Well the stadium was impressive

Travel Report

We set off in earnest, Briggsy and I. (Ernest being the name for my small automobile).

We paused only to take pictures of every possible mechanical device tearing up the M25, anything shiny/reflective or to try and fathom how to get into the motorway services, after SOMEONE drove into the lorry park section and couldn't get back towards the normal persons area.

Briggsy then very kindly offered to take over the driving. As by the time we were half way into our journey I had become noticeably twitchy at having to sit in the same chair for so long.

We left the petrol station, re-fuelled, replenished and reading the road signs. Seconds after re-joining the four lane super duper road which goes the way we wanted to... M4!! It was the M4!! I knew I'd remember it if I stalled for long enough. Ahem. Where was I?

Ah yes, we've just smoothly re-integrated ourselves into the other red shirted Lions supporters when we hit a big queue of traffic.

I suppose I should waylay your fears. Briggsy isn't a crap driver and we didn't actually HIT any traffic. I'm using an internationally recognised term for "we spent the next hour and whatever stopping and starting whilst Briggsy got to jump between first and second gears every 2 seconds"

Eventually, we threw coins at the toll booth, it opened and we sped across into Cardiff, a small country near Whales apparently.

Once in the town centre of Cardiff, which I believe is strangely enough the capital of Cardiff (that must get jolly confusing) we realised one of two things

1/ The match wasn't the small intimate affair we had first assumed it would be

or

2/ There was a meeting of Welsh gurning champions who appeared to dress in a very similar uniform to the latest Lions shirt.

We cruised the town for a while looking for somewhere to deposit the car until we stumbled across a small multi storey parking facility called something like Twyfeleddergruur car park.

This was my first mistake, not remembering the name of the car park we had parked in.

The second mistake followed very shortly when, upon my suggestion, we decided to just "follow everyone else" towards the ground. It worked a treat, but unbeknown to us we now had no actual recollection of what way we had walked from car to ground and vice versa.

The Welsh

Damn they ugly.

The Ground and the Surrounds

I won't pretend to know any more than I do so understandably I wouldn't advise quoting any of the next section to anyone whilst deep in conversation with someone about the Millennium Stadium in Cardiff.

The ground is big. There were about seven gates, after following the crowd we discovered that we were at gate 1. Hooray! We wanted to be at gate 7. Boo!

We dutifully trudged all the way around the outside of the ground. At one point passing a young girl who either really liked her nearest friend, had just had her wheelchair stolen, was actually asleep, or was completely sh1t faced.

There was a fantastic atmosphere and it was nice to see so many foreigners in their natural environment speaking their funny little language. This atmosphere was added to by Briggsy occasionally catching sight of mounted police (mounted on horse back I might add, the Cardiffians and Welsh are weird but I don't think they're that weird).

And there was a lovely moment when a large group of inebriated middle aged men cheered the Lions wives and partners into the ground as they drunkenly mistook their coach for that of the players.

Once we had walked past numerous reflective coat wearing officials and stewards, with a small whimper emanating from Briggsy on each occasion, we entered the ground and made for the food stalls.

Dinner

We hoped for - Harry Ramsden's fish and chips
We got - Hot dog

The Game

Since his argument with 50 cent has been resolved, The Game has been hard at work in the studio on his follow up album to the hugely successful debut....

Sorry, wrong game.

The game was pants. We... They, didn't play well. The Pumas came to win and should have. JW looked comfortable and converted everything he had chance to, and so earned the Lions share of the points.

Positives to take from the match... The Argentines had a nice time and I ate a Hot dog.

It seemed apparent that the squad was watered down, and they played like they had been warned not to commit, for fear of injury.


There's always a couple who forget to tuck their shirts in for the school photo


For a short time, some of the Puma's helped the Lions out by swapping sides


I can't be certain but I think they're blessing him, for his efforts.

The Specs

Firstly there was the smoker, in front and to our left. Why did we assume he was a smoker, I hear you ask? The tentative search in his coat pockets, that very gradually became a frantic scramble, until he virtually tore his pockets in search of...

shortbread.

He then clutched the shortbread in his maddeningly shaky hands as he attempted to inhale the moreish crumbly goodness in an attempt to forget about the small white sticks in his other pocket. Half time came, and he went, like a Paratrooper, shoulder rolling his way down the stands as he stealthily removed a Marlboro cigarette and a Bic lighter from his pocket ready to calm his beating heart.

In a close second was the gentleman splayed out across three and a half seats in front of us, all of which were groaning under the strain. All I can say is thank goodness the people who had booked the seat in front of us didn't appear. They would have had to fight to get onto the thing.

Lastly, there was the wife of the gentleman sat next to me. I imagine she formed part of the coaching staff. So insightful was her mid match analysis, that many around her position could be seen to lean in and hear her wise words wisdom.

The best of her critical observations were

"Oh Jesus, they keep doing that. Why don't they hold on to it?"

"Yep, pass to him, then pass to him, and then... he drops it. Why do they do that?"

"Why's he putting it down there now, he's not going to kick it is he?"

"Johnny's got it... Johnny throws it to him... that's it... oh they got it off him"

The aforementioned parking oversight

After the match, and the Puma's impromptu victory lap of the stadium to which they received rounds of applause, Briggsy and I ambled from the ground into the cool night air at around 10 pm.

The first few hundred yards we were in the thick of all the supporters, following the similar route they all seemed to be taking.

Three rather jolly Lions fans were mucking around having a good time after consuming a few pints or twenty. One was hoisted onto a friends shoulders and carried down the street via the use of a firemans lift.

His friend was too drunk to be looking and he was facing the other way, but it didn't stop twenty on lookers from spotting the fast approaching bus stop sign that his head bobbed steadily towards.

A chorus of 'Oohs' rang out as the young chaps head connected with the pole with a dull reverborating thunk. Surprisingly, he lived, and probably due to the ridiculous amounts of alcohol in his blood stream, he laughed the incident off and continued on his stagger home.

Did I mention the Welsh were ugly and thick?

Once the crowds started to disperse we began to realise that not everyone had come from the same car park. And so commenced the re-discovery of Cardiff by the English. For almost two hours we walked up hill and down dale, occasionally seeing glimpses of red shirted people off in the distance laughing heartily as they disappeared into shadows before we could beg for directions from them.

The map below is an artist's impression of the route we took



Finally, Briggsy asked a local for directions, whilst I stood a suitable distance away, pretending like I knew exactly where I was.

We reached the car park with nineteen minutes to spare before the midnight closing time. Phew!

As I navigated my way out of Cardiff, and towards bonnie England Briggsy and I discussed the disappointing result.

As we re-entered England, Briggsy drifted off to sleep, and I began to create ways to stay awake during the drive back. I did the following...

Listened to Coldplay - Parachutes
then Listened to Coldplay - A Rush Of Blood To The Head
then ate the rest of the Jelly Tots for a sugary rush
turned the heating to cold and began to freeze my face
took the racing line on the motorway when there was no other traffic about
drank a can of R Whites Lemonade
listened to Embrace - The Good Will Out
tried to work out my ETA by doing arithmetic in my head as we passed each motorway sign with the remaining miles to London marked on it

Whilst Briggsy slept in the passenger seat, resembling a kidnap victim with a coat draped over her upper body to shield her from the sub-zero atmosphere within the car.

I arrived outside Briggsy's gaff at 02:30 having made pretty reasonable time, with my car making all the usual pings and ticking noises that one does when they've just gone the fastest their ever likely to go.

All in all it was a good evening despite the disappointing match, sub standard dinner and unplanned hike around Cardiff.

That's me, easily pleased.

Rugga

1/4

Firstly there was the Army - Navy match. Sterlingly documented by Briggsy.

2/4

Only a week later, Milky returned, doing his part to help the elderly and infirm, by taking his Father with him, Milky Snr.

The day consisted of two games. The earlier kick off time was for the Wildcard Premiership final, the winner of this would be granted admittance into the Heineken Cup next season.

The combatants were Saracens and Gloucester.

From our lofty seats we watched in awe as the small flecks of colour ran haphazard round the field of play. We later realised the, flecks of colour were the grounds men preparing the turf and a rogue balloon that we had originally assumed to be a world class winger playing havoc with the opposing teams defensive line.

The resultant score line when the teams locked horns and did battle was a confident victory for Saracens 24 points to 16. (The team I had chosen to support before either side had taken the field.)

A decision I resolutely stuck to despite the large hulk of a man I was sat next to who appeared to be supporting Gloucester. :-/

The Final

The Zurich Premiership Final was between the two most dominant teams of the last few years. London Wasps (black and yellow) and Leicester Tigers (green and red)



You'll notice how the Wasps logo is helpfully labelled incase it is mistaken for a similar winged beast like a hornet, bee or ladybird. (London Ladybirds, hmmm, I think someone missed an opportunity there.)

This match was a marked improvement on the previous game. The two teams played strongly and it was a great opportunity to witness one of the last times Martin Johnson would face off against Lawrence Dallaglio.

Wasps started unexpectedly buoyant and in truth Leicester never really recovered. Wasps star player was fullback Mark Van Gisbergen, who scored a late try and kicked 21 of their 39 points haul.

The final result was 39-14 to Wasps.

Another fantastic choice of team to support!! Although again, the man mountain next to me did not appear to be too happy, as I noticed her was wearing a historic version of a Leicester top. However, my saving grace was his son, who also supported Wasps.

If I was a betting man, I could have made money on both those matches.

Although I'd probably also be an alcoholic and watching the match from a betting shop rather than in Twickenham.

3/4

Today, I venture to Wales (somewhere to the left-ish) to watch the British Lions entertain the Argies. Briggsy is keeping me company, and will no doubt holler enough for the both of us and again take part in harmless banter with a person seven times our combined body weight.

A match report shall follow.

But I can already pre-warn you, I will be supporting the Lions in this one...

I simply love that Red outift they've got!!!

All in good time

Ever start something you couldn't finish?

There is an impending entry that has been a real (unrepeatable) to write.

It's a work of fiction, quite topical and if it all works out (and I manage not to head butt the monitor anymore) should tickle you.

Be patient, good things comes to those who feel that money doesn't buy a bird worth two many chefs spoil light work and not heard.

A Quick Note

Surely the Gov. has better things to spend our hard earned money on...



than personalised plates for buses!!



The crowning glory would have been if this l'il guy was the driver...

Not in my day

Is it me or do kids “gotta no respect” (read it again, but now do the voice of Marlon Brando from the Godfather.)

Let me stop people there, I know your all probably aware, I’m not exactly all that senior in years, but I’m already finding myself passing comments to my friend and peers that contain the immortal lines of either “I would never have said … in my day” or “I wouldn’t have dreamt of doing that when I was younger.”

Am I growing up or are the general populous of youth growing down?

Like the roots of sycamore trees, the youth of today (a phrase I’m currently loathe to use) seem to be undermining the very fabric of everyone else’s lives. When I was younger, we had the Smiths, Radiohead and other expressive mediums that helped us sit and mull things over, whilst tentatively reflecting on the troubles that our lives seemed to constantly lob over arm straight at us.

It would appear that, the current trend is to congregate in a collective of four to eight, but if your particularly gifted and have a phone you can bolster your numbers to a pensioner threatening platoon of at least twenty-odd. To then hurl abuse and anything that comes to hand, at any and everyone who happens to be living a life anywhere near yours.

What has started this trickle of abuse towards youth?

A delightful young lady I had the pleasure of meeting last week… at work… as a Powiss officer… honest!

She was 13, had the attitude of a diva (can be optionally read as div-a or deeva), and had little or no respect for anyone. And (sorry to harp on) she possessed a skill that far too many of her friends probably do, not knowing when to stop talking and not knowing when to eat humble pie*.

My how I wanted to… teach her in the ways of etiquette and politeness.

Both Saucy and I left her home address saying exactly the same thing. “If I’d been like that to my Mam, I would have got a (delete where appropriate) clout/slap/belt/slipper/trained attack chinchilla round the back of the legs/head/coal shed.

It’s times like these I start thinking about re-forming my vigilante squadron “The Solo Attack Squad” (or S.A.S. for short). Unfortunately due to problems with funding, an over bearing Government that deemed our activities inappropriate and excessive, and another very similar military group becoming household a name due to ex-members writing novels, we had to fold.

I’ll never forget the guys I led in that group, our motto of “kill those that deserve it” wasn’t as catchy as who dares wins, but they both essentially had the same meaning. Ish.

I am done. My outburst is complete. I have found solace and soft toys. Milky has returned to his happy place. Karma has returned. Utopia has been achieved again… *U*K*N* L*T*L* S*I*S !!

* Humble Pie, anyone?

The topic of humble pie came up recently at work. Derv, before his departure, said he felt it would be a savoury main course, which was rather dry and crusty possibly with optional gravy.

I on the other hand always presumed it to be a warm pudding dish, in a white bowl with blue trim, almost molten lava temperature with thick custard that sticks to the roof of your mouth.

Any ideas? Send them in on a stamped addressed postcard to the usual address.

Superhero anyone?

I'm big, I'm courageous, I'm Russian, I'm dead? :-/

Singular

Imagine all my fears
imagine bone grinding
back breaking weight.
We carry it all, just never our fate.
Envisage every tear drop,
could you swim that sea?
Question every answer, impossible to be.
Remember waking early
just lying where you died.
Awaking every Sunday lost in a haze of over angelical pride.

All fictitious
only unreal
left in the cold with nothing to feel.
Milky'05

Are you comfy because there’s a lot to fit in?

As many of you may have undoubtedly begun to understand. My rest days are when I will usually do just that, taking the title of my days off as a command to R-E-S-T. I rather grudgingly find myself having to stay in bed past the AM (After Midnight) and well into the PM (Past Midday). Once in a blue moon, I have good reason to achieve this feat.

As Jim and I miss each other more than is usually socially acceptable we decided to do something about it. We tried to book a weekend away but fell at the first hurdle when we discovered Madam Whiplash had no vacancies over the Easter Weak-end (I know what I wrote). We instead chose to drink profuse amounts of lager and liquor over a three day stretch. Almost as good as the Madam’s short breaks, excluding the unusual body markings.

The first evening, we attended Kingston and drank socially, just the two us. The night was fraught with numerous communications between Jim and my stalker (a story for another time).

You see, Jim (bless his little cotton heart) feels an inexplicable need to use his mobily to contact all those in his life whom would rather he didn’t. Add to this the fact he gets this urge when he has managed to consume a small European countries worth of alcohol and the outcome is never as good as he thinks it was.

Needless to say, our evening drew to an end in “the club” and resulted in me dancing permanently facing the back wall, so as not to be lit up by my stalkers high velocity sniper rifle laser aiming sight.

No undercover work for me then

However, there was a moment when Jim highlighted how easy I was to find. He ventured to the toilet (for most it’s a chore but for Jim it’s a venture). During his absence I boogied my way across the dance floor in a style I can only describe as strictly cool dude ballroom / urban quick-step which to the untrained eye would probably appeared to have been little more than drunken stumbling.

My new position was approximately two hundred and thirty three metres and 16 centimetres diagonally across from the North-West wall. A sniffer dog with the nasal capacity of Gerard Depardieu would have struggled to find me. I worried, as my mind created images of a poor defenceless Jim fighting through crowds of strangers to find his one chum (don’t read those last two words again, it sounds wrong).

When I felt a hairy, and somewhat clammy, hand on my shoulder. My heart stops as I realise the stalker has located its prey. I spin round, hoping to make my lethal spin attack look like an innocuous dance move. There swaying happily behind me is Jim holding four drinks (our usual ordering system in large clubs to avoid having to whisper sweet nothings in the bar tenders ear to often).

Amazed, I shout (because it’s loud from the music) “How did you find me?” There comes the reply “Mate. You’re the only one here with yellow hair!”

£6 for a sore ar5e, it’s a lot where I come from

Running out of options that didn’t otherwise involve drink we decided to socialise again on the second evening, just the two of us. We went back into Kingston to firstly collect my car and secondly attend the cinema complex therein. During the decision making process that consisted of us sitting at the computer at my digs flicking through cinema showing times I posed Jim the simple enough question “Where do you want to go, (to the cinema) Kingston or Epsom?” There came the panicked response “NOT LEEDS!”

I paused, confused by Jim’s apparently completely bonkers suggestion. I reluctantly made eye contact with him only to be met with Jim’s endless-stare-of-imposing-death (which he can usually only do for 5 or 6 seconds before his eyes water). We eventually concluded that it would be foolhardy to attempt to make the showing times available in Leeds and opted for Kingston. One of the original places I had suggested.

**There is a completely innocuous explanation for Jim’s outburst, but I’m not at liberty to share it due to current and ongoing legal proceedings that may result in me being granted power of attorney over “Mad Shouty Jim.”**

The film, Constantine, concluded and we were ushered out of the cinema on the flimsy premise that we were only allowed to watch one film for the grotesquely large sum of money we had paid.

We emerged from the cinema like camp X-ray prisoners, squinting and rubbing our eyes, clad in orange boiler suits and clutching photographs of our captors indulging in lewd and rude acts at our expense.

The Snooker Emporium and our Dinner trouble

On our last night together, before I had to go back to Woody Harrelson and Jim was to give him the million dollars, we decided to go to a snooker emporium. It’s too far away to call our local, and we don’t go often enough to call it our regular. No-one even recognises us, and on occasions in the past we’ve had problems getting in. It’s a real favourite haunt of ours.

We arrived at the establishment, and were fortunate enough to find the door propped open due to the heat. We ambled in and approached the bar / service area. It was then I discovered I had neglected to bring my membership card. Jim nonchalantly pulled his membership card from his wallet and glanced at me like the guy who tramples dog sh1t into a posh restaurant carpet.

It was as the 50 something red headed staff member approached that we recalled that there had been problems with our membership on our last visit.

The snooker emporium has recently changed management. I say recently, it was probably about a year ago, but as I said, Jim and I aren’t really regulars. Jim flew into an attempt at rectifying the situation. Explaining that on previous visits we had been promised different solutions that had never been honoured the next time we visited because there had been different staff in.

The lady, Peggy (for the purposes of this tale) informed us that she would honour the promise and would allow us a year’s membership for free. Jim and I high-fived, overjoyed at the fact we had dodged the five pound charge for the year’s membership.

Peg told us we would have to wait half an hour though, as Paul the manager was not expected until the time he usually started work. As he would need to put his official stamp on the deal before it could have the go-ahead.

We agreed and opted to dine in their quality establishment, choosing to sit in the specially designated seating area that was two feet from where we stood. We slid smoothly along the service counter into the bar area and were met by a highly trained member of bar staff to assist us in our culinary choices, or Peg as her friends call her.

Both Jim and I perused the disconcertingly laminated menu. As I pointed towards the Hamburger meal, Peg helpfully informed us there were no burger buns. Jim immediately queue jumped me and placed his order of scampi and chips. A choice I should have opted for.

Peg informed me they did have hot dog rolls instead of burger buns. My heart sank, this poor woman had no idea what little consolation her pathetic option had been. I took a few deep breaths and looked over the menu again. I wanted a burger and had already begun to salivate, preparing my mouth and stomach for the expected goods.

I plumped for a burger in sub-standard packaging. I happily requested a double bacon and hamburger in a hot dog bun. Peg informed me that they had no bacon. Or any curly fries, which was an integral part of the meal I had requested. Oh.

I scanned the menu for a third time, my heart quickening at the realisation that I was soon to starve should I not find a suitable option. Okay Peg, can I have the cheeseburger, in a hot dog bun with normal fries then. Peg regretfully informed me they had no cheese either.

My now withered body gave up hope of ever gaining sustenance as one of my frail fingers fell silently upon the hamburger meal. I asked for a hamburger, in a hot dog bun, with no cheese, no bacon with normal not curly fries. Peg visibly cheered up and told me that was something they could make.

I also requested some onion rings to celebrate my ability to order dinner after only my 4th attempt. Peg said that we could have two lots of onion rings for the price of one as part of a member’s only offer. We agreed and retired to our seats.

As we devoured our food, Jim looked up cheeks packed with scampi and said my name. An unusual occurrence when our standard term of address for each other consists of derogatory comments that Anne Robinson would blush at.

It was then Jim quite rightly pointed out that if we couldn’t get membership, we were going to have to pay for the second plate of onion rings. We panicked and began to scoff the evidence of our discounted food. As Peg approached and informed us that the deal had been Okayed with Paul the big boss dude. We collapsed back in our chairs, spluttering bread crumbs as we realised we hadn’t needed to eat the equivalent of a whole deep fried onion in under 9 seconds.

After finishing our dinner, I pointed out to Jim that I had managed to get free membership without any proof that I had ever been a member. As Jim quite superbly stated, it could have been the “Scam of the century!”

**We do realise that the Brinks Mat robbery, Great Train robbery and the gold heist from that documentary called The Italian Job all rank quite highly, but we personally feel our achievement tops them with ease.**

Pool, Music and Chavs

An explanation is always necessary when you introduce a subject matter to people that they may otherwise be unaware of. All the required reading on this subject is available at this helpful and informative website on Chav's.

I return your focus to Jim and I. We’ve eaten, and re-joined the club we never stopped being a part of. We chose to play American pool for the night and got acquainted with the table indicated by Peg.

After less than an hours play, the light over the table next to ours turned on. A sure sign that we were about to have some neighbours. We continued our game and watched pensively as a group of young lads approached. They all appeared to be quite sporty people as they were all dressed in tracksuit bottoms and a variety of branded sports t-shirts. One had even felt it necessary to wear his smartest vest and rather fetching baseball cap.

They all appeared to have excelled at the school of Chav and fitted every stereotype possible. Jim and I exchanged concerned glances as we began to envisage having to become embroiled in a bare knuckle fight to hold onto our personal belongings.

They began to play pool and a gutter English reverberated towards us as they seemed to communicate amongst their group much like a group of pre-pubescent apes would. The largest of their number was the vest wearer. I imagine his name was Max, as this was what he had printed on the back of the vest.

Max looked like Russell, a cartoon character from a band called Gorillaz his lovely vest was a sort of cross between this and this although I imagine, for Max at least, it looked like

His cap could have been a homage to Fred Durst or even his little sister's but was actually

Max was a guy who knew how to look good when he needed to, this just wasn't one of those times.

Finally I've reached the Chav jury

Jim and I spied a coloured box nearby, mounted on the wall where the old jukebox used to be. This place really had changed a lot in the seven years we hadn’t been!

We approached it and read the excited statement on the front.

"Play 2 million music tracks!!" it cheerfully told us in funky green writing.

There was a charge of one English Earth pound for three tracks of our choice (as long as they were on the jukebox). We pooled together our available change and realised we couldn’t manage the required funds for all 2 million tracks. We instead, only had enough money for 17 tracks at most.

Jim approached first and selected his three tracks whilst I guarded our personal belongings. We then swapped places and I picked my three.

I sheepishly returned to our table and informed Jim I had picked three “great” songs. Knowing me far too well, he immediately picked up on the thinly veiled threat hidden behind my innocuous statement.

“What did you pick?”
“What?”
“You picked stupid songs didn’t you?”
“Not exactly; the last one is more of a classic.”

Jim smiled as he too informed me that his third had also been a moment of genius.

We waited with baited breath for our musical selections to fill the whole of the emporium. We didn’t wait long, as the first of Jim’s selection began. It was a song by Akon called Lonely. It’s predominantly a rap song but contains a chorus that sounds like it’s sung by the ovalteenies.

Suddenly Max piped up, “Yeh, I like this one.” And proceeded to moan along to the chorus.

Jim and I though nothing of it and attempted to hide our inanely grinning faces. Until the moment that Max got up from his seat and proceeded to dance, pool cue in hand, to the tracks closing beats.

I sidled over to Jim and asked if he was aware that he could get a job as a Chav DJ. He stated he hadn’t but would keep it in mind if the underground thing went down the Waterloo.

His next choice, Feeder – Seven days in the sun, wasn’t as well received. Max and Co. could muster little more than a confused ar5e scratch and a slow nod between them. They obviously had no basic grounding in any kind of discernable rock music.

Fortunately Jim’s final selected song came on, Bob Marley – Jammin. To our shock they all seemed to perk up. Their pool game seemed to become enlivened and words I could understand flowed from their scowling little faces. How Mr Marley would have shone with glee at the knowledge of giving a few kids a voice.

Max trudged off towards the bar / service area and returned a minute or so later beaming like a Cheshire cat. Then as he got back to his group, the music became louder. It dawned on Jim and I that he had picked a stormer to finish on as the Chav’s had liked it so much they had requested it be turned up!

Marley's wailing died down and the next song was the first of my choices. It was a 2pac track called Changes which was well received and again Max show boated his unusual gift of being able to sway almost drunkenly back and forth, causing Jim and I to reach for something solid as we assumed we were on a boat.

My second was, like Jim's, a rock track which again didn't settle well with them. It was at this moment that I remembered my last choice. I informed Jim it would probably be best if we called it a night and left rather hastily. He realised the gravity of our situation and began to try and inconspicuously collect together the pool balls.

We were too late, as the guitars faded out an almost deathly silence fell upon the whole room as everyone appeared to stop at the same time. I cringed, and squatted down behind the table as Mc Hammer began his classic (for me at least) Can't Touch This.



I breathed an audible sigh of relief as the Chavs welcomed this song. Again, many of them attempted to express their delight by shimmying round the pool table and Max even attempted a classy turn that was doomed before he even thought of it.

By the end of the evening Jim and I left the pool hall, satisfied that we had succesfully reached a point in our lives where should we ever need to we'll be able to conduct a family disco on a council estate with little more than a juke box and our razor sharp wit and inteleck.

My head hurts, and so must yours.

Go outside, get some fresh hair, my work here is done.

Derv Departs

There comes a time in every man’s life when they have to up sticks and move. It’s a big commotion for some, while others bow their heads respectfully and tip-toe quietly out the fire exit at the back of the room.

Derv didn’t choose to go,
Derv didn’t want to go,
Derv made sure everyone knew.
Good old Derv.

Like every colleague who has gone before, Derv sent out the obligatory e-mail notifying the world and his wife that he had selected a suitable venue and date for an evening of frivolity, dancing and vol au vents. The internal e-mail system was playing up that day and instead everyone received an e-mail saying it was planned for an Irish pub on St Patrick’s Day.

The question of the night came from the self confessed Darwin lookie-likie, Antoine, when, after being told how big the whole rack of ribs were, he proceeded to enquire what sort of size the half rack of ribs would be.

The evening’s drinking began with gusto, in said Irish pub, and it was surprisingly busy. Drinks orders at the bar were heavily delayed due to most orders of drinks consisting of 15 pints of Guinness that at times seemed to have the viscosity of tar.

After a hard fought couple of rounds a decision was made to move onto the second most Irish licensed premises in the area, so our party duly made a bee-line for TGI Friday’s (despite the fact it was a Thursday).

Once we had commandeered one whole side of the bar many took about the “who can buy the girliest drink challenge” which I believe was finally won by Derv. Chuckles, a visiting drinker from another team was great value for money especially when he turned his Casanova charms towards the young bar maid.

Chuckles- “Hiya! What’s your name?”
Grace- “Grace.”
Chuckles- “Tracy? That’s a beautiful name, I like Tracy.”
Grace- “My name’s Grace.”
Chuckles- (moment’s hesitation) “Grace, that’s a nice name too!”

But it’s Thursday!... … So what, we’re pi55ed!

Where better to end a night/morning than in the realms of the cheese room at our club of choice. After gaining admission and filtering our way to the scene of my previous forays into dancing with Jim, we set about lighting up the dance floor. (Which did actually light up!)

Across a crowded room, our eyes met… it was then we realised that another team were out socialising, and a mock dance-off soon followed. We were greater in numbers and so much more, and our piece de la resistance was our linked arm Irish jig which blew away all on-comers.

I vaguely remember doing the fox-trot with a Skipper I shall code name as the Silver Fox and later clearly recollect the moment during a particularly energetic bout of dancing with Briggsy, I clouted a nearby reveller with my sharply angled elbow. She stumbled away clutching at her head attempting to retrieve her hair clip from the crater now evident in her cranium. As I, in the best possible taste, proceeded to mock her by flailing all my limbs around in a “Come-any-closer-you’ll-get-more-of-the-same” kind of dance.

Soon enough the music stopped and we thanked the DJ/Vicar for his fantastic musical accompaniment to our evening, in the well accustomed way of moaning loudly as the light came up. We then stumble from the dance floor and traipsed down and out into the cold, brightly lit streets searching for our transport home.

Derv lasted the night and all present appeared to have a good time. Flip stayed sober enough to keep his eyesight this time and I managed to avoid any photos of me in make-up.

He shall be missed, but no-one will ever let on.

The Night In Pictures


As the sun sets...



Never ask an Oompa-Loompa to take your photo



Derv worries as someone touches his pint




Chuckles moves onto his next vic... lucky lady




Derv with his drink, that he said he was "holding for this lass that just went to powder her nose"


As Dazza tried to leap over the organ grinder's monkey he realised he hadn't taken into account the hairy little chaps fez




Briggsy attempts to revive a baby chaffinch




Our dance troupe receives the thumbs up from the judges as we win the dance off




Derv. Photogenic as ever.




Same to you Derv

Quarantine. Q-u-a-r-a-n-t-i-n-e. Quarantine.

I have returned!

Apple-gees for my absence but I suddenly had an un-controllable urge to straighten all the pictures that are hung around the house. It took 9 days, 5 hours and 34 minutes but I’ve done it. (Please don’t ask why the pictures are hung around the house and not inside. It’s a moot point since I attempted to re-paper my ma and pa’s living room, instead of re-aligning the picture to the existing paper).

“The collective” as I have lovingly called you, have been gracious enough to contribute some of their own quirks and freakiness. So I felt it only appropriate that I return in kind, a little more about my own uniqueness.

Never Q behind me

The ordering I mentioned in my previous entry, actually extends further than I comprehended. Whilst stood in a(nother) Q recently I wished to procure something beyond the abilities of my well stacked coinage. I instead reached around to my back pocket and withdrew my wedge of notes that nests therein. As I brought them round to my chest to finger through them like a pimp checking his latest tricks earnings I became aware of the fact that I do, and always have, ordered my notes.

After visiting an ATM or hole in the wall, I will often fold my money over on itself, at an approximate point which is always exactly in the middle of the note. On the outside will usually sit the reliable and well fingered face of Liz (the 2nd) on a £5 note. Then in ascending order under this one will be the orange and browns of a £10 note, securely backed up by the muscle in the sterling family, the £20 (or Grant as I like to call him). I rarely carry £50 notes, because half of them probably aren’t real and they look unsightly in amongst the other notes due to their ridiculous size.

It gets worse though…

(Nervous laughter)

it doesn’t end there. After looking at the pile of well ordered cash in my grubby mitts, I almost whimpered as it dawned on me that they were all facing the same way up. It was un-intentional and subconscious, which is wobbly worse. Somewhere, a psychologist is hurriedly making notes in preparation for my ensuing visit. There, within my hands, from the top side of every note smiled the face of Liz (the 2nd). My mouth began to get dry as I realised the extent of my illness. At the same time my fingers began to become clammy, which was handy, as I was then able to unfold the corners of the notes so they were all of the same uniformed crisp appearance.

AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!

In hind sight it was even more of a mistake to have become aware of all this in a shop that had crazy paving outside. For 40 minutes I hopped back and forth attempting to avoid the cracks still clutching my notes not wishing to risk them becoming creased should I return them to the pocket from whence they came. Suffice to say I won’t be returning to that shop again (on the manager's insistence)

Par examplar



A calming presence within my life.



Some of my best work.



To quote Thom Yorke - "Everything in it's right place."

I want ten chocolate chip cookies. Medium chips. None too close to the outside.

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD) is an anxiety disorder, first and foremost. It is not a thought disorder. Although the thoughts associated with OCD are bizarre, they are not at all the focal point of the therapeutic objective. The essential features of OCD are recurrent obsessions (thoughts) that create an awareness of alarm or threat.

Persons typically engage in some avoidance or escape response in reaction to the obsessive threat. Obsessions take the form of either a perceived threat of physical harm to oneself or others or, in some cases, more of a metaphysical or spiritual threat to oneself, others, or perhaps a deity. The overall syndrome of OCD consists of three primary branches. Within all three branches, in approximately 80% of all cases, persons performing these rituals are painfully aware that their behaviour is unreasonable and irrational. However this insight provides no relief...

...Ordering is a subcategory where persons feel compelled to place items in a designated spot or order. This person fears a sense of being overwhelmed and impending anarchy if items are not placed exactly as they are arbitrarily determined. Persons with this condition typically line up items in parallel locations, but the focus is on the concept that each item belongs in a particular place. Another form of OCD is perfectionism, in which persons feel compelled to habitually check for potential mistakes or errors that might reveal their own faults or might jeopardize the person's stature at work.

It's not until you pause and reflect upon yourself, that you realise everyone else is in the same race. We're just all running a little differently.

This has all emerged recently. I've always been aware of odd little things I do in day to day life. Sure, everyone has a routine, but there's routines and then there's obsessions that you realise are just outside of the boundaries of everyday.

I recently saw The Aviator at the pictures. An excellent film which brings forward the life of a man many have heard of, but whom, I for one, was not fully aware of. The character Howard Hughes is played by Leonardo DiCaprio. Hughes apparently suffered from OCD during his life. And since completion of the motion picture DiCaprio has stated he experienced a reoccurrence of his own childhood OCD.

An example I hear you ask?

One of my (now apparent) symptoms is ordering. When in a Q to purchase something in an emporium of some-kind, I will usually dig out my varied coinage from my trouser pocket. Time allowing, I then methodically order the coins in size order. The largest (£2) at the base of my palm and smallest (5p) by my fingers.

Every time I do this I pause, even though I know, and check that the 2p definitely isn't bigger than the 50p. (One day, my precious, one day). I don't know why, but this feels right. It might be a comfort thing, it might not, I'm not certain. I will then usually attempt to then place the ordered stack back in my pocket with their new hierarchy imposed.

In years gone by, another favourite was even spinning. Life as a kid for some still wholly unexplained reason, I would spin around. However, (you've guessed it) I would then usually have the torturous task of spinning back the other way an equal number of times to make sure I was still facing the "same way."

I had no security blanket. Maybe I should have...

All I can see now so clearly is you as you stand in my mind,
I remember the day that I fell in love and remember when you robbed me blind.
I don't feel my body moving and I don't realise I'm alive,
Till the moment before it all crashes down and I feel all the tears in my eyes.
The dreams that I had were all hopeless, because now I just don't want to live,
I've taken the best of what's left for me now and I don't have what I want to give.

The blood in my mouth when I'm talking and the pain in my legs as I fall,
are the signs of my life which I now disown and the pain of my fears through it all.
The body I own is not with me cos now as I die I can see,
That the things in this world are so trivial and that dreams are always meant to be.
I chase all the light that I want to and I breathe anything that I will,
I turn from the pain that I once used to know and I'd give anything just to feel.

And all I can taste is the past now and slowly the light fades then goes,
All that is left here with me are the marks of my old lives bitter body blows.

Milky'05

Picture Perfect

As promised Hx.

When will people learn?



Milky is a deviant.



No-one is safe.



Memory loss? What memory loss?

Recently Jim and I had a conference about the night that was Bell’s, whilst actually drinking Jack Daniel’s. Funny that.

He enlightened me of a couple of other incidents that had occurred which I had neglected to scare you with, sorry, share with you.

Firstly, whilst in search of aforementioned devil’s drink, we thought it best to try our local 24hr Super-duper-market. We drove up the entrance ramp, I did the pedals and Jim tried his hand at the steering malarkey. We parked in a somewhat deserted car park and risked not buying a parking ticket, because 1. That’s the kind of crazy mad-cap thing we do do, and 2. We figured we wouldn’t be long and therefore weren’t technically parking, more pausing in a marked space for a bit.

We strolled down the escalator-come-travellator into the store. Again, no shoppers. Odd. Zombie flash backs. I steadied myself as by now my profuse sweating and heavy breathing was starting to scare Jim.

The electric doors whirred open and we stepped into the store. There in the centre of the aisles stood what I can only describe as one of the most amazing… just kidding. It was empty.

We glanced across to a swarm of green fleeces (the staff) who promptly stared transfixed back at us. We did the internationally recognised gesture for “Is the store open” and they replied with a rather clipped “How the phuk did you get in?” Although they hadn’t shouted it directly we guessed that meant the store was closed.

We returned to the escalator-cum-travellator to find that only the down one was operational. Undeterred we opted for the instant Gladiator challenge and proceeded to attempt to run up the down one. Now, from the bottom it looked a piece of cake. If that piece of cake is 50 feet long made of a track of metal and continually telling you to “mind the step at the end.”

As we reached halfway we realised we were now visible from within the store. The green fleeces turned on mass to glare ruefully at us. Just as Jim began to tire and my Lycra jump suit began to ride up at the back. We eventually collapsed at the top, two gibbering freaks, with no sign of Wolf or Rhino in pursuit… or Malcolm the trolley boy for that matter.

We fled the store wise to the fact that we wouldn’t be welcome again, when it was closed.

The Second incident was the minor detail I had left out about what happened post 6am but pre 12:45pm.

Jim fell asleep before me.

To be fair, Jim was the one who taught me the joys of messing with the semi-dead. So I took the liberty of proceeding to attempt to beat his Greatest-number-of-Minstrels-balanced-on-the-face-of a-sleeping person world record. I drunkenly swayed back and forth attempting to lightly drop them onto his now snoring swede. In truth I swayed them over him like a crane operated by a chimp with two fingers missing who has just read the instruction booklet for a Corby trouser press.

I failed abysmally partially due to my drunkenness and also due to the unhelpful angle of Jim’s head.

Unperturbed I reached for the nearest alternative to chocolate sweets, which turned out to be Wine Gums. Hooray for Wine Gums. How tasty, how versatile, how to stick them onto a slumbering someone’s face?



You’ve got to lick the back of them first.

I’m Samurai, I am… I’m Superstar Ninja

Night-Night

Night’s have been and gone. The one shift I was made for. Once again it did not fail to amuse with a barely tolerant mix of excessive alcohol, and obnoxious behaviour from all in sundry. Traffic offences galore, reckless behaviour from many and more often than not discussions in raised tones of an inappropriate nature. Modern day policing, it’s tough but look at all the stuff we get away with!!

This week I have been mostly eating a mixture of sandwiches and cooked goods from my local food vending emporium that also happens to do a bit of a side trade in vehicular fuels. Alright! I’ve been getting my dinner from the petrol station.

Last night I successfully circumnavigated a chicken chow mein meal to move rather audaciously onto a thin crust pizza. The night previously I decided to partake of some chicken and stuffing sandwiches, salmon and cucumber sandwiches and some rather lovely Aloo Gobi. Unsurprisingly my best diet does seem to be situated during the most unsociable shift.

Blue tinted glasses

There was an incident on one night, which had already staggered into morning and was very close to being a call that early turn would have dealt with rather than us. An old gent had his maisonette broken into by a young man who lived downstairs who appeared to have serious mental health issues.

The behaviour of the man during his arrest echoed back to a teenage lad I had dealt with about a year previously.

We were called by his Granddad who had seen the boy, Geoff (for the purposes of this story) kick in everyone of the cars body panels. This is no mean feat as both Gaffa and I found out, as we walked around what was once a Rover 75. Granddad also mentioned that Geoff had mental health issues and hadn’t been taking his medication.

Now here was the first mistake Gaffa and I made, we both huddled up at the end of the driveway and decided, 1. Geoff was local, 2. Geoff was probably at an address we already had, 3. Another colleague could take a statement, 4. It would be a good body of work if we could process the guy within the shift.

The simple plans are always the best, until you try and execute them.

We tracked Geoff all over Kingston, as we haired from one address to another, in a convoy of two police cars and the van. We finally caught up with him (as always) at the first place we had looked. We were met by his flat mate who said he’d help us speak to Geoff, as after some checks, it became apparent that Geoff was in the elite group of those that have the platinum membership of warning signals.

We climbed the rickety old narrow staircase (uh-oh) to meet a door right on the corner of the staircase. The flatmate turned almost triumphantly to tell us “This is his! I’ll go in and tell him you’re here, that way he should be alright.” Gaffa and I exchanged a glance, and agreed that SEEMED the best course of action.

We both awaited the soft tones of a calming voice escaping through the slight crack the door had left where it didn’t meet the frame comfortably. How wrong we were. The voice that escaped was… like Brian Blessed on acid.

“GEOFF WHAT THE HELL YOU BEEN DOIN? THE POLICE ARE HERE. THEY’RE NOT HAPPY. YOU’RE GONA BE ARRESTED. GEOFF WHY’D YOU DO IT MAN? COME ON THE POLICE ARE RIGHT OUTSIDE NOW.”

Gaffa and I again exchanged a more worried glance, which then trailed down the staircase we were currently stood at the top of. We then had an Indiana Jones moment as we both attempted to find an anchoring point to hold onto, before the expected collapse of the bridge. To our relief, the door opened and out stepped flatmate and Geoff (who was wearing blue tinted specs).

Geoff was twitchy to say the least and continually eyed both Gaffa and I, which meant I was continually puffing my chest out to look more menacing than I ever actually could be. I was almost hyperventilating by the time we got back to the station.

Our initial thoughts, he seems fine.

Samurai Steaks

By this time it was near the end of the shift and it had already become apparent that this wasn't one of our best ideas. Things got worse when we discovered there was no space for Geoff at Kingston and we would have to intrude on a neighbour. We found (a kind of) solace at Wimbledon (where they do the tennis we lose).

As always there was a bit of wait so we stood chatting with Geoff. His behaviour was intriguing as his character seemed to turn on a penny. For short moments he would ask us to clarify why he was there and what it was he'd done again. He'd then revert to a hardcore version of who he assumed his self image to be.

Gaffa has been gifted with an extraordinary ability to talk to anyone. He didn't bat an eyelid as Geoff leapt from topic to topic. It took me a while but I settled into it, and we began to get on quite well despite the often surreal subject matter.

Geoff told us how, in his words, he was Samurai, he was Superstar Ninja, and he was double edged. For ten minutes he told us how he was essentially the harder big brother of Bruce Lee.

The conversation then moved onto steaks. Both Gaffa and I agreed we could do with a lovely steak, as we had missed breakfast and lunch at this point. Gaffa then said to Geoff, “I suppose you like your steak bloody and raw” to keep with his Samurai persona. There came the reply “No, I like it well done, blood makes me faint.”

Well you did ask Doc...

Once the usual rig moral involved with detainees was over, the doctor was called to see if he felt Geoff was in a fit medical state to stay with us. As Geoff was becoming more agitated, it was deemed necessary for an officer to stand in on the consultation.

Gaffa’s about 6’2” and has a foreboding presence about him. So they picked me.

The Doc asked the most ridiculous leading questions I have heard, and, to his credit, Geoff played him like a fool.

Doc; So Geoff, do you believe you have superpowers?
Geoff; Course I have, I’m Samurai.
Doc; Ok. What powers do you have?
Geoff; All of ‘em, I’m dragon Ninja ain’t I.
Doc; Ok Geoff. Do you have Superman’s powers?
Geoff; Yeah, I’m like Superman, hard man.
Doc; Right Geoff. And can you fly Geoff?
Geoff; Course I can, I’m Superman.
Doc; And Geoff, tell me, have you ever tried jumping off a building to fly?
Geoff; No. I’m not a phuking idiot.

Geoff, if my memory serves me correctly, was never dealt with regarding the incident. As it was deemed that he could not be held accountable due to the lax supervision in place to ensure he kept taking the medication that he had been prescribed.

I’m not certain where he is now, but the character he was, really shone. He seemed completely content. I don’t doubt the demons he carried pressed on his character, but from the glimpse we caught, he seemed to be living his life to how he enjoyed.

I’m not condoning his actions. But in a way, I was able to lift from him, an ideal that every once in a while everyone needs to learn to let go.

Two days to burn

A common problem amongst professionals (people with a job) is how best to spend your days off in a constructive and yet essentially efficient manner. Many a... minute have a pondered this problem at work, on the toilet, with one foot against the rickety old door, trying to prevent the unknown from storming my stronghold.

Time and time again, I fall back upon the age old adage of "go out, get sh1t faced" (repeat to fade)

And so with a reluctance I could only manage to disguise as complete excitement I met up with my long standing associate and newly acquainted drinking bud Jim (Yim, Y, J, Jay, Yaka, Sacred etc etc).

We're going to need a bigger basket

For four long and dust filled hours we struggled, mainly him really but I'm talking my part up, to construct a devious device of unseen music emmittance which is also more commonly known as a 'boot build.'

During this time we also popped to a local shopping emporium named Halfords. It sells various products including bicycles, car engine oil, windscreen wiper blades, air freshener, speakers, cycling shorts and more recently car cleaning products. When I say car cleaning products, I don't refer to the usual tack that mere mortals would usually buy, oh no. This stuff is the creme de la pasteurised, the champion of the best and the leader of the flock!!

How Jim's little face lit up as we turned the corner into the aisle named "It's here you mug, get out your cold hard cash" He stopped. (suddenly because i walked straight into him). He stared. He (pratically) drooled. Product after product was picked up, until eventually Jim looked me in the eye and said "I'm going to need a basket."

The products looked flash, and they bore a name that was slightly too close to Midge Ure for my liking. They came in an assortment of bottles, bags, sprays and sponge things. Needless to say, the products they stocked are no longer there, Jim bought them all!

With a whimper he handed over £20 note after £20 note, as they loaded the items into two full carrier bags. And as we struggled from the store, I glanced back to see three members of staff sat atop the till whilst another two tried in vain to close the draw containing Jim's oodles of cash.

When back at his place, Jim began to load a cupboard with his cleaning products. I kid you not, this boy is ill. In all, there must have been over 30 different cleaning items, some of which had duplicates or even triplicates.

And is Jim's car clean? ...is it phuk!!!

The Bells.. The Bells!!!

As the hour was now late and the time had come and gone we elected to drink heinous amounts of alcohol at his house rather than risk a fight over a spilt kebab in a local town. We raced from shop to shop looking for booze. We eventually found our salvation in a small "offie" near North Cheam. We did wish to select Jack Daniels to while away the hours but instead had to plump for Bell's. It looked the same, cost the same, but turned out to be stronger. Result!!

And so the drinks began with bottled lager, but soon the Bell's was unleashed in tall glasses mixed energetically with Coke (the drink). It hit us hard and as we went onto consume the best part of 3/4 of a litre of whisky everything became ridiculously funny. We didn't feel all that drunk, but every other moment was spent giggling like Brownies at a cake sale, as the mind numbingly dull became a golden comedy moment.

We eventually ebbed out at around 6am and slept like the comatosed drunken monkeys we had become. When morning had been and gone, and the afternoon reared it's ugly head, alarms sounded and we awoke to the day we had onyl just left.

It was then we recalled the appointments we had made to view prospective properties to buy.

Don't look at the carpet, and lean against the walls.. they'll never notice

We both agreed that we had no hang over (yay) but when I tried to walk and J attempted speach we realised we had a problem. Our bodies had transcended to a time in the mid Eighties when we were but young children and the simplest task had become a challenge.

We arrived at the first property by a means of transport known only to J and I (after consuming a hot tea each and some cheese on toast). We met up with our Estate Agent and were whisked into the first place.

We asked intelligent questions and presumed an air of "we're not p1ssed, we know what we're doing."

It didn't hold.

I had to leave the house on the pretext of a phone call to gulp copious amounts of fresh air to save from collapsing.

The second property was J's downfall. Upon entering the living room, J looked to the floor and made a loud and clearly audible "Waaahheeur" noise. Then came the advice, "don't look at the floor, it'll make you chuck." Needless to say, what was the first thing I did.

Yep. From my leaned position by a wall, I looked down and then snapped my head back up at break neck speed. We then spent an agonising 10 minutes rebuffing the agents approaches of conversation to attempt an early exit from the place to the sanctity of primary colours outside.

The carpet was a chequered design in a creamy pastel colour. Closest comparison I could find for sober eyes was...


Outside J received the call that blew our cover completely. Whilst on the phone, he had said the following -

1) Hi, yeah... okay... could wu tid...
2) that's fine cand you, can you calld him
3) No, we're hear'd with them now, him

Eventually we fessed up with the overly proud "we're still drunk from yesterday!"

We fled the second headed for the other two. One we never made it to and the other was basically a bit ca-ca-poo-poo.

During our journeys to these two J continued to attempt phone calls to two different Estate agents. Starting all of them with a loud "HELLO MATE" and most usually contained a moment when J said the wrong name and then realised he hadn't called who he meant to.

How we laughed. How they wish we hadn't approached them to buy a house.

A word of warning to the wise - don't go house shopping whilst under the influence.

Both J and I now own a room in an old people's home, a bungalow with extensive fire damage and a small apartment in Sarajevo with awful lino in the welcome hall and an unexploded mortar round in the spare bedroom.

You have been warned.

The bells... the ells!!

Come back around

Return To Work Interview - A semi-formal affair involving the sickee (myself) and a supervisor of highly regarded professionalism and staunch disposition, failing this I asked Briggsy (also a sickee).

MY Return to Work Interview - A semi-formal discussion about the merits I possess to do my job to the fullest of my ability and how to jazz up "makes the tea well" to stretch to fill a paragraph sized box.

During this semi-formal affair there were the comments "I can't put you have returned to a fit state to resume work as I don't think you've ever been fit to do this job." and "Do you feel this incident has affected you in any adverse way?... Milky?... Milky! Stop bouncing around on your chair and listen!"

The Early Bird... gets the heebie-jeebies

For me, one of the most enjoyable qualities about doing shift work is the ability to commute to and from work during the wet season. By this I mean, I'm not squished in amongst thousands of other wildebeest (people) attempting to cross the main artery of the Serengeti's water supply (the A3 at Tolworth) at the same time, of the same day, everyday, for the rest of my life.

There is something quite pleasurable about travelling to work in the teeniest weeniest hours of the day, when the local winged wildlife is still discussing whether or not it's another solar eclipse or the sun is finally beginning to emerge on the horizon. The wind hasn't woken up and the rain is still falling in the other hemisphere. Although, there's a presence still around, for short periods of time at least, it's nice to presume a greater importance within yourself than when you disappear back into the end of a queue of traffic or are jostled away from the entrance to the train.

I'm not one for mornings, unless I've been awake since it was previously referred to as evening. But this, folks, is the reason I don't grudgingly drag myself from a warm bed, looking world weary and like I should be finishing work and not starting it.

Plus there's the added bonus of being able to break the speed limit and bend certain rules of the road (which is something I can't often do in the career path I've... forget that last bit).

Where was I, ah yes, as you no doubt appreciate now, early starts at work don't faze me. And due to the local council's splendid ingenuity I'm also able to enjoy a half mile wander to work. Owing to the fact that terrorists may at some point wish to blow up any part of Kingston with a car bomb. Hence the need for restricted/residents parking all over the place.

However, the walk is exercise, to some degree. Although not taxing, one can zigzag up the road to burn a few more calories but it's not always advisable at certain times as local residents do have a penchant for peering through their net curtains and reaching for the phone to call for pest control.

During my walk I utilise the current technological brilliance that is my MP3 player. Having recently danced gracefully around the copyright of most of the albums I own, I have been able to fashion a collection in my image (or at least one that loosely reflects my CD collection at home, minus the 5ive album that I only bought the case of).

As you can imagine I donned my headphones and leapt from my car, and begun my haphazard aforementioned zigzag to work with a spring in my step. Before hastily returning to my car to collect my required uniform, and to actually lock the doors as well. I resumed with gusto and relaxed into my 3.7 mph slouching stride.

Now usually, a colleague also blessed with the same intricate knowledge of our working environment as I, will drive past or happen to be already walking to work. As a result, a light hearted chat will often follow regarding the continuing strife in Israel, a brief reflection on how the recent Tsunami may affect the algae research currently underway in Antarctica and how much sleep we've both had.

This morning this did not happen. There was no-one. Constant checks over my shoulder confirmed this. My walk to work was colleague free.

Now in a "normal" job or 9 to 5 as some call them this wouldn't be of concern, because the other hundred people around you confirm that the world is still maintaining a degree of routine. On shifts, at 05:48 (that's AM) the backs of your ears start sweating. Mild panic sets in as you turn corner after corner with still no trace of a familiar face. You then start attempting to recall if you ever actually saw any other traffic on the way in. By this point your toes are getting twitchy and whistling to yourself seems to add a sense of security.

Your mind steps aside and the imagination back flips into life with
"Milky did the clocks go back?"
"Milky, you know you said you didn't believe in aliens..."
"Milky, have you actually woken up yet or is this that dream where you sleep with..."

And so on...

I reached my HQ and entered via an elaborate system of a plastic card and a painfully slow mechanical gate. Still no sign of life. "Sh1t, what day is it? Do I still work here? What was that film with the... Shaun of the Dead? No you muppet the other one... 28 Days Later? Yes that's it... oh bum, how'd you kill a zombie again..."

I enter the HQ main building through the security filters and start heading towards the changing rooms where I usually don my outfit for the days work. Still not a sausage; or a person in fact.

Then as I opened the changing room door there was my confirmation that everything was alright. Never will I say again that I have been so grateful to see Derv stood one legged leaning against his locker half doubled over attempting to pull his leg from a pair of leather trousers whilst stating "Ah, Milky! There you are, welcome back."

It's going to be okay.

The Zombies'll have to go past him to get to me! :)

Individual

I don't ask for space when I'm crushed by the dream,
I live for the living at least that's how it seemed.
All that I want is to live with a home,
To stand in a crowd but still feel alone.
I don't wish for nothing 'cos wishing ain't true,
And hoping for something can soon destroy you.

My wander in life is not blessed with much more,
Than the lone simple thoughts that lap at my shore.
The sand in my toes and the wind in my hair,
Cause me to guess at the fears that are there.
I walk from the pain when I'm blind to the call,
That offers a touch that's like breathing it all.

So live for the moment and laugh for the fun,
But never forget
You're the true
Onlyone.
Milky'05

Retribution

"There was a struggle and he had to be restrained using reasonable force"

I know where everything is...

..it can just take a while to find things on occasions.



This is the closest I have to a bedside table. Uhm, where to start.

Have I created a game?

Amidst the mayhem is an elastic band ball, cheque book, numerous CD's, aftershave, get well cards, a shower cap, a picture of John Lennon, stamps, a v.old stereo and a hands free kit for a phone I don't own.

You all have Hx to blame.. she started it. (the photo's, not the mess!)

The Kingston Three +1

As some, few or none of you may be aware, last... Saturday... 5th.. February (Phew, this date thing takes a bit of getting used to) the Kingston Three (Andy, Briggsy & Moi) ventured out intrepidly into the hallowed drinking emporiums of "our patch" and proceeded to put the world to rights whilst attempting to drain the locals supply of liquor.

This time, however, was different as we now had a fourth member. He was D'Artagnan to our... other three. He emerged like a spectre through the mists of the dank alleys of the town. Although in truth he lurched precariously through the pub doorway once the doorman had verified that he knew Andy (?!).

We drank merrily and often, and did what you're supposed to do during all social gatherings, text each other from the toilet asking if we were talking about them yet. At a later hour than originally planned it was deemed appropriate to shake our bad asses at our club of choice.

We proceeded there, via the strategically positioned Chicken Shop opposite. Some in our number opted out (Phil), whilst others attempted the Dallas Chicken record of 6 hot wings (Andy- who then proceeded to cry like an onion chopping vegetable lover) and then finally we get to those who; already knowing they are also thirsty decided to plump for the "so much more refreshing than a drink" tub of coleslaw (Briggsy).

After suitably cleansing ourselves with the disturbingly named cleanup tissue we approached the Q. One in our number was recognised as a disfigured local worker and we were immediately thrust into the bowels of the club (after checking our coats, obviously).

Again a bee-line was made straight to the "r'n'b and other music like that" room as so many of us affectionately call it. Where we proceeded to let all hell break loose (or dance). Phil initially stood by the bar monitoring our confused shuffling from a distance, like the care in the community we appeared to be. Until later he joined us on the littered wooden tiles where he continued to observe with concern.

Andy began his well recognised display of dancing prowess much like a Peacock in full mating ritual. Briggsy descended into her own 'zone' as her head dipped and eyes rolled back. I began a mix of the two whilst also attempting to keep my new shoes clean by kicking away every single item of rubbish on the dance floor. The podium dancers provided light relief as we attempted to emulate their super-stardom. Until the moment one of them leapt into the air and did the splits across the podiums hand rails. I immediately feigned injury and escaped a torn pride.

All too soon the lights came up (except for Phil, who had been attempting to leave since the previous hour!) and we made our way to the coat Q. I unwisely tried to joke with the woman returning my jacket when she enquired "Initials?" I replied "Who's asking?" Oh how... only I laughed.

We were then heralded home in Jim's motor vehicle (which Andy fondly described as an LOS due to the transitional phase the vehicle is in). All the way home, Briggsy lounged across the back seats pleading "Can I drive? Can I have a go? Can I drive? I'm not that drunk!

Again a success. Again a lot of fun. Again?