and what some have claimed is the perfect wave, Chopu.
By all means whip yourself over to google video and download a copy of this movie as I can honestly say it is one of the best surfing videos ever made.
"What the fuck has he been smoking?" I thought, immediately wondering whether or not I could get my hands on some. "It must be damn good stuff if he thinks his daughter is 22 years old, as far as I'm aware Zoe is only 12." I thought. About a minute later my phone rang. Lo and behold, it was Steff.
"Alright man?" I said.
"Whew man... Just whew." He replied.
"What the fuck are you on about? 22 Year old daughter? Have you been drinking?"
"No man... I'll tell you what happened..."
Steff then explained to me that he had been at his Mothers house doing a couple of odd jobs for her and having finished had left and began to drive to pick up his other half, Wendy. When he was roughly halfway towards his destination his mobile phone rang. On the other end was his Mum. "You'll need to come up son. It's important." She told him.
Steff then phoned Wendy and told her he had to return to his Mums and that he wouldn't be long, turned the car around and headed back to his Mums.
Upon arriving at his mums house she said something along the lines of "There's no easy way to tell you this so here goes... That lassie over there... That's your daughter."
"Fuck off..." I said, thinking he was at the wind up.
"Seriously mate... She's my daughter." He replied.
Steff had gained not only a daughter but also a Grand-daughter as his daughter has a kid of her own. His daughter Zoe, who until the appearance of Stacy, was an only child now has an older sister and is an auntie.
It's all very weird...
To get the full size images click on the thumbnail.