CELTA

Is it far away,

In the glitter freeze,

Or in our eyes

Every time they leave ..

It took a shitload of effort, but the CELTA course came to an end last Friday. Our adventure into the belly of the English-as-a-foreign-language beast is over. 

The worst part by far now is the wait. 

The hard graft itself is done and dusted, but we won't know if we actually passed until sometime in the next 6 weeks.

It's really quite to sad to think that I'll never have another class with some of the people I've really become quite close to. For some of us at least, it was kind of a bittersweet moment looking up from the bottom of the car park at the little part of Blenheim Terrace that served to teach us so much, and realising how much it'll occasionally be missed.

It's an odd line of thought, especially considering my previous post where I'd expressed my serious doubt about CELTA and my rationale for taking it. It feels bizarre to think that something so huge and overbearing which had dominated my thoughts for months eventually came to be as familiar to me as my own skin.

                                     

I've reasoned that in a time span shorter than a year, I'll be somewhere far away. The only constants I have to look forward to now are the techniques I've been taught and the experience I've gained, albeit in a potentially completely alien environment. 

I won't have the support and feedback of my amazing coursemates, nor will I be able to bitch and moan with them post-lesson practise. If I'd known these kinds of irrational thoughts would begin to dominate my post-CELTA thought process, I'd surely have talked their ears off and hugged them at any given opportunity I had, seeing as the chances of it happening again anytime soon will be preciously rare. 

The next stage, between now and going off somewhere to find a job, is continuing to try and swot up on all the grammar that I'm meant to know.

Buy this book.

I don't care that you're a native speaker of English. Once you start taking it all apart and discovering all the little rules that we know implicitly, the ones that other poor sods have to try and get their head round from scratch, your mind will be well and truly blown.

Its only £8 online. What were you even going to do with that money anyway? Pay your rent? Fix the car? That's crazy talk. Throw it at something that'll make you think.

Buy it.

Failing this, throw the money at me. I could actually do with buying this book. I'll even dance for the money, all sexy like, just to sweeten the deal.

Voldemort is noseless

Some kind of mixture,

Some kind of gold,

It's got to come find us,

All we are is dust ..

Someone using google.de got here today by searching "Voldemort is noseless".

He is indeed. 

So why google that?

If it had been "Is Voldemort noseless?", I might have understood a little better. Obviously someone not too familiar with Harry Potter just double checking whether or not the villain had a nose or not. Or even "Voldemort is noseless?", with a question mark. Google searches are best when they're phrased as incredulous questions.

But this search is neither of those. This is a statement.

"Oy, Google. Listen up, dickhead. Voldemort is noseless."

Thankyou to that person, for your post-modern use of a search engine and for confirming for all that Voldemort is indeed noseless.

It's also reminded me of why I love Robot Chicken. This is so appropriate right now.

Stories from the pub.

Over and over and over and over and over,
Like a monkey with a miniature cymbal,
The joy of repetition really is in you ..

One thing that could do with being done at the pub where I work is a new playlist for our iPod. As it stands, we have just the one, and when you work 5 days a week with a playlist consisting of only 12 songs, it becomes so soul destroying that you'd rather have stony, clinical silence. 

Marvin Gaye's album I Heard it Through the Grapevine was the relentlessly mind-numbing choice of 2 years back, which we grudgingly worked to every weekend for 3 years. In October 2012, it's an eclectic mix of generally better stuff, permeated on track no. 7 by Bryan Ferry doing his rendition of John Lennon's Jealous Guy, which is essentially musical blasphemy.

This problem of repetition is compounded during the week, when it's much quieter and there's not much else to do other than stand around and try and chat to drown the music out, but you've turned into such a zombie after 3 hours of Bryan Ferry that the conversations never really take off. This is my favourite from earlier, when we were polishing cutlery. 

Louise: "I don't mind polishing cutlery, it's not that interesting but it's quite relaxing"

Me: "I hate it, this is probably the most boring job going"

Louise: "I really don't like polishing spoons though. I don't know why, they're just more awkward than the others"

Me: "Oh, I don't mind doing spoons. They're all smooth and really easy to do. I don't like doing forks though, I always end up stabbing through whatever I'm polishing them with"

Louise: "Mmm, yeah, I know what you mean. Knives are ok though"

Me: "Yeah, knives are easy"

Louise: "I like the knives. The big ones though, not the little ones for the side plates"

Me: "Mmm, I know what you mean. The steak knives can be awkward, y'know, with the spiky blade?"

Louise: "Oh, yeah."

Steph walks round from the other side of the bar

Louise: "What's your least favourite cutlery to polish Steph?"

Steph: "Ummm .. forks probably. I always poke holes through the cloth"

Me: "Yeah, that's what I just said"

Steph: "I don't mind teaspoons though, they're probably my favourite"

Altogether: "Oooh yeah teaspoons are good, hmm, yeah, nice and easy"

The mundanity levels can occasionally go off the chart. 

Chanel no. Brad

Waiting by the mailbox, by the train,

Passing by the hills 'til I hear the name,

I'm looking for a saw to cut these chains in half ..

What the hell? Brad Pitt is the new face of Chanel No. 5?

I find this kinda depressing. 

In the wake of such brilliant performances in recent films such as Inglourious Basterds, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button and The Assassination of Jesse James, is this really a necessary detour from his career?

This ad harks back to the Brad Pitt of the early-mid 2000's, post Fight Club and Se7en and 12 Monkeys, when he stopped 'acting' and just tried to 'cool' his way through it all. "Hi, I'm Brad Pitt and I'm hot and I kind of mumble and look disinterested when I speak, but I don't care because I just shagged Angelina Jolie and somehow made millions out of it".

Did you manage to sit through Mr and Mrs Smith? What a steaming pile. It hardly qualifies as a film. It may as well have been called "Two hot people shooting stuff".

That's by the by, but as I say, virtually all his stuff of late has been awesome and occasionally had me thinking "damn, Joseph Gordon-Levitt, you're gonna have to up your game to hold onto my top spot, mate". 

And then all of a sudden, Brad Pitt's standing there in black and white in his shirt, his face being all sensitive and doing the kind of wracked, conflicting emotions and inner turmoil malarky, while he spouts off some godawful bullshit about journeys and fate and fortune. 

It makes no fucking sense whatsoever.

The whole advert is the epitome of what I thought was a bygone technique, which subscribed to the idea that if enough Brad Pitt is thrown at something, then it will automatically write itself (I'm looking at you, Troy).

In short, they may as well have just had 30 seconds of Brad Pitt's arse with the perfume bottle wedged in his crack and 'Inevitable' hastily scrawled at an angle in sharpie across one arse cheek, with Clair de Lune playing in the background. It would have packed the same emotional punch.

If you can watch this through no more than once and tell me what he's talking about, drop me a reply on facebook.

Minor nostalgia

Another tricky little gun giving solace to the one

That'll never see the sun shine ..

Having been moved out of Leeds for 4 months now, I'll admit I'm actually starting to miss living in a house where fireworks, Asian children, takeaway flyers and friendly bible bashers at our front door were a regular occurrence. The last one in particular often gave me a great idea for a progressive rock band called Jesus Christ and The Latter Day Saints.

I'm also incidentally missing Kitchen Dance and the one and only partner for such.

This might explain my £15 tips

But I set fire to the rain,

Watched it pour as I touched your face,

Let it burn while I cry,

'Cause I heard it screaming out your name, your name ..

I was at work the other day when I accidentally wandered into the midst of one of those little moments in life.

I'd been running around serving drinks, organising various bits and bobs in the kitchen, carrying trays of canapés and socialising with our throngs of guests. It had gotten a little warm in our restaurant area where I'd been working and about halfway through the night I removed my work apron, because it was a little stifling and there was no longer a need for extra pocket space.

At the end of the night, we'd cleared out all our guests and I'd just cleaned and closed the upstairs bar. I got myself a drink and slumped into one of the big sofas by the window opposite and just happened to glance at my crotch.

And I had to ask.

Just how long has my zipper been down?

Assorted thoughts from the arse end of the day.

Let the sky fall, when it crumbles,

We will stand tall,

Face it altogether ..

In no particular order:

1. I missed Felix Baumgartner's space jump. During the first two attempts which were aborted because of the weather, I sat watching all the live-feed on YouTube, with baited breath, and was genuinely disappointed when the jumps were called off. After the second time, after 2 hours or so of viewing, I closed the window and told myself that I would not miss it when it actually happened.

Then the next day I went to work, came home, and the first thing on the BBC was the news of the third, successful jump and the breaking of the sound barrier. 

Retrospect will tell me that the money I earned probably trumps watching a man falling off a balloon at the edge of space, but at the time, I was certainly cursing the bollocks timing. I've watched it since, but it wasn't the same.

2. Facebook feed suggests something bad happened on Downton Abbey. I know nothing about Downton other than there's some ruthless businessman type played by Iain Glen, who also plays Ser Jorah Mormont in Game of Thrones. He can't possibly be as much of a badass as he is in Thrones.

3. Someone got here the other day by googling "grey pubes". 

4. Adele's new track Skyfall, for the new Bond film, is fucking brilliant, hence this evening's intro lyrics. Google that sucker, it's some stirring stuff.

5. I still don't understand why Coors adverts still try and extol the virtues of how cold their beer is. Admittedly the ads are always amusing, but as soon as you realise that they're simply equating "cold" with "refreshing", with no mention of taste, you begin to smell their bullshit.

You can't taste 'cold', and as a general rule, liquids like coke and lemonade and of course, alcohol, start to lose some of their taste when they're really cold. So Coors, by exporting their beer via glacier, is concealing the fact that it doesn't actually taste of anything. Depending on the goal of your night out, this may be a good thing.

I might keep those two paragraphs written on a slip of paper and read it to my customers when they order a Coors. Or just say "Yeah, Coors. It's so cold, isn't it?"

Dissolving corpses

Yes the lantern burn, burn it easy,

And broadcast, so raw and neatly,

Thunder roll, sunshine, work it out ..

I came across this on wikipedia recently.

If you can't be arsed with extra curricular reading, the article describes an alternative technique for disposing of corpses other than burial/cremation: dissolving the body in lye solution, in what is essentially a giant cooker. After which, the remains go down a drain.

Is this dignified? Issues surrounding dignity isn't something I can offer much toward, considering I once had a 15 minute long discussion with someone in my first year of university on 'crop-dusting', the act of farting in a crowd before making your exit.

Cremation has some good Viking undertones; burial is something that everyone accepts as traditional. Even donating your body to science has some relevance and dignity to it, if perhaps in a post-modern kind of way. But, regardless of the fact that after death your body is a useless, empty vessel, there's still something slightly macabre and unsatisfying about having your remains dissolved into a gloop and flushed away.

It does raise several ethical issues.

In this day and age, when we hear of traces of prescription medication turning up in our water supply, is bits of dissolved corpse really something we want to add to the list of things we have to contend with when we go for a glass of water?

The odd, inadvertent dose of prozac is one thing; accidentally waltzing into casual cannibalism and drinking the dregs of someone's grandma who died two weeks previously is another thing entirely.

Otherwise, the only real train of thought is that, simply, you'll be dead. Ultimately, will it matter? I've already signed a form signing away my organs but they can also turn my head into a bong if they so wish. I've actually given no real thought to what happens to my body, though if I ever raised the funds I'd opt to have myself stuffed, mounted and possibly cast in bronze on Huddersfield ring road to leer at all the motorists and pedestrians coming in from Almondbury.

I realise there'll probably be some issue surrounding my stuffed and bronzed remains being used as a tourist deterrent. 

Failing this, I wouldn't be too fussed about being dissolved. Maybe someone could make a lava lamp out of me. That'd be kind of awesome.

Work gripes

Jump with the moon and move it,

Jump back and forth,

It feels like you would dare yourself

To work it out ..

You'll all be chuffed to know that the Woodman Inn at Thunderbridge has reopened after 3 weeks hard refurbishment. Going back there after 2 years away is feeling surprisingly familiar, despite the place having changed managerial hands, had a complete facelift and the majority of the old staff having left or been purged.

I had my 2nd shift today, on the 2nd day of being open again. I can barely believe that its taken such a short while for the old grievances to resurface. My main job-related gripe, which I never expected to worry about again, is this:

Stop paying by cheque. 

Please. 

It's 2012. 

I don't even care that our new till system makes it much easier for us to cash cheques. 

It's the simple principle of a person still living and going out for a drink like it's the fucking 1980's and using a cheque to pay for a bottle of Budweiser and a large chardonnay. Get yourself a debit card, Jesus.

In the same shift, a couple came in, cast their eyes over the sandwiches on our menu and said "We'll have the club sandwich and the salmon sandwich. On the club can we have one of the slices of bread toasted and the other only very slightly toasted, and on the salmon, one slice toasted and the other one plain?" 

I can only assume they woke up that morning and thought 'We should go screw around with some chefs today'. 

At least they paid cash.

Discuss paedophilia with your children, because if I do it it'll be weird.

Don't stop the buck when it comes,

It's the dawn, you'll see ..

Man, kids can have it tough.

Any quick glance at the news over the last couple of days will have been overwhelmed with stories about the abduction and murder of April Jones, underage sexual abuse by Jimmy Savile and today, the imprisonment after a year of Jerry Sandusky, the Penn State football coach, in the States.

I really hope parents aren't shielding their kids from these stories.

I'm not a parent, and I can't imagine how it would feel to have your child abducted or be the victim of some paedophile, but I imagine it must be devastating. This is why exposure to these kinds of stories is better for children in the long run, hopefully making them more aware and thus more savvy as they grow up.

Most parents will have had that talk with their children about strangers and not letting them do anything, like touch you. But, a key point that I reckon ought to be added to that lecture is that if some sick fuck does touch you anywhere you're uncomfortable with, then it's supremely important to tell someone.

I bet all of Jimmy Savile and Jerry Sandusky's victims are wishing they'd spoken up sooner. But it's easy to see in both cases why some of these victims must have been shrouded in shame. Both Savile and Sandusky were men who were trusted by their victims, and it is from here that the aspect of a victim's shame stems. Put simply, they let a man do something to them that they knew was wrong.

For children to admit to something like this, to any form of sexual abuse, is to admit that they did something they were not supposed to. To them, they were a part of something known only as "bad". Cast your mind back to childhood. How difficult was it to admit to stuff? Maybe you didn't do your homework, maybe you pushed a sibling over. You got into trouble for it because it was wrong. Sexual abuse is wrong. But it's no easy feat for young children to distinguish between these different kinds of 'wrong'.

Now think back to when you had the 'stranger danger' talk. How serious were your parents when they told you not to let someone do anything "bad" to you? Could you feasibly imagine going to them, age 10 or 11, and telling them that you'd let it happen? Imagine the disappointment they felt when you hadn't done your homework.

This is how it needs to be. Tell your children not only that there are dangerous people who might try and do horrendous things to them, but also that these people may not necessarily be strangers. And that should be followed up with "but if it does happen, tell someone". That they are not the bad person and they are not in trouble.

And simply having the confidence to talk at all is getting more important, because, as recent events have demonstrated, you can't always count on adults to do the right thing.

Liam Neeson killing Albanians again.

No more standin' there beside the walls,

I have got myself together baby,

I'm havin' a ball ..

It's official. Taken 2.

I mean really, who thought this was even an option?

If say, in 2007, someone mentioned a film about a tough-as-nails ex-military ops man whose daughter is kidnapped, forcing him to single handedly gun his way through swathes of armed foreigners to rescue her, you would stop them and say "Didn't Arnold Schwarzenegger already do that in 1985 as Colonel John Matrix in Commando?"

Absolutely he did. But the reason we all enjoyed Taken was that it took the done-to-death plotline and made it gritty and dark, if forgivably a little far-fetched.

Swap out Schwarzenegger in an assault vest to Liam Neeson in a leather jacket, give him some fucking badass dialogue and the job's a good one.

becomes:

But now the trailer for Taken 2 has been released, and everything the first one succeeded in looks about to be undermined, much like with The Hangover, by a half arsed rinse and repeat; all the key plot elements of the first film are taken, if you'll excuse the pun, and dragged kicking and screaming to scarcely believable proportions.

In this sequel, they're in Istanbul and it's the mother who gets kidnapped and it's up to Liam and his hot daughter to make the rescue this time round. In one scene from the trailer, we see the terrorists holding our hero at gunpoint, but still conveniently allowing him to make a crucial phone call to his daughter to inform her that they're "going to be taken".

"Listen to me carefully Kim. This sequel .. is probably gonna blow"

The other coincidental advantage is that the mother and daughter just seem to bump into Liam when on holiday in Turkey, just on the off-chance that at least one of them might get kidnapped. One can only really admire how well the daughter has recovered from the previous ordeal to even consider travelling abroad again. She's also seen perilously shimmying along a narrow balcony on the side of a building while scantily clad.

The balls on this girl!

Tragically even the dialogue has been recycled, and any new stuff hasn't got a patch on the famous "I will find you. And I will kill you" monologue.

"What are you going to do?" asks the daughter nervously at one point.

"What I do best." growls Neeson. Cut to shots of him killing Albanians with bits of fluff he found in his pocket.

This isn't of course to say it's guaranteed to be a flop. Yes, there looks to be a fair amount of gun battles, car chases and Liam Neeson shouting "Where is she?" again, but not even that looks good enough at this stage to live up to it's predecessor.

Make it worth it, Liam.

Do it.

Do that for all of us.

I leave the final say up to you.

Spiders

The Sun, the Moon,

Both turn for you,

And through your days

Will light your way ..

It's an old gripe, but this post is primarily for Kellie's entertainment. I'm beginning to feel that these posts are beginning to lose that subtle light of spontaneity that I enjoy, instead becoming entries lightly dusted with crap as a result of the pressure to just produce something, like some performing dog.

Anyway.

There's been a rise of late in the number of big fuck-off house spiders making terrifying appearances round our house. 

The other night, I was lying awake on my laptop in the small hours when I noticed something move out of the corner of my eye. I paid it no mind until it moved again, much more purposefully this time, at which point I realised it was a spider, doing that kind of awkward leggy glide, like some fucking 8-legged dementor. And then it did that thing that house spiders do, where, instead of just pegging it, they pause and wait.

I completely don't get this. 

Maybe its a kind of Jurassic Park tyrannosaurus thing and they believe human vision is based solely on movement. 

Maybe. 

I choose to believe its more of a come-on than anything else. That thing people say, about the spider being more scared of you than you are of it? If the behaviour of our spiders is anything to go by, then that theory is bollocks. Unless the spider dashes out of sight and never re-appears, then it's up for a scrap and is fair game as far as I'm concerned.

This was pretty much what was running through my head at the time, and I was getting all geared up (in a nervously shaky and sweaty way) to bring the spider, who we'll call Gwyneth, to its untimely death.

Then, in a heart-stopping moment, I noticed my BB gun, my primary anti-spider weapon, was on my desk. Gwyneth stood between us. There was no way I could have reached it without disturbing her. And she must have somehow sensed this, because before I made the next move she took off again, straight under my desk, and in a very Andy McNab moment, I dived for the gun and managed to fire about 3 rounds at her as she escaped behind some boxes.

This story should make a brilliant film.

After some minutes of tentatively shifting the boxes, a couple of screams and a bit of indiscriminate shooting, I managed to goad Gwyneth out from behind the boxes to under a set of shelves. It's worth noting that at this point I was close to soiling myself. And just as I opened my bag of BB's to perform a quick reload, Gwyneth bravely, but ultimately foolishly, made a try for under my bed.

Even when I'm at the point of shitting myself, no spider is ever knowingly getting near my bed without a fight. And in the second dramatic turn of the night, I dropped the half-loaded gun and grabbed the first object I found: my office chair. And in one smooth movement, I ran her over with it. Then again. And a few more times, just to be certain. This probably sufficed, but Jesus, when spiders are involved and I'm this worked up, I don't stop short of collateral damage.

In my wardrobe, I have an old samurai sword that a chef from the pub gave me. This was put to good use for the next 2 minutes or so.

I felt sorry for Gwyneth on some level. Regardless of the fact that she'd scared the crap out of me and had run the risk of turning my bedroom into a week long quarantine zone, I felt that nothing deserved a death quite as brutal and undignified as hers.

This feeling lasted about 15 minutes.

Just as I'd begun to re-settle in bed and just about gotten rid of the shakes, I saw another movement. Barely believing it, there was another one, who we'll call Scott. Not taking any chances, I grabbed the sword and the gun.

Scott may have been the nicest spider with only good intentions, but the fear he incurred in me was such that nothing would bring me peace other than his demise, which followed about 4 seconds after.

Some artistic license has been taken.

I'm hoping now that spiders have some sort of monthly/annual appearance quota to fill. By anybody's standards, September and October should now both be ticked off. One or two a month just begins to breach levels of acceptability, but two within 20 minutes of each other is just taking the piss.

Lets take a moment to thank the things that kept me safe.

Child-free zones

And the verdict doesn't love our soul,

The digital won't let me go ..

BBC News story: "Should there be child-free zones on planes and trains?"

Either someone at the BBC is doing a fine job of taking the piss, or WestJet airlines has an ethically questionable board of directors.

Click for full size.

 - EDIT, 6.14 p.m. - 
Oh man. This just gets better and better.

The first serious post in ages

Fools rush in, where angels fear to tread,

And so I come to you my love,

My heart above my head ..

I've recently nabbed a place on a CELTA course, which, if I pass, will give me a well recognised qualification as a teacher of English to foreign learners. The travel and general experience prospects of the CELTA are second to none, but of late, my rational foresight has been throwing around a lot of worries and second guessing.

It begins when I take the base monetary concerns into consideration; even with the assistance of a (not yet guaranteed) grant from the British Council, the CELTA won't be cheap. £1100 for 4 weeks. Even with a kind member of my family offering to pay the rest of the lion's share, it is still a ridiculously sized carcass on which the lion dines. Let's say I do qualify for the British Council grant. Even with that sizeable portion checked off, the remaining figure is still a mountain of agony that someone's going to have to take on. 

It's difficult to take solace at this stage; the old counterpoints to my pangs of uncertainty aren't really cooing me to acceptance any more. This is mostly a side-effect of the practical worthlessness of my current skill sets. The only answer that seems to exist is "If not this, then what?", as though settling for what's obvious now seems the only viable option. 

Honestly I'm not sure what I'm cut out for in terms of career and/or higher education. Surely, one would say, if languages and teaching are an area of true proficiency, then surely I should just do the CELTA, therefore striving for the best that's on offer? This would be a sure-fire option if languages and teaching were indeed my areas of proficiency. I can't help but feel that my carefree year in Germany, during which we were all deemed to be 'good' teachers, has given me only a set of rose-tinted glasses through which I see my future in teaching.

Certainly the technical and practical prowess that I would absorb on the CELTA would be more beneficial than anything I learnt in Germany. Of that there is very little doubt, and it would definitely be a stepping stone towards becoming a similar teacher in reality to the one that I became in my mind. But does my lack of area-specific skill at the outset mean I am pursuing something with no future marketability? And at an incredible expense to others, no less? I remember having similar mental sparring matches with myself when I was considering university, except this time round, the post-uni mentality just seems to amplify the intensity of this inner struggle by a huge amount.

The other main point in all this is that, frankly, CELTA will provide a future that I know (or at least strongly suspect) I will be interested in and gain enjoyment from, whatever my ability may be. The course offers an intensive degree of training, both theoretical and practical, ultimately offering a fantastic and internationally recognised level of competency. And I want it. 

Something at the back of my mind screams at me to look at TEFL courses - less intensive, much less expensive - but another part of me implores me to go the whole way. Seeing and hearing about the contrast between the two courses is one of the few points of light beaming from the CELTA that swings me in it's favour. The idea of elevating myself to being more masterful in my teaching abilities, beyond earning pieces of paper with my name on them, is the only thing that really eases the knots that have been tied at Gordian levels within my psyche.

This isn't me shitting on TEFL courses or any other kind of elitist dickhead notion; rather, this is me putting into perspective what it is the TEFL lacks and that which I want.

So to conclude, I wonder once again if this is ultimately a fruitless path, based on short-sighted justification? Regardless of my desire to improve myself, I feel I'm looking into some kind of future-defining abyss, with no light of reference to shine across. I'm at a position where either I make camp in familiar territory, which would wear depressingly thin in a very short amount of time, or I set out into possible failure, at the financial expense of someone else, with a distant chance of commendable success. There is no answer, nor reasonably should there be, and this is tearing me to shreds inside.

Uhh.

Joke of the week

I wish I knew how it would feel to be free,

I wish I could break all the chains holding me ..

Here's your funny fix for this week. This one destroyed me.

___________

A mother and her 4 year old daughter are driving in their car behind a bin-lorry. As it goes over a bump, a dildo flies out of the back of the truck and bounces off the window of the car.

"What was that mummy?" Asks the little girl.

Embarrassed, and to save her daughter's innocence, the mother replies "Oh don't worry, it was just an insect."

"Oh" says the little girl, "I'm surprised it could get off the ground with a cock like that"

Homophobia

I can see you ahead of me,

But I'm not always forward thinking,

I'll tell you what you want to hear,

It depends on what I've been drinking ..

When I was in Leeds, I once overheard a conversation in a pub between the woman behind the bar, an older male customer she knew, and a girl who knew neither of them. The guy must have complimented the girl in some way, said she looked very athletic or something, because I heard her say that she appreciated the compliment, but that she never worked out. They had a brief chat and she left.

When she's gone, the barwoman leans over and says to the bloke "I'm really glad you said something. I was going to comment on her body too but I didn't want her to think I was coming on to her". And the older gent sips his pint and says "Yeah, well. You can't be too careful these days."

I liked that. These days. As if somehow you'd be forgiven for thinking gay people only got to Leeds not too long ago.

So they chat a little bit more, then the barlady lets out a little laugh and a long sigh and says "God, I'm so homophobic". But it was the way she said it, in a way that I wish I could replicate for you here. It wasn't remotely nasty or negative. It was the same tone you might use if you'd had a long day at work, sighed and said "God, I'm so tired".

Anyway, it made me laugh.

I mention this anecdote because the subject matter has the vaguest of tie-ins with the main part of this post

I saw a thing recently about some ancient scroll which has been discovered which supposedly proved that Jesus had a wife. The BBC news article mentioned something about how this, if true, could call the idea of celibacy and the role of women within Christianity into question. Because, according to Christianity, Jesus never married.

Regardless of whether or not its true, I wonder why arguments like 'Jesus was never married' aren't thrown around as much during debates about the relationship  between  religion and gay people. I think the fact that Jesus was single for all of his 33 years adds some real substance to the theory that he was gay. I would dearly love for that to someday be proved the truth. Gay Jesus. He would become a global gay icon, and America would just consume itself.

But, as it stands now, homosexuality is just a spectacular cop-out answer for angry Christian fundamentalists. There was a programme on a few months back, following groups in the same vein as Westboro Baptist Church, just looking at their sermons and tenets and whatnot. And one of their fucktard preachers said - and I'm not kidding here - something very similar to "We live on an earth made up of water! The water surrounds us! But it does not fall out, because God is holding it in! But he will not hold it in forever, because of evils such as .." (pause) ".. homosexuality! Homosexuality is sin!"

So yeah, thanks a fucking bunch, homos! Your depravity is ruining our oceans! Gay guys - will you please repent and start having lady sex? The future of the planet is dependent on where you put your cock! Won't somebody please think of the whales?

Who is Gary?

When the sale comes first

And the truth comes second,

Just stop for a minute and smile ..

I had a dream last night that I won an Oscar for Best Picture for making the film "Up", and having to go up on stage to make a speech which I hadn't planned. And I remember the whole thing being horribly nerve-racking, except the stuff I came out with turned out to be really awesome and I got a standing ovation. 

I got a haircut the other day and lost a heck of a lot more hair than I intended to. It's not as if it looks terrible, but there was certainly more hair on the floor when it was over than I'd envisaged when I walked in. It was the usual cutter, a small Chinese lady with a Yorkshire accent that just doesn't fit somehow. I like her because she only spends the first 2 minutes doing 'hairdresser chat', and then just asks the usual questions. And I give her the usual "not too short mumble mumble don't fuck it up, yeah?"

So I've been showcasing my new hair today with Pip and Simon at Holmfirth food and drink festival, where I nearly bought a cider slushy, which might have been amazing, and ate a bratwurst, which was a massive disappointment. I did find some pub graffiti though.

Click for full size. I'm still not certain if it says 'suck' or 'fuck', but either way, Gary is a twat.

On the Wirral

If you're looking for love

In a looking glass world,

It's pretty hard to find ..

This is my long overdue post about my (not-so, anymore) recent trip to the Wirral. For those of you who haven't withstood prolonged, subjective bombardment of various Wirral facts and figures as I have, I'll fill you in: The Wirral is a peninsula between Liverpool and Wales, with the river Dee on the Welsh side and the Mersey on the other. Population of about 312,000, accent generally scouse-ish.

Having teased Kellie for as long as we can remember about the Wirral, I had no idea what to expect. It had gotten to the point where all our piss-taking stories of radioactive zones, mammoth hunts and the entrance being through the back of a wardrobe had begun to take precedence over the truth.

Just for the record, it's a pretty sweet place with plenty of decent highlights. It beats Huddersfield into submission in any case. Here are a few pictures of things we got up to. 

The beach. Supposedly the tide comes in and covers this area, meaning you have to time your walks carefully, but if I was the tide, I'd have got pretty knackered trying to do that at least once a day. It was essentially more of a desert than a beach, but it was a good walk and we got some nice views from the three little islands that are dotted around.

The Maize Maze. Retrospect indicates that we were probably too old for this attraction. 

However, still clinging by our worn fingertips to the idea that we're still students and that stuff like this (along with afternoon naps and Disney films) is therefore still acceptable, we paid the entrance fee and went in. And it was awesome.

This is me looking appropriately excited before and during our hour or two in the maze. I think the second photo was shortly before everyone else lost interest and I went back and finished the puzzle book all by myself. Because I am a big boy now.

This is our group at Liverpool Lime Street (minus Directions Girl, who's taking the picture), dressed to kill as per Sophie's instructions. I sensed at the time that strolling through the crowds of Liverpudlians wearing skinny jeans and a peaked cap increased the chances of getting the crap beaten out of me tenfold, but it was such a happy moment that it didn't really phase me.

Other noteworthy things:

• A seagull shat on me while we were eating ice cream.
• I accidentally groped Kellie's dog (debatable) and made it wear a hat, but not at the same time. 

• A scouse wedding photoshoot. Both the photographer and whoever chose the location for the shoot have a table in hell with a 'reserved' sign on it. I've not given any wedding of mine a great deal of thought, but if it ever happens, I'm gonna strive for photos of me and my lady that don't have the Holiday Inn and an All-you-can-eat Chinese buffet in the background.

• Scouse Macbeth. In which the fictional universes of Shakespeare and Hitman coincide.

• And a couple of end-of-the-world repentance preachers. 

I'd choose pleasures over God any day.

The only other thing that really struck me was the people. This was more the case for Liverpool than on the Wirral, but the amount of midriff on display on 14/15 year old girls was just untrue. There were also far too many girls wearing leggings as a viable alternative to trousers, in and among throngs of slutty looking, aged hen parties, who took what should have been sexy and made it grotesque and frightening. And this was before they'd even opened their mouths.

If not for my lovely friends, I would not have seen any attractive people.

...

Will this do for now, Kellie?

Your humiliation must be more severe.

Downtown,

Middle of the afternoon,

Sweet sound,

Everybody's on the move ..

I got out of the shower this evening and when I'd dried off and went to put my boxers back on, I wasn't really paying attention and accidentally put both legs through the same leg hole. Except I wasn't aware of this til I confidently yanked them up and began to walk at the same time, whereby my legs and bollocks got crushed together and I fell into my desk, all in one elegant movement.

I actually have nothing else to tell you until I get back from The Wirral on Sunday night, so here's a clip of Tom Hardy as Bane saying "Mr. Wayne" for 10 minutes.

When you've listened to it so many times that you can't bear it any more .. you have my permission to leave.

Decade.

'Cause everything is out there,

And there's no limits out there,

We could be reaching out for anything if we try enough ..

What are people thinking when they write stuff like "best film of the decade" in 2012? Surely logic dictates, for simplicity's sake, that decades should be identified as starting and ending in years divisible by ten? Otherwise, any film made in 2012 dubbed "best of decade" just starts to infringe on the previous ones. Can't we wait until 2020 before deciding which films were the best of this decade? Or at least throw in a cheeky "so far" at the end?

This is becoming some sort of trend. Browsing on various forums, I've seen numerous cases of people becoming more pedantic than it's worth when it comes to decade identification. The best example I recall was when someone said that 2010 marked the start of a new decade. Then some dickhead had piped up with something like 'no, because 2009 was only the ninth year of that decade. 2010 will be the last one.Why are you saying its a new decade when it's not?'

Historically the First Decade did only have 9 years, but anyone who calls upon this in an argument has probably never gotten over the fact that being the smartest kid in your class counts for jack-all in the real world. And, it's probably safe for us to re-jig the decade system as we see fit, since anyone who was alive in that first century is long since dead. 

With the possible exception of Jesus of course, but he's had over two thousand years to voice any concerns.

People like the Chinese probably don't have these sorts of arguments, namely because they've been playing with calendars and whatnot for more millennia than we have. It probably struck them as unimportant, in the face of thousands of years of history, to argue when a decade begins and ends purely so Westerners can work out which decade The Dark Knight Rises was the best in.

Their calendars probably got all screwed up anyway when we introduced the Gregorian calendar. In fact we're probably due for another calendar-changing tyrant any day soon, so don't get too attached.

And above all remember there will always be people like me in the world, willing to write inane entries about stuff you can find on the internet and deliver virtual karate chops to anyone who declares themself to be the arbiter and watchman of who delivers truth in the world. Ohhh yeahhhh.

Holiday planning and flying

Never believed that I'd ever find myself

Looking up to the upper hand

And loving every minute baby ..

I'm currently in the process of planning a weeks break in Germany for New Year 2013, marking the first time I'll have been back/spoken German in a practical capacity since I came back from Neuerburg in June last year. It feels like an absolute eternity ago so it'll be nice to be back, if only for a week. This time round though I'm aiming at East Germany and hitting up Berlin for the second time with these two gays.

The cheapest flights I can find are with Lufthansa. How nuts is that? I was secretly hoping we'd be flying with GermanWings, if not for their in-flight "happy picnic", then simply because you get to choose your plane seat when doing your online booking and grab the ones by the windows/exits before anyone else.

I remember there was always a disclaimer of sorts when you chose your seat online; something about not being pregnant or ill disabled if you chose a seat near an emergency exit. Of the twelve times or so that I've flown in my life, about half of them were right next to these exits. That was quite a bit of pressure, in retrospect. We all like to think we're gonna be nice and calm in those situations, but I'm fairly certain I'd shit myself and start crying.

In all fairness, there aren't a great many accounts of the person sitting in the emergency exit row really coming to the fore in such scenarios. I've yet to come across a news story that said "The plane and all 200 aboard were surely doomed, were it not for the quick thinking and sprightly actions of the lady in the rear-left emergency exit row".

It feels ages since I've flown. For some people it's always a cool experience, but the novelty has sadly started to wear off for me. I hate the process, too. Make sure your luggage fits. Don't set off the metal detector. Find a toothpaste tube you accidentally left in your hand luggage and have it binned in front of you. Pilots who can't tell you anything without going "uuhhhhhhhh" before they say it.

But having Berlin at the end of it all more than makes up for it. The only negative thing I remember about Berlin was a grumpy incompetent lady in Starbucks on Friedrichstraße. I can't even blame it on us speaking each others language badly, because 50% of it was in Italian and everything else was easy.

Macchiato venti mit caramel, bitch.

Weeing in strange ways.

Postcard from heaven,

Go to where you belong,

Never find the perfect situation

Until you know where you're from ..

There was a bloke at Huddersfield train station today who peed in an odd fashion. The freuqency with which I'm finding odd people in toilets of late is making me re-assess my threshold on 'odd' and making me wonder if it is in fact me who's the weird one. 

In today's example, I walked into the Gents and found a guy at the urinal-trough thing mid-pee. I immediately thought he seemed rather statue-esque, then I noticed he had his hands by his sides. He had his head turned to the right, slightly upwards. It was such a weird pose for a wee. It was as if he was scared of his cock. There was no penis guidance going on, what with his hands being by his sides and the positioning of his head made it look as if he'd just gone "Oh, the horror! I cannot bring myself to look!"

I used the cubicle.

Seeing that strange people in the bogs are becoming an exciting part of my routine, I feel I should join in, so as to share the experience with others. Not like this guy though. Next time I'm peeing, when other guys walk in, I'll be like, "Mate, check out my penis. It's weeing. Yup, been drinking a lot of the ol' water today, so, you know. Lot of trips to the toilet. Gotta pee it all out good style. Hey, where you going?"

Sidekick

So then I took my time

Oh what a thing to have done,

And it was all yellow ..

I'm typing this entry as I sit on hold to the Jobcentre. The music they play when you're on hold is "Spring" from Vivaldi's Four Seasons, it doesn't feel right somehow. Give 'em a ring, it's 08456088548. I guarantee you won't have to speak to anyone.

I would really dig having a monkey sidekick.

The dog is a good companion, but it just doesn't cut it like I imagine a monkey would.

A few criteria:

1.) The monkey must be the right size to sit on my shoulder. This could be quite a prohibiting factor, as I'm tall but I don't have broad or muscular shoulders with a great deal of space. Having said that, even if I had enormous physique I'd hardly choose to lug a 40 kilogram baboon round on my shoulder. I'm thinking something along the lines of a Capuchin, because any monkey I have as a sidekick is gonna be a 9 til 5 job.

2.) The monkey's got to be toilet trained. Given the previous point, knowing when and where to have a dump is an invaluable thing for this monkey to get right and proper. It must need to know to hop off and do it elsewhere and not just crap down my back.

3.) I'd like it to understand a broad range of commands. Examples would be "Monkey! Strongbow!", at which point he'd run to the fridge and get me a cider. He would also need to be athletic enough to fetch things from great heights, such as on top of shelves. I like my monkeys spry.

4.) The monkey would exact immediate, bloody revenge upon my enemies. I'd just have to glance at him on my shoulder and say "Monkey! Vengeance!"

5.) Leading on from the two previous points, the monkey must have a decent enough grasp of the English language, or at least my voice, lest it becomes as useless as voice recognition programmes. For example, if I were to say "Monkey! My cocaine!", he might bring me Michael Caine, because the phrase 'my cocaine' sounds like Michael Caine saying his name in his own voice. 

Similar hiccups may arise if I had just received injustice at the hands of Michael Caine. There would be nothing more saddening or train-wreck interesting than a monkey accidentally drugging himself to death while trying to bludgeon the crap out of a bag of cocaine. To that late monkey's credit, I probably should have spoken more clearly when I said "Vengeance on Michael Caine!"

6.) I would like the monkey to have WiFi.

7.) I would occasionally like the monkey to ride backwards on a pig.

8.) As with my dog, the monkey should know a few tricks. "Sit" is old hat, but "high five" I think still has some relevance. Sometimes I have very good things to say but no-one is around to hear them. The monkey will therefore be my back-up man, sitting poised and ready to high five me when I come out with witticisms like "Kellie's secretly scouse". To prove that I am, indeed, the man.

9.) It'd be best if the monkey would refrain from touching himself when sitting on my shoulder. Much like the crapping etiquette point, the monkey must understand that there is a time and a place; anytime he's being my sidekick is considered 'improper'.

10.) The monkey must choose his own name from a list of obscure British MP's of the 1930's.

Awkward Silences

There's a ladder tear in my high ideals,

Like a took a chair on the battlefield,

And any noble friend that was burning in my chest

Is acid in my belly at the very best ..

Robert Downey Jr. named his baby Exton Elias. I have never wanted to beat a baby up so badly in my life.

Like most people, I really don't enjoy awkward silences. I think it falls in line with the Virgo part of my personality, which looks for harmony among peers. In my opinion, the absolute king of awkward silence set-ups is when a fat person openly acknowledges that they are fat.

It's awful. What makes it worse is that their comments about their fatness are usually thrown in as a nonchalant, off the cuff comment that everyone was apparently meant to just accept. What are you meant to say?

The instinctive response is to laugh, after half of a second of which you compose yourself and search for the answer which never comes, followed by more laughing upon realising there is nothing to say. Logic tells you that it'd be tasteless to deny it, although this often happens and you find yourself saying "No, you're not fat, don't be silly! Oh, you!", although 9 times out of 10 their girth was the first thing you clocked when you saw them.

But then again, bad as that answer seems, the other option is simply to agree with them, which is probably an even less advisable way out.

"Hahaha, yes, you're a HUGE fatty! Just looking at you makes me feel better about myself!"

Dear fat people - we get that you're fat. It's an undeniable aspect of your being and drawing attention to it mid conversation will not dispel preconceptions we have, if any. It just makes the moment awkward as fuck.

Today however, it was me that was the cause of the awkward silence.

I was at the Huddersfield Jobcentre again to sign my declarations when I made the acquaintance of yet another fellow jobseeker. I can't put her age anywhere closer to the bullseye than 45 - 60. She was short. Quite forward. Angry, grizzled yorkshirewoman persona.

We chatted for a minute after she said hi. I didn't get her name but I do know she'll have had pizza for dinner. We also agreed that the rain in Huddersfield was terrible. And we were just sitting there, when out of the blue she says "I like your hair".

I never really know what to say to this. My hair gets a bit of gel most days just to liven things up. I generally try and keep the old fringe to go to the left. Outside of that it's generally left to its own devices, though it doesn't benefit from being in the pouring rain.

"Cheers", I answered, smiling, "I like yours too."

Then came the pause.

Did I remember to mention that my friend's hair was cut short in that angry, grizzled yorkshirewoman way? It wasn't a buzzcut, but it was certainly more closely cropped than my hair has ever been.

That was pretty much the only thing running through my mind in the seconds after I shut my mouth. Her face froze for a moment and I started to think of ways I could explain how I'd made a surly Yorkshire lady beat the crap out of me in the middle of the Jobcentre.

The pregnant pause gave birth after an eternity's gestation; thankfully, after consideration, my new friend found my comment very funny.

Oof.

Just oof.

We all get a turn in the awkward silence chute, and today was mine.