A couple of days ago, a couple from Cambridgeshire awoke one morning to discover that they had £101 million to their names. They achieved this feat by purchasing a ticket for the lott-tree and are now discussing what shade of Ostrich-hide to go in the private jet, I assume. I bet that every single one of you reading this did exactly what I did when I heard about this: planned exactly what you'd spend the money on if you were the lucky buyers of that lott-tree ticket. I don't even know what I would do with that kind of money, it's something like £300,000 a MONTH (that's after tax) if put away properly! What do you spend £300,000 a month on? No doubt I'll figure a way eventually, but the first few months would consist of me being an idiot with the money, I suspect. What I wouldn't do, however, is announce in the Mirror that I am making 20 of my friends millionaires. The only sentence I can imagine are more regretful is Gerald Ratner's "it's all crap".
Tomorrow morning, roughly around 5am, you'll find me sitting in my car, making my merry way to Berkshire. When I get there, I plan to abandon my car in a field somewhere only to proceed on foot to a river. This won't be the most fun thing I'll do all day, considering that I'll be carrying four days' worth of clothes/food/tent/spare socks with me. After I've crossed the barren wilderness of middle England, I'll take the expedition across the river that's, oooh, about 10 feet across. Following that, I expect to make the arduous trek across yet more fields to find yet another field. At this point, having not given up and tried to find somewhere with plug sockets and a roof, I will spend what will feel like millions of years building a tent; which must be the hardest thing to build at 8am after exploring the desolate land west of London since the Pyramids! Then, I plan to live in this construction without the aid of such necessities as Broadband or Chewits or fridge-freezers for four whole days while I listen to a lot of well-paid people have a sing-song. Then I go home.
Yes, I am going to the Reading Festival!
I want to start today by telling you about this guy I know. He grew up in one of the poorest areas in Scotland. School clothes were always hand-me-downs, which doesn't always do wonders for someone's self esteem. He didn't get his first bike until age 12, after saving up months of paper-round money as his family simply didn't have the money. TV was simply this pretty box that other people had, a telephone was that thing that you walked down the street to get to, and you gave it 20p to ring your date on. It's something that's somewhat hard to imagine, but those are just the luxuries in life! The idea of the toilet being in the garden as a glorified hole in the ground today would be unimaginable anywhere, but that was the norm for our man. When he had his weekly bath, he didn't pull out the plug, he simply tipped the water out and hung it up in the shed. This wasn't even in between working in the cotton factories in the 1800's, this was the 1970's! So what's he up to today?
Today's blog comes to you from only one hand, because I accidentally ran full pelt into a gate last night. Ouch!
Anywhoo, I'd like to discuss a flat with you all. This flat is in the lovely (hmm...) town of Sandy, Bedfordshire. A nice two-bedroom number on the top floor near to local amenities etc. Mrs Max and I were looking to buy this little place a while ago as our first home. We were as excited as, well, two people buying their first home would be. Well... excited wasn't really the word by the end of it, as it was such a pain in the proverbial to try and sort it that it felt like kicking the business end of a meat-grinder would have been mildly more enjoyable. The guy who owned the flat seemed to disappear from the face of the earth after accepting our offer, meaning that we got bored with waiting. Then we found out that the ceiling in one of the rooms was, and I quote from the survey, "about to fall down" and they couldn't explain why the last guy had put new wall coverings in the living room. Not to worry, there was another place on the ground floor that was exactly the same, so we tried to get that one. No joy, he wanted full price (despite it being so damp you could call it a water feature and so much mould it was practically a pet) and then decided to rent it out at the last minute. By this point, we were so sick of the whole shooting-match that we gave up and rented.
This morning, I noticed something interesting: while driving in to the office: I realised just how many labels, signs and the like are in my car. Honestly, it's like a small novel in there! There's one on the tax disc holder telling me that I can't smoke in there, because it's a company car, and if I do then the boss will come down and beat me up. There's one on the fuel cap telling me that it's definitely a diesel and if I so happen to put any unleaded into the tank, the economy will crash and babies up north will go without hugs. I'm also instructed to "thoroughly" read the manual before driving it, because I apparently need to know what a car is before I use one, and another electronic notice that tells me whenever it's 3 degrees C outside. This last one might seem sensible, but in early winter when the temperature hovers between 3C and 4C, the beep it makes every few seconds is enough to make you consider a bus as "an option" and not just "smelly". After reading, there's almost no time for driving!
The other day someone telephoned me to ask me a question about manners and customs. I know I know, I'm sure it happens to you guys all the time, right? Anywhoo, I'm asked about what can only be abbreviated to "takeaway etiquette", and the premise is this: this person had invited a friend round for a delivery from the Maharajah House, and she had sent him an email before-hand to remind the friend to bring the cash as apparently they've got a bit of a rep for forgetting their pennies when they go scoff a korma. What followed was a phone call from the friend to say how "disappointed" he was that he'd been asked to pay. He'd got it into his head that if you invite someone round for a takeaway, that the host is obliged to pay. This wasn't even a case of "I thought that the host paid", it was a definite "No! You're wrong".
The UK has so many laws on its books, that it does make good reading. This is because with more than 1,200 years of history behind us, we've had a few stragglers on the books and not enough spare time to go through them and say "do you know what, I don't think we need to continue outlawing Christmas Pudding on Christmas". However it does lead to some fun reading. Just found out that you have the Plague, and want to grab a taxi to go to the hospital? Well think again, Mr Sneezy. It's incredibly illegal to hail a cab in London with the illness. I know, right! Ever recorded something off the telly and watched it more than once? Well, for that second recorded viewing of Countryfile or My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding, you need to obtain (and I quote) "explicit written permission" from both the broadcaster and from the production company.
Have you ever daydreamed about how truly fantastic it would be if you could fly? I have! I mean, that horrid morning commute would be replaced with a speedy flight with a fantastic view. No longer will I deal with the frustration of Mr Bad-driver, who thinks that obeying rules of the road is just something that happens to everyone else. Instead, the only frustration you'd have is the occasional greenfly in the face. DIY would be a doddle. A stair lift in my old age? No need, thanks. The opportunities for a spectacular practical joke multiply ten-fold! Anyone else think about this? Just me? Ok then.
Here's something that makes me go all weird for a few minutes if I think about it: the Earth's crust is only 70km thick at it's largest point, and something like 5-10km thick at the lowest points of the ocean bed. below that is 2,200km of mantle. Have you ever seen lava flow from a volcano? That stuff is magma. This swirls round at stupidly hot temperatures at very high pressure, and moves the earths crust around. Want to know what causes things like earthquakes and grounds your flight to Iceland? That'll be the mantle. below that is the core. This is mostly iron and is more dense than your average Big Brother contestant. it's constant moving causes the magnetic field that helps you find your way. It is unimaginably hot, and the whole shebang goes down a total of 6,500km, which is about the distance from England to Uganda. Wowzers!
Now, look at the ground. All that is going on right under your feet, right now!
Having referred to a handy collection of the millions of fashion websites, I now know that this summer, we need to be wearing 70's chic, "biker" gear, punk fashion and 60's ladylike in order to be wearing "this season's look". Not at the same time I assume, mostly because you'd look like you'd just stepped out of a panto having been dressed by Stevie Wonder. However, thank God we have these websites, eh? Otherwise, how else would we know what to wear? That's one less worry! However, come Winter, I think I'm going to make my own fashion website and decide what the "trend" is. I'm absolutely certain that it'll be a massive hit, and I'll revel in having made everyone walk around wearing, I don't know, bin liners on their arms. Seriously, who comes up with these fashion trends? Is it one person telling everyone what to wear ahead of time, or does someone see that a lot of people are wearing frilly tops and declare that to be a "look"?
Sometimes, I've often looked at a mushroom and thought a little too hard about how it came to be sitting on my chopping board. For the moment, we'll overlook why I'd bother thinking about mushrooms instead of simply eating them. What I mean by this, is that they must have been cut by someone from wherever mushrooms grow, and then packaged. It's this person whom I think about. I mean, most people will tell you (while they're still young enough not to be dragged into that realm of scepticism and mis-trust that we call "being grown up") they want to be a fireman/doctor/lawyer/policeman. One of my friends actually wanted to be a bus. No, not a bus driver, or anyone who works on or in a bus. I mean, she wanted to actually be a bus. I know, right? Anyway, that aside, the person who cut my mushroom must've had these dreams about what they'll do as a dream job when they were younger. And now they're cutting mushrooms. What happened to the dream?
There's one thing about speaking English that I enjoy; everyone else in the world appears to speak it. It takes the whole "language barrier" thing away for the majority of the time. This was discovered by a friend of mine on a trip to The Netherlands last year when, in the belief that they spoke as little English as we do Dutch, she shouted "tits" across the train, much to the rapturous amusement of a German business-boy opposite me. Even if you're from, say, Norway and you're speaking to someone from France, you might not speak each others' language, so you'll both speak in English. Bonus! Now, this doesn't mean I'll do the standard thing while abroad of speaking LOUDLY... AND... SLOWLY while asking for TWO... BEERS... PLEASE because I can't be bothered to learn the local lingo.
I bet you were all as truly amazed as I was at 6:01pm last Saturday, when we all were still alive! Amazingly, despite repeated promises, we were not raptured. Well, I say "amazed", I actually mean you were probably doing exactly what I was doing: something else entirely that was infinitely more interesting, and only noticed the time had passed rapture-o'clock a few hours later. Professional doom-monger Harold Camping had told everyone that, after spending possibly minutes analysing Bible passages, that the rapture was coming on the 21st May at 6pm. Now, despite the fact that I've read War & Peace more times than I've read the Bible, I suspect that Mr Camping didn't put a huge amount of effort into his "analysing", because even I know that there's a passage that specifically states that no-one knows when the rapture is, not even Jesus. But, apparently, a televangelist knows. And I bet that it had nothing to do with promoting his radio station.... whatsoever. Nevertheless, he's decided that he missed a small chunk now (not the aforementioned important clause, however) and it's now been moved back to the 21st October. Of course it has, Harry, course it has.
Did you know, that our sewers need cleaning out regularly? No, I didn't know that either (because I don't have a dirty mind, boom boom) but apparently so, and it can't be done with a little robot either. No, they have to send someone down to do it, and this leads me on to a very important question: How did that guy get that job? I mean, I'm not going to knock someone who does it, because I wouldn't do it and it therefore makes him or her far braver than me, but it's not exactly a regular response to the standard "what do you want to be when you grow up" question, is it? So how does this person end up doing it? You've got to be seriously dedicated to do it, or took the phrase "I'll take anything going" a little too literally. Can you imagine the sudden fear on their faces when, at a party, someone asks "so, what do you do?". How do you explain that one?
I do love mornings! Not the "getting-up" part, or the "few-grumpy-minutes-before-the-kettle-boils" part obviously, but after then, when I'm wide awake and can find the mental capacity to laugh at everything and everyone. I try not to get annoyed in the morning, especially if I have to commute somewhere. This is for a very good reason, you see. I see every morning the same people getting very and hilariously wound up behind the wheel of their car in the jams. I can even see them shouting abuse at everything before them, which simply means I can insert my own amusing commentary to what they're saying, or give these complete strangers, who I see all the time, their own nicknames. Hey, some of those traffic jams are pretty long, I'll have you know! Anyway, I am always cheery on a long morning drive for a very good reason. I call them "They".
So, here we are, a week before Christmas, and I'm attempting to sort out the "visits" to the family. Ooh, it's a right ol' pain. I've got to see so-and-so on this day, but this-person isn't available until then so I'll have to go and see that-person instead and work my way around, but I can fit relatives X, Y and Z in all on one day. Arg! I'm slowly shifting towards the idea of posting them all a photo of me, and saying "that's good enough", you know, what most people say when the pick up a present for someone when Christmas shopping?
No, honestly, I do love going to see people over Christmas, it's just so much fuss organising it, especially when there's so much other stuff to do: I've got to finish my Christmas shopping in person as Amazon apparently don't sell everything, I've got to build a wardrobe and an office desk, I have some more work to do (I know, I know), I have four hundred and eleventy ten Christmas cards to write, I have to arrange for my car to be fixed as some w~?#{r reversed into it a while ago, and only a week to do it in. And it's now started snowing.
People will believe anything these days. Did you know, for example, that you eat an average of eight spiders a year while asleep, as you sleep with your mouth open and some arachnids, desperate for an entry in the spider's version of "Explorer", wiggle their way down your gullet? I'm willing to bet you already know this fact. However, the best thing about this fact is not the fact that you're inadvertently consuming Charlotte while you drool over your pillow, but that it is complete nonsense.
Pinch punch first of the month!
It's December, people! No doubt all of you have fallen into that mental advent-calender mode of repeating to everyone how many days until your living room becomes strewn with wrapping paper and you can add a singing tie and "festive" pants to your already ample collection. More importantly, you've probably been counting the days until work breaks up for Christmas. Go on, admit it, you've also worked out the hours, and the minutes, and the seconds, haven't you.
Good lord, it's November! When did that happen?
Does anyone else get that feeling that the year has crept past them while they weren't looking? I sure do, especially as everyone seems to enjoy saying "xx days until Christmas". Then again, I find myself saying "where did the year go?" every year, so I shouldn't be surprised, but still, one minute I'm basking in the beautiful summer sun and the next, it's that time of year when the fireworks sold for the 5th November are set off. Over a two week period, for no particular reason. at 2am every morning.
 |  |  |  |
Back to TOP
