I used to buy Empire magazine every month. I started in January 1994 and missed only a few issues for the next ten years or so. I’m now merely a sporadic reader. If I’m going on holiday, or if there’s a particular cover story that catches my eye I’ll buy it. And I always get the Christmas issue.
This shameful lapsing isn’t a comment on the quality or otherwise of the mag; it’s just me being lazy, watching my cash – and also not going to the cinema anywhere near as often as I used to. In fact, the truth is I hardly ever go anymore. But that's for another entry.
Without imbuing this whole thing with really deep importance, it is quite something when you finally let go of the props and stabilisers you once relied upon. Maybe you just subconsciously swap them for something else. Today I finally dumped my very first (Windows 95) PC on the pavement outside my home (it’s collection day, don’t worry). Soaked, and returning from the supermarket I was just in time to see the bin lorry enter the street. By the time I’d walked down my road my ex-PC was gliding away in a questionable chariot. Literally dumped after a long-term relationship. I’d like to write something poetic or wistful about thousands of emails sharing space with dumped fridges and last week’s TV model, but I actually removed - and kept - the hard drive. I’m not that stupid.
Listening to:
My Maudlin Career - LP by Camera Obscura
Tommy - compilation LP by The Wedding Present
Bizarro – LP by The Wedding Present
One of the Boys – song by Katy Perry
Watching/recently watched: Scream; True Blood series 1; Dexter series 3; various embarrassing TV shows
Reading: The Necropolis Railway by Andrew Martin
Playing: Fifa 09 (PS2); Fifa 07 (PSP)
Hacked off by: The fact I wrote this about six weeks ago and forgot to post it up
Cheered up by: Shopping around and finding cheap food; finishing first draft of a short script; writing amusing (to me) copy for a Christmas fanzine; wine; tea
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
***SPAM*** Hey spammer: stick your spam emails up your @$$ – big guy! : )
Scum slang One, such as a person or an element of society, that is regarded as despicable or worthless.
Everyone is scum these days. From child-o-philes “Hang this scum!” to terroririzerists “Bomb this scum!” to striking postal workers “Sack this scum!”
Being of liberal mind and action, right up to the point where it might cause me personal inconvenience, I thought I’d add to the roll call of Scum In Our Society:
Spammers are scum. There, I’ve said it.
I probably get around 50-80 spam emails every day. I have an ancient email address,
and apparently this explains the high number of messages. I’ve got filtering software – but you need to keep an eye on what it’s deleted. Who knows what you might miss? Nothing, probably – but you never know.
I hate spammers' pointless, poorly-written messages about utter crap. Hate their nonsensical subject headers and fabricated, hybrid names: ‘Carmichael Muriel'; ‘Grady Woodland’. Hate the fact that there are enough gullible twats out there to make it worthwhile for spammers to spam.
Most of the time they read like Richie Cunningham and Potsie have composed the content, perhaps with assistance from Austin Powers: “Hey man – you can be the cool dude!” “The king of the mattress will keep her up – all night!” “Show her you’re the big guy!”
Senders and subject headers of recently-received spam emails:
From: Hildegard Beary
Subject: Very elegant. How's for you?
From: Your Pharmacy
Subject: Take and poke her!
From: Garland Ygegeuyt
Subject: Unblock my primary mail! :)
From: Neva Platt
Subject: If you had a larger thing in pants, your life would have been better
They're ruining email – a genuinely useful tool for forwarding jokes and amusing video clips, wasting time at work and declining well-meant invitations to social events. So I say **** off, you pointless spamming bastards. Hang them - from electric chairs in a cell whose key has been thrown away.
Everyone is scum these days. From child-o-philes “Hang this scum!” to terroririzerists “Bomb this scum!” to striking postal workers “Sack this scum!”
Being of liberal mind and action, right up to the point where it might cause me personal inconvenience, I thought I’d add to the roll call of Scum In Our Society:
Spammers are scum. There, I’ve said it.
I probably get around 50-80 spam emails every day. I have an ancient email address,
and apparently this explains the high number of messages. I’ve got filtering software – but you need to keep an eye on what it’s deleted. Who knows what you might miss? Nothing, probably – but you never know.
I hate spammers' pointless, poorly-written messages about utter crap. Hate their nonsensical subject headers and fabricated, hybrid names: ‘Carmichael Muriel'; ‘Grady Woodland’. Hate the fact that there are enough gullible twats out there to make it worthwhile for spammers to spam.
Most of the time they read like Richie Cunningham and Potsie have composed the content, perhaps with assistance from Austin Powers: “Hey man – you can be the cool dude!” “The king of the mattress will keep her up – all night!” “Show her you’re the big guy!”
Senders and subject headers of recently-received spam emails:
From: Hildegard Beary
Subject: Very elegant. How's for you?
From: Your Pharmacy
Subject: Take and poke her!
From: Garland Ygegeuyt
Subject: Unblock my primary mail! :)
From: Neva Platt
Subject: If you had a larger thing in pants, your life would have been better
They're ruining email – a genuinely useful tool for forwarding jokes and amusing video clips, wasting time at work and declining well-meant invitations to social events. So I say **** off, you pointless spamming bastards. Hang them - from electric chairs in a cell whose key has been thrown away.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
An invertebrate calls
Fairly recently I began to notice that as night fell, I was not as alone in the house as I’d hoped... From under the back door they slither, silently, across the grey-painted floor tiles. In the half-light it can look like someone’s dropped their eyebrow. Then you swear you see the little dark crescent moving.
Yes: my home’s the nightspot to be seen in – if you’re a slug.
Evening brings them out from beyond the garden, and you can watch them scaling walls and fences. Like planes, they leave trails in their wake; platinum-coloured threads that criss-cross over windows, bricks and paving slabs.
Perhaps they’re just indulging in an after-dinner stroll. Maybe they’re after a little heat (if so they’ve slimed into the wrong address). Either way, The Back Door Slugs – there’s usually three of them - never venture beyond a narrow slice of the house that’s used only for hanging indifferent clothes from a pulley and, appropriately, for accessing the garden and bin sheds: their territory. So their invasion of my territory seems a fair enough exchange to me.
Maybe I should provide some entertainment and comfort for them: an obstacle course, or thimbles of beer. My invertebrate friends are always gone by morning – off for another day of garden games until sundown, and the next indoor visit.
Yes: my home’s the nightspot to be seen in – if you’re a slug.
Evening brings them out from beyond the garden, and you can watch them scaling walls and fences. Like planes, they leave trails in their wake; platinum-coloured threads that criss-cross over windows, bricks and paving slabs.
Perhaps they’re just indulging in an after-dinner stroll. Maybe they’re after a little heat (if so they’ve slimed into the wrong address). Either way, The Back Door Slugs – there’s usually three of them - never venture beyond a narrow slice of the house that’s used only for hanging indifferent clothes from a pulley and, appropriately, for accessing the garden and bin sheds: their territory. So their invasion of my territory seems a fair enough exchange to me.
Maybe I should provide some entertainment and comfort for them: an obstacle course, or thimbles of beer. My invertebrate friends are always gone by morning – off for another day of garden games until sundown, and the next indoor visit.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Observations on my trip from home to the Post Office and back
So - I'm looking after the online sales of my friend's record label, while he's on holiday. It's more fun than it sounds. It involves me checking his email account for orders, then sending CDs/badges off to eager pop fans. It's what I'd like to do for a job. Actually, right now it pretty much is what I do for a job.So far I've sent CDs to Spain, Japan and Troon. It means I'm in the Post Office more than is usual. No problem there - I'm quite the fan of stationery items: envelopes; glue; sticky tape; string.
There's a queue of course. I don't mind queuing. It's one situation where there's an outside chance I'll be standing near a woman. Anyone who queues whilst tutting and sighing - well, my advice is get there earlier. And here's another nugget: audibly hissing 'oh for f**** sake' won't hasten the administration of the man at the counter who, admittedly, must be single-handedly keeping ebay in rude health.
So queues - no bother. I was more concerned with the array of, to be blunt, tat that is bewilderingly sold in Post Offices. Greetings cards (OK - there is some cursory relevance there) - but helium balloons; money boxes (and not even postbox-shaped ones); calendars? In September? And not just regular calendars. I'm talking the 'Hamsters at Play' 2010 calendar, the front of which featured a hamster playing billiards. The thing is - someone must be buying them.Everything should turn black and white when you enter a Post Office; and there should be a queue of Celia Johnsons patiently waiting to buy stamps (remember those?).
I was going to bang on about it, but in summary the way back home featured those perennial favourites of urban obstruction: 1) The two people having a conversation when stood right in the middle of a narrow pavement and 2) The building society A-board placed - and I'm not kidding - directly in the centre of the pavement of one of the busiest streets in the city. It's no wonder I spend so much time indoors.
Listening to:
There's a queue of course. I don't mind queuing. It's one situation where there's an outside chance I'll be standing near a woman. Anyone who queues whilst tutting and sighing - well, my advice is get there earlier. And here's another nugget: audibly hissing 'oh for f**** sake' won't hasten the administration of the man at the counter who, admittedly, must be single-handedly keeping ebay in rude health.
So queues - no bother. I was more concerned with the array of, to be blunt, tat that is bewilderingly sold in Post Offices. Greetings cards (OK - there is some cursory relevance there) - but helium balloons; money boxes (and not even postbox-shaped ones); calendars? In September? And not just regular calendars. I'm talking the 'Hamsters at Play' 2010 calendar, the front of which featured a hamster playing billiards. The thing is - someone must be buying them.Everything should turn black and white when you enter a Post Office; and there should be a queue of Celia Johnsons patiently waiting to buy stamps (remember those?).
I was going to bang on about it, but in summary the way back home featured those perennial favourites of urban obstruction: 1) The two people having a conversation when stood right in the middle of a narrow pavement and 2) The building society A-board placed - and I'm not kidding - directly in the centre of the pavement of one of the busiest streets in the city. It's no wonder I spend so much time indoors.
Listening to:
Good Foundations - LP by Tesco Chainstore Mascara
Years of Refusal - LP by Morrissey
Selected LP tracks by The Cranberries
Pictures of Success - song by Rilo Kiley
All I Wanna Do - song by The School
21 Guns - song by Green Day
Watching/recently watched: Little Manhattan; Shopgirl; (500) Days of Summer; The Godfather (at the cinema!)
Reading: Billy Liar by Keith Waterhouse
Playing: Scarface (PS2)
Hacked off by: Didn't food-shop again
Cheered up by: Tea; cherry bakewells; red wine; (500) Days of Summer; not working; Ellen Page
Watching/recently watched: Little Manhattan; Shopgirl; (500) Days of Summer; The Godfather (at the cinema!)
Reading: Billy Liar by Keith Waterhouse
Playing: Scarface (PS2)
Hacked off by: Didn't food-shop again
Cheered up by: Tea; cherry bakewells; red wine; (500) Days of Summer; not working; Ellen Page
Oh, October...
Just a note to welcome the current month to the party. I love October. I romanticise it to death, plotting rarely-taken autumnal walks, scoffing non-existent toffee apples and coming second in invented conker fights.
Unlike its inoffensive predecessor, October’s a full 31-day-value month – and it goes out with a bang on Hallowe'en: the best feast of the year. It’s the month of rakes, snapping twigs, woollen hats and pumpkins in the fruit shop. It’s finding odd treasure - small change; hankies; flyers and decomposing caramels - in the pockets of winter coats.
So I say welcome to both Octobers: the real and the imagined.
Unlike its inoffensive predecessor, October’s a full 31-day-value month – and it goes out with a bang on Hallowe'en: the best feast of the year. It’s the month of rakes, snapping twigs, woollen hats and pumpkins in the fruit shop. It’s finding odd treasure - small change; hankies; flyers and decomposing caramels - in the pockets of winter coats.
So I say welcome to both Octobers: the real and the imagined.
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