darkship

This extended week off has been a frustrating one, what with the chicken coop no nearer completion due to Ian being poorly, house showrounds not going ahead due to my time and/or the potential room-mates getting wasted, bondage workshops (?!) at Warwick Uni booking a smaller room than needed and thus our admission was refused*, and so on and so forth. Nobody's fault, of course, just one of those things- and as I had more holiday time than I knew what to do with, I would have ended up squandering anyway.

Still, in this week off I have thus far:

( What I Did On My Holidays By Joe Wilson Aged 27 )

Anyway LJ I have some doubts over what to do looks-wise- that is, should I keep the beard or not? Here's the three options.

( No beard )

( Current option )

( Grow )

VIEWS YOU GUYZ?

This week, seeing Kris Mitchell tomorrow, hoorah; working 12pm-9pm for the rest of the week, thanks work; and more important than any of this bollocks, YOUTH FIGHT FOR JOBS on Saturday, which is the biggest national march the movement's done, I think, and of course you can read about it here and note without much surprise that Kyly's photographed on the main page again! (that's not me in the background of that picture, incidentally, in the unlikely event that you were wondering)

*- originally I griped about most of the audience clearly being there for lolz until I realised that this was mostly the same reason that I'd gone in the first place.

So recently I applied for a showround for a flat on Gumtree (don't search for it, the advert's not there anymore, for reasons that will soon become clear). Here's the image that was attached to this advert:



I emailed saying that I was interested in the property, could I have a look round, etc etc. I gave no indication that I was ready to sign a contract or that I had a certain timeframe in mind. Surely this place was perfect, I thought? Let's find out, with the response I got.

( I don't see anything wrong with this, do you? )

"Mr/Mrs" Roberts also sent three more pictures with the email. Here's one:



Surprisingly, I wasn't convinced, and sent the following reply:

( Does a message send a message? )

Not learning, s/he rose to it! Here's the next response from the sexually-ambiguous scamstrel. I'm posting their email address on this one, because who cares, it's not as if this is a legitimate businessperson anyway:

( What I mean is, of course this is a legitimate businessperson and I'm the naive timewaster here. )

Cheeky motherfucker. So of course, I rose to it:

( As follows... )

Strangely, he hasn't been back.

I know I never post here anymore, but I will return- coming up, I'm going to do the FIFTY ALBUMS OF THE DECADE. Get hot for it.

Between next week's jaunt to the Glastonbury festival, July 4 seeing my return to being just another worker after nine months as a manager (seconded position, which means they're well within their rights- but still, what a pisser) and our plans, still hazy, to go travelling in 2011, things have taken on a curiously pointless, time-killing air this week. I'm hoping that this is just a combination of pre-Glasto gloom and anticipation for same + an air of malaise relating to my current employment, but I can feel myself withdrawing into myself to the point where I'd be pretty much happy eating muffins and reading abandonedplaces and listening to the Airborne Toxic Event all day in lieu of going anywhere or doing anything that actually achieves anything, save for the occasional bit of housework.

Luckily Kyly has no such truck with this sort of nonsense and as such I've been out semi-often of late to the houses of friends and the allotment space that Emily H has granted us (an allotment of an allotment?) and to Socialist Party meetings (when I'm able to and am sufficiently inclined) and thus we see one of the infinite reasons why Kyly is important to me- and she doesn't even realise she's doing it.

And though minor, it does make me feel good when I've trimmed the Audrey II-esque hedge outside our front door or evicted squatting grass and weeds from a patch of land where seeds of tomato and herbs are eager to commence their tenancy: because it's practical and visible and it matters more than a colourful spreadsheet or whether or not I've seen any Misawa matches or anything.

Of course if my lingering gloom is more than just frustrated anticipation, then who knows what it is?

Anyway, that's enough navel-gazing bullshit, I have a job to go to.

Finally the tyranny of the indoor cat is over! After ten days of having to stay in modelling one of the spring's most fashionable surgical cones, ten days of yowling every ten seconds morning, noon and night, Cabaret was finally released from his stitches this morning, meaning no more cone and no more staying indoors. Of course, he sauntered out with the nonchalance of "well, I didn't really want to go out anyway, but if you insist".

While I obviously appreciate that many people have it a million times worse than me, Cabby having to stay indoors was proving distressing to my state of mind. As much as I like my job, it does involve me being pulled in four different directions in a noisy environment, so coming home and having to listen to repeated protestations to go out was annoying; having to listen to it throughout the night while I was trying to sleep worse still. This is to say nothing of the litter tray smell hanging over the house and the difficulty in airing the house sufficiently in a way which didn't involve the cat slithering out of the window or door; the mess that Cabby leaves around the house as a result of his cone accumulating and depositing junk (the jelly from his cat food, most notably); or Cabby insisting on our attention at the expense of whatever we were doing. Obviously it was no fun for Cabaret either, his cone proving a hindrance to all his favourite hiding places and preventing him from going outside brawling and sniffing things (and whatever else cats do outdoors)- and he couldn't understand why. Not even every variety of miaow in his vocabulary did anything. Still, he's free to come and go as he pleases now and hoorah for that.

This weekend, according to our calendar, there's some cello concert at the Holy Trinity Church. Tomorrow, providing that illness or injury doesn't negate it, we're going to be living our Saturday according to the dice, Luke Rheinhart style, only without the murder and rape. Who knows where this will lead us? Stay tuned to find out.

Some of last night- an adequate night in the company of work mates past and present in overcrowded dives too dreary to detail here- was spent with security guards and CV1 (Cov's secret police) desperate to talk to me, then immediately losing interest.

Seems that someone called Adrian had phoned the police, or someone had phoned concerning him, saying he was "going to do something stupid" and describing him with apparently only one detail: wearing a long coat. Cue what was presumably notification to every Godforesaken rathole in Coventry to keep their eyes out for trenchcoated mafioso. Damn you, Adrian!

Tonight it is Chelsea vs Coventry in the FA Cup which means that the entire city centre will be plagued by beer-addled louts (so what's the difference there). In view of this and with Kyly away in the deep South and a fair proportion of my mates up in the grim North I'm at a loss for how to pass tonight. Ah well, I'm sure I'll find something on which to waste my time, but if you're doing anything, holla.

You may or may not know that on January 2, I was beaten up. Nothing for you to worry about too much, all told: a couple of punches and shoves by a bunch of drunken scally kids. On February 16, walking home from work, I had eggs dropped on me by some other lowlives, who then had the temerity to shout "pussy!" as I failed to engage them in six-on-one combat. To be fair, the odds were slightly uneven: it would need to be at least nine-on-one for them to stand a chance, obv.

While I'm not taking either incident personally- more a case of wrong place, wrong time in the former and dimwitted kids dropping eggs for lolz in the same way that other kids drop bricks off bridges onto motorways in the latter, it has had the effect of souring me to Coventry, which had previously enjoyed eight years of being my favourite place. I can't walk past any large group of morons at the moment without noticing myself becoming tense, undoubtedly because of not just the vile events of the previous two months but also the high probability that some dweeb will make some cutting-edge remark of the "you're wearing a coat!" level. Obviously I shouldn't feel so anxious about all this, but hell, if I can't feel safe on the streets on which I walk, where's the fun in living here?

As Mark Steel would say, it's not just that, though, it's the city in general. You walk through the high street and there's Zavvi, Adams and a couple of others in close proximity, all closed, while Woolworths is just down the round. Coventry City Council's obsession with attracting high-street shops is clearly backfiring, although of course I realise that Zavvi and Woolworths are victims of the recession, albeit in an own-fault way (name anything you bought from Woolworths, for example). There aren't any indie shops worthy of your attention, being either half-arsed or a front for drug-dealing. You go out on a night aware that odds are that either (a) the night will be good, but the venue that it's held in will be a boiling hot shithole (the Phoenix, Taylor John's) or (b) the venue will be good, but nobody will turn up and the night will be shit. The local 'scene' seems to be- or at least, feels like- an endless repetition of the same old bands rotating in the same venues, while the big bands who I look forward to seeing in Coventry inexplicably cancel their gigs (CSS, Crystal Castles).

Most people I speak to seem to be in agreement that it's time to get out of Coventry, but two problems (and that's before we get to "can Cabaret handle moving?" and "what about your jobs?"): can we afford to move again, and where to go? Of the former, probably not for a while; of the latter, Manchester or Leeds seem to be the best bets. I realise that suggesting these particular cities after deriding Coventry for being so rough seems hypocritical, but at least something is happening in these cities, at least there's a choice of places to go to drink and dance, at least you can run two gigs on the same night and get more than 30 people through the door at both gigs, at least there's some half-decent shops. Oh, Coventry, you and I are so through.

In other news, my current musical obsessions are Of Montreal (still the novelty has not worn off) and Pixies. I can't believe I'm only now getting into the Pixies, I feel like I should hand back my Indie Cred card now. That said, I probably had that automatically revoked when I didn't get into The Strokes or The Libertines.

In other news, my team at work is doing well this month, bordering on, or getting, 100% on call quality. I'm proud of them although I'm not especially sure why: as patronising as it sounds, it must be that sorta parent/mentor kind of pride, since there's obvious improvement month-to-month. Another string to my bow this week, as I'm doing training at least one day for the brand new guys who are about to hit the floor. So, stuff's going alright there. At home, fun and games as the roof continues to leak, nothing having been done about it by our landlord yet. Bah.

Elsewhere, at least lots is happening to distract me: 'My Bloody Valentine' and 'The Wrestler' have both hit cinemas and, despite 'MBV' not being about the shoegaze band of the early 90s, it still has a man throwing an axe at the camera in 3D, so it sounds like good trashy fun. Tonight we're going to Circus of Horrors (in a show called 'Apocalypse at the Asylum') at the Belgrade, a theatre who seem to be booking exclusively for my benefit at the moment with Othello, Little Shop of Horrors and Thunderslam Wrestling all upcoming. Next week, a jaunt to Manchester to see Of Montreal with Anna and Ralph. The rest of 2009 will simply HAVE to be more boring to make up for all this expensive and exciting stuff happening so early on.

Well, here we are in 2009 and now that I finally have a computer that's back up and running, more or less, here's some of my favourite stuff from the previous year to get rid of first of all:

( Albums of 2008 )

( Songs of 2008 )

( Films of 2008 )

Coming up soon here- stuff about my life (ooh the excitement) and probably 'Cemetery Drive', since I couldn't get a clear answer out of you guys about what to do with it.

YES

You may or may not know that I've spent most of December embroiled in a battle with a story called 'Cemetery Drive' which I thought of as a short story until it reached the 10,000 word mark. At that point- and still only half-finished- I stopped thinking of it as a short story and now it resembles more of a novella at a whopping 25,000 words, which is by far the longest thing I've ever written, longer than my dissertation, longer than my previous epic 'The Mirrored Soul' and longer even than this sentence.

Anyway, here's the deal. The story is 23 parts long (the Illuminati number is a coincidence), which makes serialisation tricky. The choices are, then:

- Serialise it here anyway throughout January
- Send it to people who request it, possibly as a bonus on the Christmas CD we've also compiled* (in a blatant thieving of tonight_we_fly's idea) or via email.

Which would you prefer?

To whet your appetite, the story features a steampunk holiday group, dark arts in the Googleplex, a 20,000-seater stadium gig for an orchestra, things exploding, a shoot-out and the glorious return of one of my best-loved characters (well, best-loved for the four people who read my stuff, that is). If that doesn't sound awesome I don't know what does.


*- for those who want a CD, please pipe up now and send your address to us via shioricoybito@hotmail.co.uk or via Young Person's Facebook. Don't bother MySpacing it, neither of us have time for that.

Tech support time:

Any idea why my computer is now refusing to play any sound? I've tried Winamp and Media Player (so it's not the program). I've tried using both the soundcards we've got on the machine (so it's not the soundcard). I've tried both speakers and headphones (so it's not the speakers, although the connection from the speakers is a bit dodgy).

The prelude to all this was while recording on Adobe Audition I plugged a microphone in, which then screeched interminably. The computer then lapsed into silence. Weirdly, it came back to life for half of a track (Dizzee Rascal of all things, off Media Player), but has now decided to go mute again.

We're using SoundMAX and Creative SoundBlaster on Windows XP, if that helps at all.

Any answers would be gratefully appreciated. The obvious answer is "throw the computer in the bin" but hey, if YOU'VE got a spare £400 in these sparse economic times, more power to you.

Hull, July. Gulls sung, sun full. Dump chumps hunt fun.

Bunny Duff grunts, shuns such bull, hunts dusty, dull pubs. Bunny must bluntly dump smutty puns. Scummy drunks lust dumbly, study Bunny's full bust; Bunny turns numb. Truly cunts, but Bunny must buy stuff: Mum's truck, bus funds, lunch, crunchy nuts, tuck- funds, funds, funds. Bunny's funny, Bunny's fun, Bunny's sultry- pulls such bums, murky pubs full, but Bunny Duff, cult? Truthfully, Bunny's unlucky, unduly unsung. Funky clubs, busy but humdrum, unfunny, curtly shun Bunny.

Bunny struts gruffly, sulks. Surplus puns: skull full, lungs burst. Schmucks fuck up- funds slump, pubs shut. Humdrum, funky club skunks smug: "Dumb putz". Bunny shrugs glumly, sulks, struts gruffly. Ducks lusty numbskulls, surly curs, druggy runts. Thrush, fungus, rust. Glum, mucky tumult. Murky slums. Stuff stunk. Thus Bunny's rut. Stuck. Unjust, unjust.

( WTF was that? )

So, our weekend in Swansea doing LGBT conference stuff and getting trashed in dubious rock nightclubs and dockland pubs was hardly the most romantic way to spend our anniversary weekend. Still, it involved exploring new places, drinking and dancing and doing political-type stuff, so in a way it did represent how we pass our days of wedded bliss, except with no cat, collaging or wrestling. I expect Kyly will bring the 10,000 word epic on Swansea, but here's a taster of some stuff we did:

( Friday: 'offering the prospect of burns AND salmonella if you're too drunk or dense to work out what you're doing.' )

( Saturday: 'we offered chips to the homeless (their actual homelessness status may vary)' )

( Sunday: 'I'm looking for waffles that I've been told are sold somewhere in Wales, do you know where?' )

Photos of this madness will no doubt follow from Kyly. It's our actual anniversary on November 19th and it seems that it's our Leather Anniversary (no, srsly) if you fancy buying us stuff of that nature.

*- I'm willing to believe that this may be some sort of Shakira-ish "only being hot when moving" or that the photos are unflattering, though, and that the girls are in fact the zenith of female hotness (hot-itude?)

( United States of America )

( Congo )

Over here, neither gigs nor wrestling nor even parties entirely lived up to expectations of late. Coventry, you are so lame of late.

( Leicester Pro Wrestling, October 17 2008, Tile Hill Social Club, Coventry. The horror, the horror. )


Some better wrestling here, from Dramatic Dream Team, in the form of Zhao Yun Zilong vs. "Invisible Chinese" Misutero:



Meanwhile, WWE promo standards are getting better:



EDIT: Gasp, a response from Ronin. Spelling and grammar are tidied up here and there.

( Not even Ronin thought this show was good- and here's why. )

This windswept precinct, this closed-down ruin, this hymn to wasted potential. This is where I belong, where I have lived for untold years and where I have come to do a deed that I would have liked to avoid, that I would avoid if I could help it. There is no respite though, no alternative: it must be done.

Heading towards the centre of the town, coat wrapped around me, I'm suddenly self-conscious, believing that all eyes are on me, examining my soul, knowing exactly what I've come here to do. The thought crosses my mind: what if I've wasted my time and the opportunity has passed me by? But there's no chance of that, the dealer is always there, always waiting.

The streets are dark now. I affect nonchalance, suddenly cautious, milling about as if disinterested, but I know that this is merely killing time. Eventually the deed must be done, the purchase made.

During the exchange I speak little. I'm tempted to say "But this isn't for me, it's for someone else!". However true this may be, it seems like a feeble excuse. I stay quiet, scanning the area for anyone I might know who would witness me carrying out this treacherous act. I leave rapidly, concealing the goods under my jacket, and make my retreat home.

( ??? )

( Bla bla bla about work )

Here's some things I've been enjoying of late outside of work:

Tenchi Muyo: Ryo-Oki!. 1980s anime about a seemingly ordinary teenager who, through a series of contrivances, finds himself lumbered with three alien babes and a cat/rabbit mutant who can turn into a spaceship. I think most people who've seen a lot of anime have seen at least one version of the Tenchi story and anyone familiar with the style will know whether they love or hate the hyperactivity of this form of animation, so there's probably no need to elaborate further. But hey, one of the characters is a space pirate demon, and what's not to like about that?

'Sexing The Cherry' by Jeanette Winterson. This is an example of a book I picked up just because it happened to be around, and turned out to be fantastic. A similar thing happened with 'A Confederacy of Dunces' and it's often more rewarding to go into a book with no expectations and to be pleasantly surprised. Anyway, in this book, from the apparently fruit-fond 'Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit' author, a man's travels take him to a house with no floors, a ghostly tower and a dozen flying princesses while his adoptive mother deals with plague, civil war and her giant size. In between all of these unlikely episodes, the book mediates on the fleeting nature of time and space, meaning it swings between the fantastical and the mind-blowing. Awesome.

'Third' by Portishead. Hey, a new Portishead album, in the same year My Bloody Valentine tour and Guns n Roses albums are available for pre-order. Obviously I don't need to worry about 2009, as the world is obviously ending. Last time out, Portishead brought in the orchestra and ancient gramophone samples; this time, it's analogue synths, tumbling percussion and cellos. The album's most disconcerting one-two is the industrial rumblings of 'We Carry On' followed by 'Deep Water', a ukelele ballad which could have been recorded a hundred years ago. It's not the easiest album to get into, and the only constant is Beth's voice, but repeated listenings bear rewards to the listener. Brilliant, but let's not have to wait eleven years for the next one, eh?

In other news, anyone game for wrestling in the form of LPW in Tile Hill tomorrow?

A casual stroll through my LJ suggests that this would be my 42nd entry of 2008. It's still semi-prolific: it's one entry every week or something like that, yet there's very little information on anything that's happened in my life. Sure, there's a sweeping overview, Wikipedia-style (I lost one job, got another, finished up Coybito) but nothing about the miniutae of my life which was covered extensively in, say, 2004 or 2005, where I posted on a virtually daily basis.

Likely, this is because I don't consider my life interesting enough to detail for anyone at the moment, or that my writing style can't report my life with the dazzling wit and verve that it truly deserves. Nonetheless, some sort of effort must be made to chronicle my life so that in five years time, when I have forgotten everything I have ever done and in what order it happened, I can look back on this and dimly remember.

( This took more effort to write than it would seem. )

That's right, arguing with customers, although to be fair, it was the customer's fault for calling me a "stupid idiot". Six (!) of the guy's calls had to be ended due to his manner within 60 minutes- I ended two of them.

I just don't get why people choose to spent an hour of their time repeatedly calling the same number with the apparent sole intent of abusing the people who answer the phone. Maybe it's just me.

Other than that, my day was pretty damn skippy but of course I can give away no details on this public entry due to the strict regulations imposed by my mysterious employers about yapping about stuff online. No Kyly until tomorrow sucks though- how will LiveJournal cope?