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Wednesday, August 31, 2005

Blurfing (n. The activity of casually blogging while being paid to work – from Slurfing)

Blogger for Word, eh! How ace is that at work? Ideal for blurfing. Theoretically I could blog as much as Rich (not gonna happen I’m too lazy), and it just looks like I’m working. Genius. Talking of work, I’m reminded that at some point during the weekend’s epic Ashes action Andrew Flintoff’s batting average overtook his bowling average, the mark of a truly fine all-rounder. Well at work, Shaz is leaving at the end of this week, she’s been like a beacon of fun and friendship in a dull fog of boredom and characterless accountant-types (it also helps that she’s easy on the eye too). With this departure I reckon people at work that actually possess personalities will be outnumbered by the nobs, dullards and suits. What a shitter.

Tomorrow looks a good night to watch canines teararse around a track for the enjoyment and financial advantages of people. Yes sirree I’m going to the dogtrack at Wolverhampton to express my superiority of four-legged types. Last time I had a great time, got shit-faced and was only out of pocket by the tune of a few quid.

As for shit-faced I was truly spannered on Friday, giggling, falling over, buying pizzas when I wasn’t hungry, falling asleep fully clothed with my head on my laptop keyboard kind of drunk. I’m a fucking legend trolleyed, I really am. It was Rich’s fault (he always seems to blame someone, and he’s a professional drunk). Merk was poorly, so without waiting for him to have a cack etc, I was in the pub by 7pm. Late licence because of bank holiday later, and I’m three sheets to the wind (or as the infamous Russian phrase has it,‘this pisshead capitalist pigdog has drunk 11 Baltikas, Twatski’). Quiz on Sunday isn’t really worth mentioning, we finished a mid-table (sort of Fulham mid-table not Charlton mid-table), exept for Rich’s suspected eye-liner, Rich’s definite moustache, and Fulla’s cavalier work-in-progress goatee. Oh and Mrs Austin’s husband had a nice shirt on.

Away to Aberystywth on Monday, wooooo! Cheap hostel/guest house is booked for four nights (Mon – Thu), but if I’m chilling to the max – or summat – I’m going to stay the Friday and Saturday too. At £17 a night, it shouldn’t break the bank. Merk’s coming with me for the Monday and Tuesday, so that will be bevvy-time followed by a couple of days chilling out, promenading along the seafront checking out jogging girls, reading a few books and job-hunting (sssh I’m at work). Really looking forward to unwinding. If I can borrow a camera I’ll post some photos of me being laid back on Flickr.

Stav.

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Saturday, August 27, 2005

Mobile phones are cack

Inspired by the comments from this post on Merk's site.






Stav.

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Thursday, August 18, 2005

Help The Aged

Rooster!!!I'm not at all happy with all this Britpop being 10 years old shite (here, here and here). It's not because I reckon Britpop really got going with Parklife and Definitely Maybe, both released in 1994, or because it was a pretty crap label for a handful of disparate bands. No, it's because it makes me feel so god damn old. Shit label or not, I was well into it, Blur t-shirt, Supergrass poster, Oxford red DMs, fringe, Menswear gatefold debut vinyl, crush on Justine from Elastica, subscription to Select magazine, NME every Wednesday morning. It converted me from the 'weird kid in the corner with shit hair who listened to gay music', to the 'weird kid in the corner with Jarvis Cocker hair let's see if he'll copy us his Gene CD'. I used to tape the Evening Session off the radio every night, and every fortnight or so I'd compile all the best bits onto a C90 and flog them around school. That kept me in sausage rolls, bets and Shed Seven 7"s for a couple of years. I felt a bit lost musically when moving to Uni coincided with the death of Britpop (arguable but I reckon around the time of Princess Di's death and The Verve's Urban Hymns). I wonder what Echobelly are up to now.

Another fantastic Test match up at Manchester. I was watching it along with nearly half the TV watching public on Monday evening, another dramatic climax. As I was chewing on my nails praying for that last wicket, I almost got nostalgic for the days when following the Ashes was a damn sight easier on the nerves, the only puzzle being when on day three would England collapse and end up losing by 8 wickets or 200-odd runs. Apparently cricket shirts have been outselling football ones three to one just lately (I hope they aren't all the Henmaniacs of two months ago jumping another bandwagon - where are all the rugby fans of a couple of years ago?). Looking forward to Trent Bridge though now.

I didn't make it to Rich's barbeque on Saturday, but me, our kid and Scottish Dougie did pop round after closing time to help him clear up those full beer bottles. It was about three when we staggered away. Cheers Rich.

Stav.

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Monday, August 08, 2005

Bell and Bails

Firstly Sunday morning. The cricket - Wow! Can't say I particularly enjoyed it, not till the last wicket anyway. The newspapers are more full of cricket than I can ever remember, which I think is great for the game. The country has a new sporting hero too, I think Freddy Flintoff has just etched his name onto Sport Personality of the Year, and unlike many past winners he actually seems to own a personality. Without the uninteresting do-gooder aloofness of Wilkinson, or the quasi-regal attention-seeking of Beckham, this guy actually seems the likely-lad hero British sport often craves. Think Gazza until the legend (and the waisteline) outgrew the talent. But mainly think of Ian Botham (the pundits certainly have been this morning). I don't want to be a killjoy, but England made a pig's ear of Sunday morning, and the Australian tail-enders should never have got half as many runs as they did. Fair dinkum to Brett Lee, I don't approve of his wicket-taking celebration and I think his head is too narrow, but he batted bravely yesterday. He got mullered by Harmison and Freddy's 90mph chin music. Don Bradman once explained to Richie Benaud when the latter had captained Australia to the first ever tied Test from the jaws of victory, that the dramatic occasion had transcended the importance of a result, it would recapture the imagination. I have a hunch that this last Test may provide a similar legacy. Cheers Fred.

Preceding the bat and balls, were booze and bellylaughs on Saturday night. Merk has written a concise account of the evening, and I'm very pleased because I'm afraid my memory isn't quite as sharp, especially after my covert wine-sweeping operation. I do remember I had a good time, and laughed in all the right places to the best men's speech. I also remember trying to do karaoke, Steelers Wheel - more like We'll er... Squeal. The venue was tops, the grub was posh, the wine was good, but I did think the DJ was a bit average really. Even for a mobile DJ. I just don't think he got the most out of a boozy and happy crowd to be honest. By that I probably mean he didn't play any of my party signature tunes (Dexy's, Happy Mondays, New Order, [ahem] YMCA). Super night, well done to the families of Austin and Emma.

Got to go, the Mighty Boosh is on. Ta-ra.

Stav.

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