tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-45909495766699660382024-03-13T14:45:12.752+00:00Mo "Mad Dog" Stoneskinmo.stoneskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10737422581378328590noreply@blogger.comBlogger172125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4590949576669966038.post-15926614272793248142013-03-21T18:39:00.001+00:002013-03-21T18:39:32.371+00:00pic<p class="mobile-photo"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLA16qLtI-AV_ug-rZiwHKaf-6OvifezYQVlbnTu0tI2zjH7BGgXjwVbTWygLaiRcgN8itejluIsS-m9Q4JsWScLe-ZVXVd4OfwwWq8tbCai1l4shR1nF8oaUrvQEuobkHQEyOiGHlIc9R/s1600/IMG_20130321_183121-772372.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLA16qLtI-AV_ug-rZiwHKaf-6OvifezYQVlbnTu0tI2zjH7BGgXjwVbTWygLaiRcgN8itejluIsS-m9Q4JsWScLe-ZVXVd4OfwwWq8tbCai1l4shR1nF8oaUrvQEuobkHQEyOiGHlIc9R/s320/IMG_20130321_183121-772372.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5857867981564851058" /></a></p><p class="mobile-photo"><a 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mo.stoneskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10737422581378328590noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4590949576669966038.post-6072270402950244892009-12-21T13:39:00.000+00:002009-12-21T13:40:28.996+00:00I’m dreaming of a milk Christmas<p class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.madd0g.org/2009/12/im-dreaming-of-a-milk-christmas.html">I've moved. </a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>mo.stoneskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10737422581378328590noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4590949576669966038.post-68127691955404709312009-12-14T13:45:00.001+00:002009-12-14T13:45:58.117+00:00VandalismLast chance to update your readers, I've moved to <a href="http://www.madd0g.org/2009/12/vandalism.html">here</a>.mo.stoneskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10737422581378328590noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4590949576669966038.post-4202334053014614892009-12-07T13:03:00.001+00:002009-12-07T13:05:06.380+00:00At the end of the day sequined jackets should be illegalMcFly, this is probably the last post I'll do here so it is time to update your reader!!! <a href="http://www.madd0g.org/2009/12/at-the-end-of-the-day-sequined-jackets-should-be-illegal.html">I've moved</a>.mo.stoneskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10737422581378328590noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4590949576669966038.post-82210347478037533822009-11-30T13:20:00.002+00:002009-11-30T13:20:42.975+00:00The Cockatoo's WristwatchWhat are you still doing here? I've moved to <a href="http://www.madd0g.org/2009/11/the-cockatoos-wristwatch.html">here</a>!mo.stoneskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10737422581378328590noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4590949576669966038.post-33292594609778304252009-11-24T12:30:00.000+00:002009-11-24T12:35:57.298+00:00(Network Problems Over I think!) Shut yer cakehole critics, it was a difficult angleOk, so I didn't warn you did I? And I've gone and moved <a href="http://www.madd0g.org/">here</a>. I'll double-post here for a short while until you've updated all your readers. Any problems commenting or whatever just drop me a mail.mo.stoneskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10737422581378328590noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4590949576669966038.post-67041634497442570662009-11-16T12:44:00.000+00:002009-11-16T12:48:49.556+00:00How to steal an old man's glasses (don't try this at home or you could end up with a squirrel in yoru cider)Considerably disorientated. I'm now in a new job and living in a new home in a strange northern town where it rains like the days before The Great Flood. Absent from the blogosphere for a two weeks (building an ark in my garden). I've been missed, right? My soul screams for validation, my self-worth has dropped lower than a rudeboy's crotch. Actually that's a lie, the break was rather nice. But <a href="http://somanylosers.blogspot.com/">Mr Condescending</a> has been pestering me daily, can't live without my posts apparently. I told him to stop badgering me but he persisted. To make matters worse <a href="http://rubbishatpoker.blogspot.com/">Rubbish</a> rang me up last night and screamed down the phone, said he'd turdbomb my doorstep if I didn't get my act together. Kids huh?! Told him I'd retaliate by putting laxative in his cider, but I really can't be bothered to go to Wales so...<br /><br />The old man sat on the top desk of the bus. He was staring straight ahead, a pair of thick-lensed black-rimmed glasses clung to his face. For the record I don't condone the stealing of old men's glasses. Seriously, why go through all that effort when they are unlikely to fetch you anything on eBay? Besides, old men cause enough trouble in the world when they can see clearly. The last thing any of us need is millions of pensioners stumbling around without their glasses. The world would descend rapidly into bedlam. Pensioners would be seen dragging squirrels about on leads, stuffing cats into letterboxes and waiting outside the pub on Thursday mornings while moaning that the "post office" isn't open. Come to think about it, stuffing some cats into <a href="http://rubbishatpoker.blogspot.com/">Rubbish</a>'s letter box would be pretty damn funny. Or putting a squirrel in his cider.<br /><br />Take the following situation. In our new street rubbish collection takes place on a Friday. During the week our bins stay in the garden to the rear of the house. The garden is surrounded by a high two-metre fence and accessible either from our back door or from the garden gate, which is also two-metres high and double-locked from the inside. One of the locks is half-way down the gate, i.e. only reachable if you are one of those astronomically tall men from China that occasionally make the news and use their long arms to reach down the throats of dolphins. Last Friday morning my wife asked me to take the bins out. I went into the garden and to my surprise the bins were not there. I went round to the front and there they were, sitting smugly on the pavement, chatting amongst themselves no doubt. The only plausible explanation is that at the crack of dawn an elderly neighbour had broken in and dragged them out front. <br /><br />Now there are two possibilities here. Either this (uncharacteristically athletic) pensioner vaulted the two-metre fence or they managed to unlock the garden gate using a fishhook on a piece of string. Can you imagine the mayhem if this pensioner was without their glasses? I'd probably be woken at 5am as I am dragged outside with a fishhook through my nose. (This Friday I'm going to get up crazily early and find out how they get in). But anyway...<br /><br />Danny pressed the buzzer, got up from his seat and started to walk up the aisle. It was cold and wet outside, the bus was packed. He moved slowly, his steps small and determined, carefully keeping his balance as the bus lurched about in a deliberate attempt to send him into the lap of an unsuspecting granny. With each step he grasped the handrails on back of the seats each side of him, he would not be defeated and no grannies would be squashed. Nothing could have prepared him for what happened next.<br /><br />The middle finger of his right hand hooked under the bridge of an old man's glasses. In a single movement he gracefully lifted the glasses off the old man's face and launched them into the air. They sailed over the next five seats, all of which were occupied, their path a beautiful parabolic spectacle (haha, two weeks absent and my wit is still as sharp as a blunt razor). They cleared the passengers and clattered down the stairwell. The speed and trajectory - unimaginably perfect in every way - would have made the Roman army's lead trebuchet operative sick with jealousy.<br /><br />The old man whipped his hands up to his eyes. "Someone's stolen my glasses," he howled. One moment he had been quietly looking forward to Coronation Street, the next moment his glasses had been whipped from his face.<br /><br />Funniest moment of his life, Danny tells me. I may have to try this next time I'm on a bus. With a bit of luck I could make a few quid on eBay.mo.stoneskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10737422581378328590noreply@blogger.com61tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4590949576669966038.post-36507709253125740642009-11-02T13:30:00.001+00:002009-11-02T13:38:59.596+00:00Fantasy revealed after five years of marriage (and why I'm MIA just in case you have been missing me)Friends, Romans, sweethearts, gimp-grandchildren and cider drinkers, I'm not here today, I'm over at <a href="http://awomaninsearchof.blogspot.com/">Calling People Names.</a> I'm gong to be a bit absent this week - spent the last four days moving house and I start a new job today. But I'll be back next week. Don't miss me too much...mo.stoneskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10737422581378328590noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4590949576669966038.post-32300500398868599942009-10-26T12:43:00.001+00:002009-10-26T12:45:06.855+00:00Kiss Chase is a great game but I wasn't in the mood"This is fucking boring," he said, sounding thoroughly fed up, "kiss chase, why don't we have a game of kiss chase?"<br /><br />Sitting beside me was a famous wine columnist. I won't name-drop, but only because I cannot remember her name. You would expect that we were having an intelligent, cultured and mind-numbingly boring conversation about wine, journalism and Chateau Magdelaine. Truth is we were distracted by the Jacob's Creek boys to our right.<br /><br />One thin, the other fat, proportionally identical to Laurel and Hardy, two strangers who had met at the station. They each had a bottle of wine, in front of them an array of discarded Fosters cans. Hardy seemed a pleasant chap, sitting there quietly, quiet and sleepy. Laurel was wired and extremely rowdy, one of those types who, when inebriated, will badger anyone and everyone around them in a relentless attempt to be the most irritating donkey on the planet. He looked very similar to the freaky guy in Something About Mary, the one with hives.<br /><br />With Hardy falling asleep, Laurel turned to the seat behind him where a spectacled gentleman was sleeping peacefully. He shook the gentleman and woke him up, "where are you going?" he asked. "York? I get off after that," he said and then in delicious irony, "don't worry, if you're still asleep when we get to York I'll wake you up."<br /><br />"I get this train every few weeks," I heard him say, "drink my arse off every time." Could have fooled me. A lady came by selling tickets. "This whole service is great and you, my dear, are a darling." A passenger squeezed past on their way to the toilet. "He just wanted to rub past you," said Laurel, "the perv," before waxing philosophical in drunken optimism.<br /><br />"The worst things in life are train fares. The best things in life are everything else." To be fair, there is a lot of truth in that statement, although it is incorrect. The worst things in life are public toilets.<br /><br />As the ticket ladies moved up the carriage he turned back to Spectacles behind him, waking him rudely. "What do you do for a living?" he asked, before launching into a monologue. Did I say <span style="font-style: italic;">monologue</span>? <span style="font-style: italic;">Soliloquy</span> would be more accurate. Laurel spoke at great length, uninterrupted except for when he interrupted himself, speaking vaguely in Spectacles' direction, but certainly not to him. Spectacles sat there nodding gently, the colour draining from his face. My companion turned to me, "he needs nothing more than a good slap," she said. So I got up and...<br /><br />...yeah, right.<br /><br />Laurel's language got progressively worse (for which I apologise) as he ranted against bankers, doctors and pretty much anyone who earned more than him, "so far up their fucking arseholes," he raved. It wouldn't have been a good time for my companion to let on that she spends her time travelling across Europe, visiting the odd château and drinking expensive wine.<br /><br />We arrived at York and Spectacles escaped with an exhausted expression draped over his face. The poor chap looked like a man whose soul had slowly been sucked out through a straw. "Listen mate, " said Laurel, placing his hand on the poor chap's shoulder, "Ah fuckin' hope all goes well for ya fella." If Spectacles hoped for anything it was that Laurel slipped on the kitchen floor when he got home and died in a freak teaspoon incident.<br /><br />And that's when he suggested playing kiss chase. I thought for a moment that Laurel could in actual fact be <a href="http://rubbishatpoker.blogspot.com/">Rubbish</a>, but then remembered that Rubbish only drinks apple juice. From miniature kiddie cartons I suspect.<br /><br />"Why don't we have a game of kiss chase? There are plenty of girls around," he said, bubbling with enthusiasm. He winked at a blond further up the carriage. "She's alright," he said, "and her, and her, but that one's asleep so she can't play," and as if to explain the sleeping beauty's exclusion from the game, "it wouldn't be fair" he said kindly.mo.stoneskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10737422581378328590noreply@blogger.com61tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4590949576669966038.post-67238949628464611982009-10-19T12:47:00.001+01:002009-10-19T12:47:00.094+01:00Casanova needed to find out the hard way when he got home and admired his flabby physique in front of the mirrorHe stood there leaning by the door, propped up in a suave, arrogant manner. You could tell he had practised the pose, it smacked of hours spent in front of the mirror. He lounged about with exquisite precision. Collar wide open, the obligatory medallion, less buttons fastened than Simon <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Cowell</span> on a forgetful day. Grey curly chest hair on the attack, a health and safety risk if you ask me. <span style="font-style: italic;">Man dies strangled by chest hair</span>, the headlines would read.<br /><br />An ageing swinger, 60s I'd guess, dressed like only an ageing swinger would. Dressed like no ageing swinger should. Casanova, to give him a name, was notably overweight. A blue frilly shirt was taut over his tub and tucked into smart tight jeans with a huge-buckled belt. The buckle sat there silently in iridescent glory, glinting wickedly, aggressively pursuing world domination. I feared for my life. Suede jacket and oh-so-pointy brown leather shoes completed the look.<br /><br />Lingering, lounging, languishing I mean, he scoured the carriage, scoping I suspect, eyeing up potential conquests, a man who thought he was eternally young. I noticed he was flying low, low and wide I might add, his flies a redoubtable gaping hole. Did I indicate this to him?<br /><br />Don't be silly, of course I didn't.mo.stoneskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10737422581378328590noreply@blogger.com70tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4590949576669966038.post-64854728757182275082009-10-12T12:44:00.001+01:002009-10-12T12:47:01.944+01:00It was a bit like O.K. Corral I guess but less guns and the weather was worse<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwECmhWdsOg3IxObw8oKyjsyhSfrdEY4tFVATo3vY-4gzr7r3YE-J-tS5W6qNrUivBtH1L5AnV2NWnhBsj321GAFx_L4OSmxjY91ReWyrBDRIf6qaflHLvMPNEKwVc7XOJ-_r_hKbkIC6E/s1600-h/bus.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwECmhWdsOg3IxObw8oKyjsyhSfrdEY4tFVATo3vY-4gzr7r3YE-J-tS5W6qNrUivBtH1L5AnV2NWnhBsj321GAFx_L4OSmxjY91ReWyrBDRIf6qaflHLvMPNEKwVc7XOJ-_r_hKbkIC6E/s200/bus.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391445067134678770" border="0" /></a> Flippant, inexplicable and determinedly puerile. Unprovoked he swung round, cocked his head back and grinned. An evil, leery grin. To be fair it wasn't really a grin, more of a grimace or a snarl, almost like that of a cartoon villain. I knew <span style="font-style: italic;">exactly</span> what he was about to do and I couldn't believe it. Only seconds before I was on the bus...<br /><br />...all alone on the upper deck. Outside it was raining heavily, the bus was damp and bitterly cold. Did I say damp? I mean it was wet, very wet. Puddles formed and vanished with the motion of the bus. Drips on my head, drips on my book. I could barely make out the world outside. The windows were misty with droplets running down. Buildings loomed with dark, eerie windows. Eerie, the whole thing was eerie. It was a bit like a scene from a zombie movie but with a noticeable absence of any zombies.<br /><br />Had I seen him before? Nope. Did he look dodgy? A bit. Was I doing anything other than minding my own business? Not at all. Yet here we were in torrential rain, facing each other like a couple of cowboys. I wasn't scared or even feeling uneasy. I just walked towards him while looking him in the eye. Such a surreal moment in comparison to the lonely and peaceful setting just moments ago...<br /><br />...where I pumped out the tunes through my mammoth headphones, I had the whole top deck to myself and it was lovely. Sure it was wet, cold, miserable, damn miserable, miserable as the little sodden leaf that clung to the window beside me, but the solitude was strangely refreshing. Lights outside flickered through the droplets on the window. Brake lights, traffic lights, street lights, police lights. Watching them made me dream, thoughts that no one could understand. Hooded and tightly wrapped in my coat I felt comforted. Nothing compares to the comfort of a good coat. (Apart from perhaps a good clean poo).<br /><br />I stepped off the bus and headed home. I love listening to music while walking in the rain. In the distance I could make out the shape of a man. He walked slowly so I gained on him quickly. He was lugging a huge shoulder bag, wearing a baseball cap and one of those bomber jackets that were slightly cool fifteen years ago. I was five metres behind him when he swung round.<br /><br />It was the bizarrest thing that has ever happened to me. He was standing the other side of a massive puddle. That's when he grinned, snarled, grimaced or whatever. I knew exactly what he was going to do. The bastard. He, a total stranger, was going to drench me from a puddle using the schoolboy method, i.e. cause an airborne tsunami with a slow, swinging kick through the puddle.<br /><br />He pulled his leg back slowly as if he was teasing. I picked up the pace and charged morosely at him. I was too wet to care and besides, any retaliation would require puddle-side positioning. He got the timing all wrong and soaked himself. The idiot. As I closed in on the puddle he scampered away into the night.<br /><br />It's like I've always said. You can never trust anyone in a bomber jacket.<br /><br />***<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">P.S. Libby if you stop by again - you missed an absolute riot at Kings Cross on Friday and I even had to confront a total prat on the way home...</span>mo.stoneskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10737422581378328590noreply@blogger.com68tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4590949576669966038.post-76191616078699298752009-10-05T13:07:00.000+01:002009-10-05T13:09:05.795+01:00There is surely nothing worse than being pooped on by a deranged flock of pigeonsThe bus was about to leave. Just as the doors shut there was a sudden knock on the glass. The bus driver sighed and opened the doors. An old man stepped slowly onto the bus. Sandals with socks, long straggly beard, blue mackintosh, more plastic bags than a bag lady on an exceptionally productive day. And when I say "slowly", imagine an ageing snail travelling against the wind.<br /><br />He gently relieved himself of his plastic bags, carefully arranging them along the aisle. He rummaged through them, we sighed collectively, a bitter and despairing sigh. Even the chubby kid looked up angrily from his maths homework. The bus route had already been wrecked by the spectacular incompetence of a leading gas supplier. At every stop dizzy college girls delay us as they fumble for the change that they failed to get ready WHILE THEY WERE WAITING. Imbecilic drivers do their best to ruin our day. I don't let these things get to me. And now this? I'd have more fun being pooped on by a flock of deranged pigeons. Guess I picked the wrong day to give up sarcasm.<br /><br />Stooping, drooping, his shaking hands fumbling, he searched for something as we looked on in horror. The bus was now five minutes late and it had not even started the journey. For several minutes he rummaged, (chubby kid went back to his maths) eventually pulling out a leather-bound book. He slowly unwound the binding cord. Round and round, round and round, a bit like the wheels on the bus, apart from the fact we WERE STILL STATIONARY. Good job I've been working on managing my anger. My patience is legendary. He flicked slowly through the book, finally removing his bus pass.<br /><br />"Sorry love," said the bus driver, "you can't use that pass before 9."<br /><br />What followed was the most painful exit I have ever seen. Rummaging, fumbling, dithering, mumbling. He slowly gathered his bags, chatting to the bus driver all the while. He chatted about this, about that, discussed that one and the other one. "About what?" you ask. I have no idea. The bus driver begged him to get off. We were running late, she pointed out. He commented on the weather, mumbled about the other one again, and something else, and this and that. The infernal wagging of his beard infuriated all of us (apart from the chubby kid apparently).<br /><br />After much coaxing he stepped off the bus, bags and all. We emitted a collective sigh of relief, there was still a possibility of not being too late. Of course if the gas supplier and college girls had their way we would still grow old on the bus. He turned and stepped back inside. We shuddered collectively, anticipating a vicious loop of death whereby we all died trapped in the bus as this old codger shuffled on and off for eternity (watched by a deranged flock of pigeons no doubt).<br /><br />"Cheerio," he said merrily, gave the bus driver a wave and shuffled away.mo.stoneskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10737422581378328590noreply@blogger.com62tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4590949576669966038.post-6570683953710399032009-09-28T13:00:00.002+01:002009-09-28T13:00:19.482+01:00By "Polish" I mean definitely Eastern European and probably Polish (alternative title: Blathering on about the mundane)For a couple of months my wife had been asking me to get my hair cut. I finally gave in and headed into town. Go to Supercuts, said my mum, they're cheap and you don't need an appointment. Six years since I last lived here, the last thing I wanted was to fritter hours away searching for the right barber, so to Supercuts I went.<br /><br />I lasted in there for no more than ten seconds, fifteen at most. Uncomfortably feminine, cheap and tacky, it felt entirely dubious. There were two hairdressers, both in action. One a humongous mama, the other a depressive maniac. Or so it seemed. The mama terrified me and let's face it, would you really submit yourself to a depressive armed to the teeth with scissors and clippers?<br /><br />To be fair, her long, miserable face was nothing compared to that of a mosquito I saw the other night. The poor bugger was splatted on the tiles above a urinal. Talk about depression, could there be a more depressing fate than that? The little bloodsucker had been lurking in the Marquis waiting for the perfect inebriated target. He spotted an ideally stinky rogue, followed him into the gents, found himself in a dimly-lit under-ventilated wee-splattered hell-hole and was promptly swatted against the porcelain. A lowly death and one to be depressed about.<br /><br />Supercuts yeah right, I took to my heels and scurried down the street. A few shops further on a ginger painter was lounging about taking a fag break. "Are there any barbers round here?" I asked. He took a long drag, lost in thought for a few seconds. "Couple down East Street," he said, "nothing special," he added, "should cost you a tenner."<br /><br />"What a nice chap" I thought, my opinions of the human race lifted a notch. I wandered down East Street and sure enough there they were, practically side by side. The first looked preferable with a blue steel style, slick and classy. In truth it was a bit too slick and classy and in reality not classy at all. A Polish girl stood outside smoking. By "Polish" I mean definitely Eastern European and probably Polish. Tattooed to the hilt, long nails, very alternative, slightly off-putting. I entered anyway, never expecting she would be the one to cut my hair.<br /><br />Snipping and clipping she chewed gum noisily, producing a nauseating cigarette-Spearmint stench. As always I had to take off my glasses meaning I couldn't see a thing. Why didn't I wear contact lenses? she asked. I used to, I explained, but my eyes decided they had had enough. She was worried about being allergic to contact lenses, she had all sorts of allergies, she could only wear silver or gold jewellery. I didn't know what to say, did she mean as opposed to plastic or copper? <br /><br />It was a riveting conversation, simply riveting. The above passage was carefully formed to illustrate what a skilled conversationalist I am.<br /><br />A bloke in a black vest wandered in, a total gimp if you ask me. Not Polish (nor Eastern European), just a plain old English yob. He was trying to sell aftershave. Counterfeit aftershave most likely. The Polish owner sent him packing, the vested gimp caused a bit of a fuss. By "Polish" of course I mean definitely Eastern European and probably Polish. By "fuss" I mean he cursed like a miner and spat like a Chav.<br /><br />I strolled home infinitely pleased. Pleased with the haircut, pleased it only cost a tenner, pleased I hadn't gone to Supercuts. Passing the Marquis I thought of the poor mosquito. An old man stumbled on a paving slab, turned round and glared at it menacingly. If a trip to the barber is this much fun I'll have to go more often.mo.stoneskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10737422581378328590noreply@blogger.com69tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4590949576669966038.post-85823007761615180592009-09-21T13:00:00.001+01:002009-09-21T13:00:00.569+01:00Romping Donkeys, Squealing PigletsLife can so easily feel aimless. You work, you get tired, you work, you get tired. Of course, crazy loons in camouflage gear liven things up a bit, but as we waited in eager anticipation for the piglet race, it felt like we had purpose. Real definite purpose.<br /><br />To celebrate our daughter's first birthday we treated her to a "petting" farm visit. Aside from the usual collection of sheep, hens, cows, disappointed-looking horses and melancholic donkeys, twice a day the farm runs a piglet race.<br /><br />The race was set in a field where two winding fences formed the racetrack. A simple track with nothing even remotely close to a chicane, but I decided to let them off. The crowd was heaving, the excitement immeasurable. I myself was sceptical, expecting nothing more than a desultory pack of small pigs to amble round the track, skirmish occasionally and perhaps snort a little.<br /><br />The piglets were held in a small wooden shed at the start of the track. We could hear them squealing, but there seemed to be a delay in starting the race. The crowd quietened, a tad impatient I think. Suddenly a horrific screeching sound echoed across the venue. A female donkey galloped past in the neighbouring field, screeching wildly as she was chased by a male. He cornered her, mounted her, and the two of them staggered about like a gruesome two-headed donkey goblin from hell. The crowd moved away from the racetrack to watch. "Are they playing?" I heard one small boy ask his father.<br /><br />The farm staff sprang into action. You could sense their frustration, all the effort they go through to organise a piglet race and they lose their crowd to a couple of horny donkeys. One girl attempted to whip the crowd into a frenzy with a megaphone, another moved amongst us carrying a board displaying piglet names. "Who would you bet on?" she asked. I was torn between Frankie De Snorter and Curly Sue. "Curly Sue", I said firmly.<br /><br />The race itself was the most incredible thing I have ever seen. Sure, there were skirmishes, and the little critters squealed rather than snorted, but what could be better than watching six squealing piglets sprint round a field to the ecstatic chanting of small children? Boy did they go fast, you would think they were being chased by a butcher, a baker and a sandwich-maker. <br /><br />The baby wasn't bothered, scrambling about on the grass, the perfect example of self-immersed indifference. No Sweetheart, that's a cigarette butt, cigarette butts are <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> for babies. No Sweetheart, that's a discarded pistachio shell, pistachio shells are <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> for babies.<br /><br />Of course, Frankie De Snorter won the race and as we left the donkeys were still romping in the field. The whole piglet business got me thinking. In an ideal world we would replace the measurement of horsepower with pigletpower. A Formula One engine, for example, might be said to have 50000 Pp - the power of 50000 piglets.mo.stoneskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10737422581378328590noreply@blogger.com65tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4590949576669966038.post-36904455232481705882009-09-14T13:21:00.001+01:002009-09-14T13:21:53.010+01:00The Conservative Club (another oddball in military gear)Rick and Libby climbed the stairs noisily, dumped their shopping in the aisle and sat at the front of the bus. They seemed oblivious to the world around them and in particular, the young man a few seats back, scribbling frantically in his notebook. Libby took the front seat, rummaged in her bag for a few seconds, pulled out a ball of wool and started knitting. Rick sat behind her.<br /><br />"Ugh, Libs your neck just clicked," he said, and then began to massage her neck.<br /><br />After spending six years commuting by train to London, for the next two months I'll be getting the bus. The transition is like crossing the Rubicon of sanity. The train, though not without its fair share of freaks, weirdos and gimp-grandchildren, provides a relatively normal experience in comparison to the mad house known as the bus.<br /><br />An Indian man sat to their right. He was speaking on the phone very loudly, very fast. Libs shot him an irritated glance. She wore thick-lensed glasses, the lenses so thick her eyes appeared as tiny specks.<br /><br />Rick was <a href="http://mo-stoneskin.blogspot.com/2009/09/soldier-and-farewell-sass.html">another</a> one of those army fruitcakes, an overweight balding man clad entirely in camouflage gear. Frank Skinner once said that anyone wearing more than two badges is a nutter. Rick had more badges than a festival junkie.<br /><br />"Leave me alone Rick," said Libs, "you're hurting me." "Yak, yak, yak," said the Indian man. "I'm not gonna hurt you Libs," assured Rick, with a touch of genuine disappointment in his voice. He reminded me of a disgruntled gorilla, not that I've ever seen one or for that matter would want to see one.<br /><br />An old man got on the bus, we had to wait for a thousand years as he climbed slowly up the stairs. Two stops later he pressed the button, millennia flew by as the bus waited for him. He climbed down the stairs backwards. Slowly, painfully, his joints creaking (I imagine). The madness of it all, the effort he went through for a couple of minutes on the top deck.<br /><br />Rick and Libs' shopping fell down the stairs as the bus turned a sharp corner. I was <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span> close to bursting into wild, hearty laughter. Rick went after it, the moment was pure comedy. He could be heard scrambling about downstairs like a pig let loose in a grocery store. The rustling of plastic bags, the sound of tins rolling with the motion of the bus, the muffled curses as he stumbled about. When he finally returned all seemed forgotten, once again his hands found themselves on Libs' neck.<br /><br />"How's this?" he asked. "Leave me alone, " she whined, her needles still clicking away.<br /><br />I was fascinated by this mundane scene. Where were they going? A council estate? A working men's club? Down the newsagent to buy some lottery tickets? On route to buy a 300 inch plasma TV that they cannot afford? Who knows? I'm not one for stereotyping. They got off the bus and walked straight into a <a href="http://www.toryclubs.co.uk/">Conservative Club</a>, of all places. If those guys are <a href="http://www.conservatives.com/">Tory</a> we're all in trouble. The Indian chap watched this intently, he looked as surprised as I was. The world is a strange place.<br /><br />I descended the stairs prepared for carnage, fully expecting to see broccoli scattered about, a dented tin of beans perhaps, or a puddle of milk by the priority seats. Nothing, just a suspicious-looking group of pensioners and a couple of schoolchildren. Rick, to his credit, had cleaned the whole lot up.mo.stoneskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10737422581378328590noreply@blogger.com58tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4590949576669966038.post-51558140712182241732009-09-09T18:56:00.003+01:002009-09-09T19:01:45.810+01:00Never Trust Anyone in a Hawaiian ShirtI know, I know, a rare flurry of mid-week activity from the "I'll only post on Mondays" Blogger, but I'm guest posting at <a href="http://phhhst.blogspot.com/2009/09/never-trust-anyone-in-hawaiian-shirt.html">Pseudo's place today</a>, please go and pay her a visit.mo.stoneskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10737422581378328590noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4590949576669966038.post-32022723318786658082009-09-07T12:40:00.001+01:002009-09-07T12:41:38.997+01:00The Soldier (and farewell Sass)<span style="font-style: italic;">I dedicate this post to the fabulous Sass, the girl who taught me to blog. Not for its relevance, it is just my way of saying thanks and goodbye. She said her goodbyes to the Blogosphere last week. If you haven't already, pop over </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://thelifeofsass.blogspot.com/">there</a><span style="font-style: italic;"> to say farewell.</span><br /><br />The motion of the traffic soothed my soul, a soul in tatters after missing the bus. It was all rather picturesque really, traffic dancing along to the dreary tunes on Starbuck's play-list. I sat there nursing my damaged sensibilities, sipping a coffee and scoffing a so-called “breakfast panini”. A skanky breakfast panini, and it cost me three quid too, which in the grand scheme of things was a kick in the teeth. But I was hungry enough to pay. Besides, I had half an hour to kill.<br /><br />The door swung open. Not violently, not gently either, but firm, forceful, purposeful. A soldier strolled in. I say soldier, what I mean is some bloke in full camouflage gear who may or may not be a soldier. Army boots, bulky hiking rucksack, one of those army caps that made his head look like a tin can.<br /><br />Cool, I thought, there are only two of us in the café and one of us is a soldier, a real man. Or was he? It dawned on me that he was a tad old to be a soldier. Home Guard, perhaps, but he was blatantly over 50, probably pushing 60. A colonel, possibly, but he had no stripes, no sign of rank. He did, however, have an incredible moustache, one which would have driven Lord Kitchener mad with jealousy.<br /><br />He had a swagger abut him, not an aggressive “I could thrash you using only my pinky” sort of a swagger, but rather a careless nonchalance. His age and nonchalance gave me doubts. He was either a nutter or a colonel without his stripes. (I use the term “nutter” lightly, not for one minute forgetting the phenomenal toll taken on our troops.)<br /><br />He ordered his coffee, and as he stood there James Blunt came on. The tiresome, ubiquitous James Blunt, the man whose dreary whining haunts us everywhere we go. The soldier starts to tap his feet, gently creasing one knee as he croons along, on his face an expression of intense ecstasy.<br /><br />Tell you what, he can't have been a soldier. No soldier worth his salt would tap feet to James Blunt.mo.stoneskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10737422581378328590noreply@blogger.com47tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4590949576669966038.post-53948980467632788162009-08-31T12:43:00.001+01:002009-08-31T12:44:55.456+01:00The Barber, The Fruitcake and the Three Harley-DavidsonsI left my things on the table, went up to the bar, then returned with my pint and sat down. A chap nearby turned to me. "I wouldn't leave your phone lying about round 'ere," he said. "Don't worry, " I replied, "I was keeping an eye on it from the bar. And besides, I thought you looked pretty trustworthy."<br /><br />This was a lie. Probably in his late 60s, by his appearance it was clear he was a perpetual adolescent. Tracksuit bottoms, rugby top stretched over his belly, a JD sports bag - the sign of the Chav. Shoulder-length grey hair held back with a pair of shades. In front of him sat a pack of B&H and a pint of Carling.<br /><br />He winked, pulled out a cigarette, and used it to point across the room at a rowdy bunch of low-lives. "It's not me you should be worrying about, it's that bunch over there." He started for the door, then turned back. He wasn't finished. "I own the barber shop next door, know everyone in this town. I HATE this town. People always bothering me. 'Can I have a fag?', 'Could you lend me a quid?', and worst of all are the charity collectors. Every damn Thursday they plague the streets."<br /><br />I agreed with him. The town where I work is without a doubt the most miserable place in England. Surrounded by estates, filled to the brim with drunks, chavs and charity collectors. I glanced out of the window. One of the local fruitcakes walked by. An old man wearing red trousers, a long fur coat and a black fedora with a yellow ribbon. A Gandalf-like staff completed the look. I have seen him before, always wearing a hat of some form. Sometimes a bandanna, sometimes a fedora, once in forester's hat with a large red feather. The barber rolled his eyes. "Don't get me started," he said.<br /><br />Turns out the barber (like me) supported Spurs. Best start to the season since '61. We had plenty to talk about. Football unites like nothing else. We couldn't remember all of last week's goal-scorers. "Oi Phil!" yelled the barber, "who scored Spurs' goals last week?" Phil only drinks Newcastle Brown Ale, a cheap and pikey drink if there ever was one. Phil only wears one shirt, blue-checked. A man of routine. This town may be a dive but it certainly has character. He grabbed a copy of The Mirror and gave it to the barber. "It's all in there," he said.<br /><br />The barber was looking out the window. He whistled softly. Two girls walked past. Short skirts, tanned legs, high heels. Three Harleys whizzed by. Three Harleys, three horns sounded. If there had been three girls the scene would have been perfect. I took my leave, already late back to the office.<br /><br />On my way back a drunk approached me. "Do ya have a spare fag?""mo.stoneskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10737422581378328590noreply@blogger.com55tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4590949576669966038.post-74790451028530138732009-08-24T13:08:00.001+01:002009-08-24T13:10:18.105+01:00The elegance of teabag flingingI've always liked the word <span style="font-style: italic;">elegant.</span> It has a touch of class about it. We use it in a number of ways, as I'm sure you're aware. We use it to mean refined, tasteful, classy, and this can be regarding appearance, behaviour or style. Elegant handwriting for example, which I don't have, or elegant dark suits, which I don't wear.<br /><br />We also use it to describe a pairing of beauty and simplicity, often relating to movement or execution. A mathematical solution can be elegant, or a dancer, or the parabolic path of a teabag flung across the kitchen, landing perfectly in a mug. I'll tell you what, if teabag flinging was an Olympic sport I would hold all the records. 100m, 200m, 1600m.<br /><br />But what is the opposite of <span style="font-style: italic;">elegant</span>? A clumsy camel? A complicated rat? A working-class gorilla?<br /><br />Bang and crash, clang and clatter. The man stumbled onto the train with less stability than a newborn giraffe, struggling with a heavy laptop and clutching his coat. (The man that is, a newborn giraffe is unlikely to use a laptop, or wear a coat). Wonky tie, shirt engulfed in huge sweat patches, huffing and puffing, his heavy breathing could have blown my house down. He pulled an apple out of his pocket, took a large bite and proceeded to chew with his mouth wide open, spitting, crunching and splattering, glistening pieces were splaying out like tiny shooting stars. Elegance, and its opposite, are entirely experiential.mo.stoneskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10737422581378328590noreply@blogger.com60tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4590949576669966038.post-38559249212491170312009-08-17T13:51:00.000+01:002009-08-17T13:52:52.542+01:00The KGB could never touch me, but as for those gormless droids...My star sign? Not a question I was expecting. Mother's maiden name perhaps, or the name of my first pet*. You know, the standard security questions. Given a choice I always go for the pet name, it feels a bit more secure, not even the KGB could know the name of my first pet. Unless little Bovril was a spy I suppose. Sometimes I mix it up a little, adding some extra security by giving the name of my <span style="font-style: italic;">second</span> pet, or my sister's pet, or even an imaginary pet. In short, I am uncrackable.<br /><br />"I don't know my star sign," I said, suffering briefly from an inferiority complex, " but how about I simply tell you my date of birth?"<br /><br />"Sorry Sir, " she replied curtly, "but we are not allowed to ask that any more. For security reasons."<br /><br />She, I imagine, titillated with reason. My reason, on the other hand, was shafted. I trembled, groping about blindly in the depths of my mind. No light, no handrail, just confusion. All I wanted to do was inform the credit card company of a change of address, and now I was answering a quiz on the Zodiac. (Perhaps I was going mad, mad as the fruitcake I saw in a pub recently. Having bought a carbonated bottle of cider he spent ten minutes pouring it repeatedly from one pint glass to another. I asked him why he was doing this. "To get rid of the bubbles," he said. Or as mad as his companion, an old man dressed <span style="font-style: italic;">entirely</span> in denim. This nutter ordered "blackcurrent and soda" and spent the next half hour playing with the ring tones on his phone.)<br /><br />"You can find out your star sign in a newspaper or magazine, " she added helpfully.<br /><br />"Listen," I said, "I'm not an astronomer, or an astrologer." Or Mystic Meg. "I wouldn't be seen dead reading the charts. What possible reason do I have for knowing my star sign? How about I just tell you the month I was born in?" The only thing I care less about than star signs is netball, celebrity gossip or Madonna's adoption plans. Screw that, I care even less about Coleslaw. The last time someone (in jest) read me my horoscope it was completely wrong. Instead of having "my lucky day" I got stuck on a train for two hours that broke down on the one part of the line that had no mobile phone reception.<br /><br />"Sorry Sir..."<br /><br />"Madness," I said, "this is supposedly a secure banking line and nobody but you can hear me." I glanced over my shoulder at the impatient queue of gormless droids behind me. They glared back. They could almost certainly hear me, the bank was laid out in typically incompetent fashion, but telling the truth would spoil my argument. "I've already told you my name, old address, new address and credit card number. If someone is listening in they already have enough information to bleed me dry. From what I remember there are twelve star signs, and twelve months, what's the difference? In this rational age how can you expect me to know my star sign?"<br /><br />"Your star sign is Gemini," she said brusquely, "remember it for next time."<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">*I don't know if this security question appears outside of Britain, but it always appears as a default or example security question - for all sorts of services.</span>mo.stoneskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10737422581378328590noreply@blogger.com61tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4590949576669966038.post-40635517395114305532009-08-10T13:43:00.000+01:002009-08-10T13:43:10.812+01:00The day she popped the ultimate question...A typical lazy evening. Aided by a glass of red, I sat at the desk tweaking my fantasy football team. What could be better? My wife sat on the bed, looking at property on the laptop. Click, that's nice, click, like what they've done there, click, look at those curtains, click, what kind of human being would paint a room <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span> colour?<br /><br />"So," she said, looking up from the bed. "How <span style="font-style: italic;">do</span> computers work?" Find a man emersed in all things football and knock him off his perch. Not an easy question either. Mo, a software developer, was momentarily at a loss. What he needed was a cloak of anonymity.<br /><br />My wife's lack of computing understanding has always amused me. Note, she's far smarter than me, far better at doing life, far more aware, far more eloquent. But she simply <span style="font-style: italic;">uses</span> computers, to her the computer is one of life's great imponderables. As long as they work she is happy. I, on the other hand, am a computer geek. After working in my current job for close to six years, and five years of marriage, my wife confesses to know very little about what I do. (As an MI5 operative that suits me fine). He works in IT, she'll tell her friends, something to do with finance.<br /><br />Roused from fantasy football bliss, I struggled impotently to answer the question, deciding to keep things simple. "Think of it in terms of layers," I said, "a bit like an onion. Putting it very simply, at the core is the hardware. The memory, which stores data and instructions, the processor, which executes the instructions and all the input and output devices. The operating system sits on top of all this, so you don't need to worry about ones, zeros, data and instructions. You just use it."<br /><br />Suspecting that her interest was waning I cut to the chase, leading on to my own career. It seemed like the perfect opportunity to fill her in. "In the olden days coding was a cryptic kettle of fish, you had to understand nonsense like machine code that looks like someone was just having a laugh. These days writing code is very different."<br /><br />I pulled my soap box out of my pocket, blew off the dust and climbed onto it. "Modern languages have evolved to be extremely clean and legible, shielding us from boring stuff like memory and whatnot. Integrated development environments make it a lot more fun. Clean code written to high standards and following best practices is actually very understandable. You could look at some of my code and know exactly what it is doing."<br /><br />"Right," she said, "come and look at this house."mo.stoneskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10737422581378328590noreply@blogger.com63tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4590949576669966038.post-17013359716193500102009-08-03T13:15:00.000+01:002009-08-03T13:17:37.871+01:00The Orangutan's Daughter<span style="font-style: italic;">So here's the deal. I've been thinking long and hard and have decided to cut down the amount of time I waltz through the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">blogosphere</span>. With the demands of my job, the tiring little </span><s style="font-style: italic;">monster</s><span style="font-style: italic;"> baby, and the realisation that I just don't make enough time to </span><s style="font-style: italic;">discover new wines</s> <s style="font-style: italic;">watch The Wire</s><span style="font-style: italic;"> read and relax, it's time to make cuts.<br /><br />So I'm going to aim to post once a week, probably on a Monday, and keep Monday as my blogging day. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">This'll</span> mean that I won't be visiting your lovely blogs with my usual regularity during the rest of the week, but at the start of the week I will be your man. In other words, I will continue to exercise the standard protocol of blogging reciprocity, but I won't be about so much. I just wanted to let you know - in case you are sitting in your armchair on a Thursday night, drinking some cheap Scandinavian lager and thinking "where the hell is Mo?". Anyway, I don't want to dwell on this so without further ado...</span><br /><br />We went for a late breakfast at our favourite cafe. Favourite because of the food and atmosphere, not because of the layout, which is worse than my parents' living room. Imagine a tiny room stuffed with ten mismatching sofas. That aside, the food is divine and the mushrooms, well, the mushrooms are simply spectacular.<br /><br />I had mushrooms on toast, my wife had a crayfish sandwich. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Bubba</span> trumped everyone with her organic<br />"roast dinner" <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">purée</span>. A young girl scampered in, closely followed by her mum and (presumably) grandma. They sat at the table next to ours. The mum was clad in what can only be described as a tiny black party frock. Very short, very revealing. She wore wedges so high they would have been beyond the wildest dreams of any ski-jumping Lego man.<br /><br />Most remarkable of all was the colour of her skin. It was so orange that you would naturally assume her father was an Orangutan. Either that or she had fallen into a vat of fake tan cream. Oranges and lemons,<br />say the bells of St. Clement's.<br /><br />She sat close to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Bubba</span>, emitting a powerful orange glow. While thoroughly enjoying her <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">purée</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Bubba</span> was becoming increasingly interested in Mrs Satsuma, her little grubby hands swinging dangerously close. "You're hoping <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Bubba</span> grabs that lady," observed my wife. "That would be ideal," I replied.<br /><br />An elderly lady sat down at our table. Ignoring the countless unoccupied tables, she was merely exercising those rights that all old ladies believe they have - the right to invade the privacy of anyone with a baby, the right to touch any baby with grubby opal-ringed fingers, the right to act as a sort of "proxy grandma" to any baby encountered.<br /><br />"She doesn't want to eat, she wants to socialise," said <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Bubba's</span> new proxy grandma. "The only person wanting to socialise is you," I thought, tired of prying strange elderly hands off our baby and desperately hoping that <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Bubba</span> would eat up quick.<br /><br />As Lady Clementine got up to leave a small grubby hand swiped at her frock. She didn't notice and left the cafe, a delightful little orange hand print adorning her bum, the "roast dinner" <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">purée</span> perfectly matching the colour of her skin. It was ideal.mo.stoneskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10737422581378328590noreply@blogger.com63tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4590949576669966038.post-32916759293258613532009-07-29T12:12:00.001+01:002009-07-29T12:12:35.866+01:00Crispy Duck Arithmetic<div>The pub was beating to the tunes of Groove Armada. Heaving with commuters, the place had that perfect post-work buzz. With a pint of Staropramen in one hand and a menu in the other, I scanned the pizza list with enthusiasm. I was probably drooling. My eyes settled on the crispy duck. I have a weakness for duck. If it is on the menu I will go for it. Catch me at the right moment and I would sell my birthright for some crispy duck. Crispy duck or a million quid? I'd take the duck any time. I went to the bar and placed my order. </div> <div> </div> <div>"I'll have a 12" crispy duck pizza please, and a pint of Star."</div> <div> </div> <div>"We have a two-for-one deal on today ," he said.</div> <div> </div> <div>"I couldn't eat two," I replied.</div> <div> </div> <div>"But you could get two 6" pizzas for the price of one," he pleaded.</div> <div> </div> <div>Someone walked by carrying a couple of minuscule pizzas. There were so damn tiny. Would that <em>really</em> be the same amount of pizza? I used to be quite good at maths. With two maths A-levels, a computer science degree, a major in neural computing and six years busting my brain writing financial software, I would like to think I still am. I'm beginning to suspect it was all a dream and that I am actually a farmhand. I froze for a few seconds, racking my brain for the formula to calculate the area of a circle. All I could find were random bits of physics equations, ghosts of calculus and crispy ducks. πr2, that was it. I struggled with the arithmetic. In my defence the baby had kept us up most of the night before, I had played football over lunch, drunk a pint on an empty stomach and was partially distracted by a group at the bar, the bizarrest group I have ever seen. Eight gay men and one woman. Now <em>what</em> was that all about?</div> <div> </div> <div>"I'll go with the two 6" pizzas."</div> <div> </div> <div>"They don't both have to be crispy duck," he explained, "you can mix and match." He was wrong, they <em>did</em> both have to be crispy duck, and on second thoughts, with a million quid I could buy 142857 crispy duck pizzas, and on a Tuesday, get another 142857 free. </div> mo.stoneskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10737422581378328590noreply@blogger.com51tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4590949576669966038.post-13091687085448841752009-07-27T12:44:00.000+01:002009-07-27T12:45:15.836+01:00There are some things that never changeA man sits at an outside table, a pint of lager keeping him company. He looks sad, deep in thought. Maybe he isn't sad, maybe he is just contemplating life, the universe, a new job, a job far away from here. Maybe he has never been good at handling change, many people aren't, but a pint and some precious solitude are doing him a world of good.<br /><br />Some surfers walk past on their way back from the beach, a black Labrador trotting after them. The tide is in, a toddler paddles in the shallows with her father. A yacht sails out of the harbour, it symbolises something, something he understands, freedom perhaps, or escape. Two men sit in a dinghy fishing, all you can hear is the wind, the rattling of rigging and the cry of sea birds. He'll miss this place.<br /><br />He pops into the shop to get some essentials. An elderly couple blockade the basket pile, preventing all access while they debate about who carries what. Emerging from the shop he nearly gets knocked down by some imbecilic pavement-cyclist. He gives the fool a piece of his mind. As he walks away he smiles ruefully, some things will never change.mo.stoneskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10737422581378328590noreply@blogger.com50tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4590949576669966038.post-58819106548515207202009-07-24T12:40:00.000+01:002009-07-24T12:40:36.817+01:00Percy, Porcelain, the Elephants and the Bottom-of-the-barrel Scratchcard<span style="font-style: italic;">Time has escaped me this week, I think she could be on summer vacation. Or having a long bath. In the meantime, here's an old, old post that only the fabulous </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://thelifeofsass.blogspot.com/">Sass</a><span style="font-style: italic;"> (as far as I know) has read. Written last November when I was young and foolish.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">20 Minutes</span><br /><br />20 Minutes. There's a lot of things I can do in 20 minutes. Burp a baby. Kill a mockingbird. Let the dogs out. Drink a pint. Tie my shoelace 40 times. Count to 1200 (one elephant, two elephant, three elephant...*). On this occasion I had a 20 minute wait at Gatwick Airport for my train. No prizes for guessing what I chose to do.<br /><br />I had barely got to "ten elephant" when I decided to buy myself a healthy chocolate snack, so I stopped counting and headed off to WHSmith. The store is roughly one minute away from the platform, so that would still give me 18 minutes spare. With a bit of luck I would have time to point Percy at the porcelain on the way back, and maybe even drop off the kids.<br /><br />To my dismay I was thwarted by the joint efforts of a lotto-junkie and a trainee cashier. A deadly combination. The two were locked in some sort of bitter dispute. The lotto-junkie seemed to be purchasing every scratchcard available. Titles included "Monkey Money" and "Money For Ewe".<br /><br />The latter must be the lowest form of scratchcard available. "Money For Ewe" has a huge background image of a ewe, and each little scratch item is a ewe. Talk about bottom-of-the-barrel.<br /><br />I waited patiently as these gibbonoids fought it out. I can't remember what they were fighting about, I was too busy working out how many years of mental gymnastics I would require before I bought a "Money For Ewe" scratchcard. It came to 16 million. The heated shop floor was making me sweat like a badger, and I started to panic as I realised that the chances of making my train were as narrow as a stick insect's waist.<br /><br />I made my train, but only just, and I arrived perspiring like a mad horse and busting for a wee. 20 minutes. Time flies so fast when you're having fun. Next time I'll stick with the counting.<br /><br />*<span style="font-style: italic;">In case Americans are not familiar with this, it is a technique taught to children for counting in seconds.</span>mo.stoneskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10737422581378328590noreply@blogger.com55