|:neutralising the pH level:|: January 2006

31.1.06

Rhythems of the mind

Like pain, like feeling returning after being plunged into ice then hot bleach then salt. Like lemon juice on scratched retina with missing eyelids. Like the worlds biggest Absinth hangover on the hottest day, with a presentation to make to the board. Like clawing your way out from under a blackboard covered in rubble and all I want to do is scream like an animal with it's nipples caught on the electric fence but I can't because that would be loosing.

There has to be a way out but can I make it before I start blazing away with a flame-thrower, destroying everything in my path, fucking people up both physically and emotionally, with the finesse of an athlete in the zone but there is only room for one person in the zone now. Fuck off out of my way.

28.1.06

Come over so I can smack you

"Stuart, you were very naught during class this morning. You made me look bad, not having all 18 of the desks assembled with the coorect working kits on each. Come over here, you naught boy. Now take your pants down, yes, that's right, show momma your frilly underwear. That's better, Stuart, now on your knees. Show momma your big, beautiful bottom. Back this way a bit, Stuart. Further. Further. Further. Further."

"Shut up, Stuart, your cries mean nothing but noise. I told you, you made momma look bad. Stuart, back down, back down, good boy."

Stuttering Another Verse?

Nuh.

27.1.06

DDC GET'S A MOUTHFUL

DDC got absolutely reamed out by Mrs. DC the other night:

"Fuck me!" I said, "That woman is fucking brilliant!" The plant died, the cat had to leave the room and TV exploded. All this under the influence of Mrs. DogChop, who was getting frosty. Her mood swept the room like a cold glacier, but not as slow nor as prettily. Neither did it afford opportunities for winter sports.

I was asked to say exactly what I had meant by my little outburst. I concluded that she wasn't happy with something. I had probably been a male chauvanist pig or some other kind of eighties thrwoback. "She is brilliant," I said. "She thought on her feet and put that guy in his place in short order. She has a remarkable vocabulary and her timing is perfect." I gave her a meak smile. "What's wrong with saying that?"

She sighed and said, "It is an opinion, I suppose. If you can't see what's wrong with it then there is nothing to talk about." Her foot began to tap.

"You could try telling me."

"No, you blokes, you're all the same. You only care about conversation. What about all those women out there who can't do it? People who can't make themselves sound good. What have you got to offer them?" The glacier was fast turning into an avalanche, though only in a metaphorical sense, you realise.

I shrugged my shoulders. "There are things you can do, like reading good books and learning conversational gambits." I got no further.

"I suppose you think all women should aspire to be good conversationalists? For the boys? Trot out some interesting asides for the lads to guffaw over? Why should women do that for you?"

Another sigh, this time from me. "I'm not saying they should do it for me, or even that they should do it at all. I'm just saying I like it when I see it."

"I can't believe I married someone like you." She almost spat that out.

"I can't help what I like. Would it be better if I said I liked fuckwits?"

"I hate you."

26.1.06

THE FOLLOWING STEPS ARE TO BE FOLLOWED WHEN A CHILD IS BEING NOISY

DDC has the following advice for those caring for children:

You may leave the programme at any stage if the child becomes pacified.

Make eye contact.
Make your attention plain by using the name(s) of the kunder involved.
Raise your voice, or use your serious voice. Make it plain that you are not amused.
Scold the child.
Stop whatever is happening and make it clear nothing will procede until the poor behaviour stops.
Separate out one individual and make an example of them by selotaping them to a chair, whilst telling other students that somthing similar will happen to them if they err similarly.
Put on a wig and tell the child they are being punished so that other will not follow their example, whilst whaling the shit out of them with a stick.
Lock them in the cellar to live in their own excrement for a week.

No, it's true. They teach it in my local town. Look!

21.1.06

Just so you don't forget.

Ya can call me SAV for now. Later, when ya know, ya can call me by my name. First ya need to know about Martha. And Stuart, Martha's "partner". She makes him grow hair down almost to his waist. She's butch, ya see. They got bashed for being a couple a pooftas a late last century. Now, she makes him grow hair down almost to his waist. 'Cept now when he's out by himself he gets bashed for being a single poofta. And she for being dykie. But that don't matta here, for now anyways.

Martha does them fancy scrap-bookin' classes in the garage. They got tables set up. They got craft stuff like scissors (regular and scalloped), glues (gallons and gallons in 6 different types), glitter, paper, hole-punches (4 sizes, 3 designs), stickers, rubber stamps, bull-dog clips, page-protectors, stamp-pads with re-inkers in 7 colors, 144 premium set of pastels, hair-spray (for settin' pastels), magic-markers, airplane boarding passes (18 total), thumb-tacks, push-pins, and reams and reams and reams of recycled paper. They got mirrors anchored everywhere, so as the class can see Martha scrappin'. They got chairs. They got 18 individual desks and they got 18 individual chairs. They got a laminator in one corner. They got a barber's chair in another. They got a hoist attached to a RSJ. They got glue-guns. At least they look like glue-guns. Maybe spak-filla guns. Don't seem to get hard though just melts like butter but white and all.

Stuart does the assistin'. Does everything Martha instructs. He'd want to. He knows what the barber's chair's for.

Slippery And Vociferous?

Nuh.

20.1.06

I'LL WRING HIS NECK FOR HIM

DDC isn't happy:

I went to the garage a few months back to see why my windscreen washer wasn't working. The guy had a bit of a look and said that the pumps needed replacing because they had both failed. I said, "what, both at the same time?"

He said yes and told me it was going to cost about fifty quid and take up to two weeks for the parts to arrive. I thought, "Well, on the one hand there is a safety issue and I shouldn't endanger myself and other road users by opperating a dangerous diesel monster without a good view. On the other hand I don't use them much and I can just pour water out of the sun-roof if it gets too bad."

The months rolled by and I still hadn't got round to sorting it out. In the recent heavy snow-fall that has swept the country I managed to go boarding a few times and got salt all over the car. I come to try the rear windscreen washer and Lo! All of a sudden the thing is working again without needing a cash infusion. My guess - the wiring in the car is a bit dodgy. This is an occasional problem associated with old cars, especially ones that have done enough miles to go round the globe a few times.

Two things struck me as I went past the garage the other night. One was that I should think again before buying an old car, even if it is a diesel with a steel timing belt. the engine is fine, it is just all the other bits around it that are knocking on heavens door. I am still undecided about nissan cars. I am grudgingly respectful that the thing is still moving after all these years but I am a little upset that the build quality applied to the engine didn't extend to the rest of the car.

The second thing that struck me was a need for revenge on the garagee. The man was either negligent or lying. I am still tossing around ideas but I am leaning towards something involving a poster / flyer campaign twinned with some clandestine fish secretion. Any helpful suggestions in the comments section below, please.

19.1.06

HERE'S WHAT SHARON HAD TO SAY ON THE MATTER

More sordid married life as told by Sharon, as related by DDC:

"Ah think ah know the ones yer mean. Thin-ish lookin' woman wi' roots showin'? Biggish bloke wi' patches on 'is elbows an' shoulders?"

"The' were in the other day. It were like ye' said wi' me too. The woman 'ad one of them faces like a slapped arse. 'air stretched tight ter stop 'er face puckerin' into an arsehole. The bloke dint look much 'appier though 'e din't look like a bad sort. Not like your Jason with his misis."

"The' come through an' ah sends it through. Ther' were an awful lot of these "vegetarian alternatives" that the' reckon taste the same as meat, though 'ow the'r' supposed to know is beyond me. Anyway, last thing through the bloke sends down some of them batteries the' put in radios and suchlike. When the' get down to the wife she asks what the'r' for."

"He sez the're fer the bunny. She asks what bunny and he sez, oh no, it's not a bunny is it? Then he turns to me and sez "what der yer call them," ah can't do them posh accents, "big expensive vibraters, like what they had on Sex An The City?" Before ah can speak he turns back and sez to the wife 'It's a rabbit, innit?'"

"She dunt say anythin' and keeps on packin'. Did you 'ear that? Ah said packin'!"

18.1.06

THIS IS WHAT TRACY HAD TO SAY ON THE MATTER

This rather garbled message comes to you courtesy of DDC If you don't read the previous two you will not understand this third:

"Ah wuz bored out of me skull. Ah'd been on shift for about an hour when this couple comes along. The' looked normal enough but yer can't tell by lookin', eh?"

"So the're looking kind of endgy and yer can see the've bin at it hammer and tongues round the supermarket or somethin. It wer like mi mum and dad just before the' got divorced. Yer knew somethin were going on but yer didn't know what."

"The guy sez, 'what's it to be this week?" All posh, like. An she sez she doesn't know what he's talkin about. So he asks what she wants to reveal to the world this time and she sez no."

"So the' go ter opposite ends, he's loadin and she's puttin the stuff on the belt. I sends everthin through and last thing she asks fer a pack of Lanbert and Butler. Ah can see the guy sag, reflected in the screen on the till. She asks if it is like the bath and he says no, not this time."

"Weird, if you ask me."

17.1.06

HUSBAND AND WIFE #2

I gotta, gotta, gotta tell yas all about the couple I saw again down the Supermarket:

She: Aren't you getting any magazines?
He: Nope, there's nothing I fancy the look of today.
She: No car magazines for the stack beside the bed?
He: No, not today.
She: No porn mags to hide imbetween?
He: Haha! er.
She: Is this like the "bath issue"?
He: Yes, I think so. Maybe. Thanks for bringing it up in the queue for the tills.
She: I'm not angry. I think it is kind of cute, in an adolescent way.
He: Which means you don't think it is kind of cute in an adult way.
She: No.
He: Point taken.

16.1.06

HUSBAND AND WIFE #1

DDC caught a wiff of this in the queue for the till at the supermarket:

Wife: Did you pick up the bleach?
Husband: Yes. Why are we getting through so much of the stuff these days?
Her: That would be all the bath-cleaning that has been going on these days.
He: I see. This leads me to ask why there is so much bath-cleaning going on.
Her: This in turn leads me to ask what the slightly amonic smells are after you finish in the shower.
He: Er, I'm not sure.
Her: It isn't you urinating in the shower?
He: No, that is to say, yes. I didn't think you knew...
She: I had a sneaking suspicion after noticing that the only time you ever used the toilet was for a dump in the morning.
He: It was kind of exciting while I thought you didn't know, but now I have been discovered...
She: I don't mind so much. Some people's husbands get up to much worse.
He: No, no. It has lost it's sparkle now. Consider it not done.

13.1.06

ONLY ABOUT 340...

... days to Christmas:

Have you done your shopping? Got your tree up yet? Come up with something embarrassing to do at the Christmas party? Got the kiddies worried about whether they have been good enough to warrant any presents? Have you dusted off the Christmas dinner jokes?

Say what? You haven't? Waddayamean it's a bit early? Well, if the press are already hyping-up the ashes, then why not get ready for Christmas at the same time.

Well, that's you opinion, then isn't it? You haven't even planned Easter yet? I put the finishing touches to it eighteen months ago. I spent about fifty quid on animal-shaped lumps of chocolate, and ordered my easter hamper of chocolate-shaped lumps of animals for about four hundred quid.

What's a waste of money? Next you'll be trashing my "one every three years" new car buying strategy and telling me I'd be better off feeding my creditcard to the sharks.

Well, fuck you if you won't get into the easter spirit. And your sister

10.1.06

BLAIR TO TACKLE HOOLIGANS AGAIN

DDC has seen this kind of thing before somehwere. Remember the tirade against hoody tops?

I was just reading this and wondering where it is all going to stop. Another one here gives details of the "urban crime" uniform of baseball hats and hooded tops.

"I wanna be a criminal. I've got a hat and a hoody top."

9.1.06

STYLE GURUS AT WORK

"Dave, we're fucked! GM have got the jump on us. And Ford aren't far behind."
"Slow down man. Be cool. Remember your training. What's the issue here?"
"They've shaved a couple of hundred bucks off the price of a mid-range saloon."
"What's a saloon?"
"It's a stationwagon in English."
"Holy Shit! We need a style manouvre, sharpish."
"What's sharpish?"
"It means quickly in English."
"Then you are absolutely right. We need to think of some way of deluding these poor dickheads into believing there is some little extra something in our stationwagon that isn't in all the others. Any ideas?"
"Gimme a second."

The bottle of thunking whiskey comes out. An ashttray is filled. Another ashtray is filled with something different. Lights go on and off.

"Got it!"
"Hang on, which one are you?"
"Doesn't matter for the story. Fuck it - let's move before I forget."
"Can it be called a flourish?"
"Yes it can."
"Does it fairly reak of style? Will Gucci be shitting themselves with envy?"
"It does! They will!"
"Will it make our mothers burst with pride? Can I expect a letter from the president praising me on my business accumen?"
"They will! You can!"
"Then tell me. I have my cleanex ready."
"What's cleanex?"
"It is English for tissues."
"Then wad them up! Here it comes! Take one mid-range saloon. Paint it brown."
"No!"
"I haven't finished yet. This is the best part. Paint the car light brown and put a ten inch wide stripe along the side. Do you know what is on the stripe?"
"Tell me!"
"A cut wood grain effect."
"Yes!"

"What is wrong? You shouted and then collapsed. My god! You're bleeding from your crotch! What the fuck happened?"
"I came so hard my wad stripped the lining from the inside of my gristle whistle."
"That's all? We'd better get you to hospital, just to be on the safe side."
"That's not all. After the first wave of extacy, caused by your light brown car colouring, had passed, a bigger wave swept through my body. But I was spent, there was no outlet for you woody stripe. The raw passion had nowhere to go. My body was forced to expel my prostate gland in liu. You can see it dangling from the end of my member by my urethra."
"My woody stripe! It was too good for this world."
"No! Make it happen, for... me."

7.1.06

THIS IS A MORE OR LESS DIRECT DIARY ENTRY

Day 4 - Boarding in Kiroro

This place is smaller than the first place we went to, covering a mere two mountains instead of three. I do like boarding, though I hate what the resorts do to the countryside. Until I get a helicopter I can't complain too much. Santa must have been to busy this year. The lifelike tiger suit didn't come, either.

We got there earlier and the leaving time was scheduled later, so we had much more time to find our way through the resort. I have attached a map so you can get an idea of the place. The day started a little slowly. First we went right up to the top of the right hand mountain. Coming down there was horrible - the skiers had carved it up badly, so it was a mixture of ice and soft stuff, quite tiring.

Next we went up the other side, which looks smaller on the map but is actually taller than the right. On the lift on the was up we looked down (from about 20 meters up) and chose a course. "That middle one looks empty." Off at the top, right foot back into the binding and off we go.

The first twenty yards or so were great. Then it got steeper - crouch through the turns to dump some speed. "hey, this is grea- where the fuck did that come from?" Imagine you've got a rythem going - left, right, left, right, left, etc. when suddenly there is a meter deep hole in front of you. Hard on the breaks!!

The skiiers call them moguls, but I call them a bloody nuisance. A good skier shoots through them with that little swishy motion from the hips and knees. Snowboarders can do them too but it is really tiring. After a day of that you need a body transplant. We agreed that there should be a sign as we made our very slow progress down the slope.

Back on the lift, off at the top, read the sign that said, "warning, bumpy" at the top. Another lesson learnt. Once we had sussed out where the good slopes were, it was great. It started feeling really easy and I could feel that I had improved. We got the camera out and managed a few good shots of each other. It is amazing how the view from outside is so different to the way it feels.

We had a full day of sliding about merrily. We had enough free time at the end to have an icecream (Mrs DC) and beer (me) at the bar. I got another for the road, then we went off to find the bus. On we got, and that was where things started to go wrong.

Almost as soon as we were moving, all the people on the bus indulged in the Japanese national trait of going to sleep absolutely anywhere. If you go there you will see people sleeping in chairs, on the floor, sitting on the train, standing on the train (no, really), in the park, in restaurants, etc. Contrast this to me, who lost huge parts of my childhood to insomnia and still can't sleep anywhere other than a bed in a quiet, dark, cool room. Mrs. DC nodded off across the aisle from me.

I sat and watched the world whizz past. About an hour went by and I think to myself, "I'll need the toilet soon." I'm not worried, as I have a sstrong bladder. Thirty more dull moments pass and I am begining to worry, as the journey back is taking considerably longer than the outbound. My bladder is begining to swell.

Another fifteen minuted have passed and the pain is increasing. My bladder is doing battle with my waistband, and winning. At this point, victory for the wasteband would spell trouble for the gusset. Now my back is hurting and I am recalling the episode of the simpsons where Grandads kidneys explode. It definitley feels like the system is backing-up and my kidneys are being pressed into service as auxhiliary bladders. They don't like it.

There is nothing for it. Mrs. DC was sent to ask the driver to pull over. "Anywhere," I gasped, "I don't care if anyone can see. Outside the copshop is also ok. Anywhere, d'ye hear me?" Off she toddled, back she toddled. No joy - the road was no stopping on pain of instant fine. There were cameras and there was nothing he could do.

I was faced with three choices; floor, pants or empty beer can. This is not how I reasoned it at the time but for those of you who have not been in this position, here it is.

Floor - Smell, sound and a huge river of piss running the length of the bus might give me away, though the chances of brazening it out and blaming it on the child two seats down did exist.

Pants - Sound would be no problem but getting from bus to hotel room would be a living nightmare. Also, in the volumes we are talking this one would have encompassed option #1 anyway but without the safety net of the child two rows down.

Can - Noise would definitely be a factor here and the chances of actually being seen in flagranto were high. Also, the volume of the can was a fraction, a small fraction, of the amount I was carrying.

In the end I plumped for the can. Just getting into the firing position was hard enough. I was wearing about five layers. I made a mental note to get back into shape as I wrestled with five pieces of elastic. The mountain came to Mohammed. Mrs. DC had finally worked out what I was doing was visibly dithering.

I got off to a slow start. It was as loud as, well, er, someone pissing into an empty can on a bus full of sleeping people stopped at the lights. I had a stroke of genius. While the bottom part of my body was relieving itself, the top half was nonchalantly looking out of the window. "What noise, officer?"

It was at this critical moment that Mrs. DC decided what she could best do to help. Those people who were awake and hadn't sussed out what was going on, well, no way were they going to avoid noticing with Mrs. DC holding her coat up across the aisle as a screen. Telling her to fuck off would have only attracted more attention, so I put up with it.

I had three-quarters filled the can before he pain began to subside, though it would be another fifteen minutes before the kidneys stopped hurting. And believe me they were hurting. They hurt more than my broken arm, more than my broken toe, more than the nail through my foot, more than the three nails in my leg. I decided to draw things to a close before I ran out of can. This is a difficult thing for guys to do, by the way girls.

Just as I thought the ordeal was over, the bus pulls over at a convenience store. The driver woke everyone up to announce that I was getting off to go to the toilet, just in case they didn't know who had been making all the splashing/tinkling noises before. Head held high, I marched to the front of the bus, into the convenie back up the bus with my head high. The effect was slightly dampened by me catching my boot on a seat.

At the hotel I smuggled my can off and thanked the driver as he handed out the equipment. That evening we had seafood.

6.1.06

OK THEN, WHOSE HOBBY IS THIS?

So you start off knowing next to nothing about it. The first time you see it is on TV but you can't really see how it relates to you. It looks kind of cold.

You get into it through a friend. You either ask them or they ask you. Usually they show you the ropes and ease you into the affaire. Beginners are usually hesitant and make lots of mistakes but more than not end up liking the process.

As you get into it you might buy equipment and clothing. You might arange parties for like minded people and spend increasing amounts of money on your hobby. You will be able to spot others who share your interest by the cut of their jib.

If you go further people will start to tell you that you think about your hobby too much, that other aspects of your life are suffering as a result. You will sometimes sustain strange injuries and strains that you will find hard to explain to your family. You will find yourself learning new variations of the English language.

If you go any further than this then you will find yourself swerving away from mainstram life. As you get older your existence will start to lose meaning as you loose the ability do your hobby. You will talk about your hobby in the fast tense and younger people now doing said hobby will be embarrassed when you do.

You will die, and no-one will mention your hobby, as it will not be thought quite right for a church funeral.

|:neutralising the pH level:|