Omegle.com

Connecting to server...
You're now chatting with a random stranger. Say hi!
You: Hi citizen
Stranger: hi
You: Papers please
Stranger: passport please
You: Snap
You: Do you own a dog?
Stranger: can you read it out for me?
Stranger: no, no dogs
Stranger: no pets
You: No animals of any kind?
Stranger: none
You: Prove it
Stranger: my web cam is not working at the moment
You: I'm sure I can smell dog
You: Is that not dog hair on the couch?
Stranger: your sense of smell is screwed up
Stranger: you can't see very well -- it is night here
You: It definitely has the odour of wet dog around here
You: Maybe you have a dog but you just forgot?
Stranger: now you know why i don't have a dog
You: I'm starting to become more convinced by these denials that you own at least one dog
Stranger: heck, my last 3 girlfriends broke up with me b/c i did not want babies b/c i did not want to deal with baby shit
You: You're protesting too much
Stranger: why the hell would i deal with dog shit and dog urine?
Stranger: that's b/c you are such a pin head interrogator
You: What sort of dog is it? A great dane, jack russell, just tell me
You: You can confide in me
You: What do you feed it on?
Stranger: i live in a glass house
Stranger: nothing to confide
Stranger: even your very insinuation bothers me
You: Can we just pretend that you have a dog? To help the conversation along?
Stranger: no
Stranger: i am sorry
You: Come on
Stranger: i live in korea
You: Ok
Stranger: we are civilized here
Stranger: unlke the rest of the world which gives dogs a very high status
You: I refuse to be drawn into any obvious canine meat conversations
Stranger: why?
Stranger: what did you have for your last dinner?
You: Pizza with kebab meat. Say you had a tricycle/rickshaw
You: A tricycle rickshaw pulled by dogs
You: That would be so cool!
You: I will supply this to you
Stranger: i guess your kebab was goat
You: If you did have a dog what would you call it?
Stranger: you mean for dinner?
You: No! As a pet
Stranger: to me all animals are same
You: Let's get you an imaginary dog called Joe Brolly
Stranger: i refuse to practice racism with dogs/cows/goats etc
Stranger: they are all equal
Stranger: i eat chicken twice a year then i have to eat twice a year
Stranger: ..dog
You: I have a league table 1.) Tiger 2.) Snake 3.) Dog etc
You: Do the dogs that get eaten have names?
Stranger: great, now you are getting it
Stranger: why not?
You: I don't want to eat anything that has a name
Stranger: see -- you should widen your horizons there
Stranger: like your kebab pizza
Stranger: pizza from italy
You: I just want to warn you that if you ask me anything about the Osmonds in this chat window I am disconnecting
Stranger: kebab from morcco
You: Also, birthdays and Christmas are not topics for conversation
Stranger: you are too controlling
Stranger: easen up a bit
You: I am a Jehova's witness
You: We don't believe in birthdays, christmas or The Osmonds
Stranger: all right
Stranger: i have tried everything
Stranger: i think i will allow you to imagine i have a dog
Stranger: what next?
You: Cool
You: What breed/size?
Stranger: rotweiler
You: Poor choice in my book, but OK
Stranger: about a metre high
You: Is he/she fierce?
Stranger: no
Stranger: i have brought him up on vegan diet
Stranger: you see i am vegan
You: Cool
Stranger: not a dog eater as i told you
You: I think you'll have to supplement his diet
Stranger: no
Stranger: have you had a look at the elephant?
Stranger: does the elephant in the wild eat according to FDA's recommendations?
You: Let's pretend I am your neighbour and I secetely throw bones over the fence; would you be annoyed?
Stranger: definitely
You: I may move then
You: I may bring the dog too
Stranger: there is nothing available for rental around here
You: He will follow me naturally & willingly, because he senses you secretely despise him
Stranger: no, for as a vegan i despise nothing
You: I can easily charm your neighbours into letting me sleep at their property
Stranger: everything in nature is naturally drawn towards me
Stranger: try as hard as you may, my dog will not eat unless he has double checked all the ingredients
You: This fantasy dog is proving both troublesome and unrealistic
Stranger: all fantasies are like that -- a bubble getting bigger and bigger
You: NO you need to ground the fantasy in some reality, to create a literally illusion
You: literary even
Stranger: but anyway..
Stranger: what is it with dogs you had at the beginning of the show
Stranger: before it went haywire
You: I never mentioned dogs, you did
You: You said you could smell dog
Stranger: if you dial 911, would they take you to an asylum?
You: Can you do it?
You: Tell them to bring the straps
You: Last time they forgot and I gained control of the vehicle
Stranger: forget 911. just tell me where you live. I will come with those "jolt pads"
Stranger: here i have already started
Stranger: this is for your own good
You: I live near Strabane
Stranger: Street address
Stranger: please
Stranger: please i need your street address
Stranger: don't hang up on me
You: 45-47 Abercorn Square,Strabane, BT82 8AQ
Stranger: i am a mere six thousand miles away
You: Lets leave this for now
You: I am beginning to despise you
You have disconnected.

New blog

I've created a new blog to keep everyone up-to-date with the latest travels & engagements of the British royal family. You can view it here:

Royalswatch

Blackbird

So the male blackbird, which so proudly sung on my rooftop with its arsetail pointed to the heaven, is now no more than a mass of scattered feathers. It made a perfect target for brer sparrowhawk up there. RIP you noisy musical bastard. Presumably a female blackbird has been left to rear the chicks alone.

There are a helluva lot of blackbirds and thrushes around my way. Presumably, the warm, wet conditions are ideal for slugs and snails and worms, a blackbird's favourite meal. Well, I say that, but I've never asked them what they prefer to eat. I know they love a bit of dogfood and rotten apple. There was one blackbird - maybe the fellow lately pecked to death - who was so enticed by the smell of dogfood in our kitchen that he'd hop right up to the closed back door in search of it. Right into the porch.

So with the explosion in numbers, the male blackbirds have been singing and hopping around on rooftops very vigorously. They're marking out their territory and trying to find some love interest. I've seen them trying to shoo away prowling cats too, although the starling is better at this.

Though once I got up early one morning to watch my long dead cat(then alive) climb the apple tree. A bunch of starlings kept hopping onto branches just above her, tauntingly out of reach. As they screeched derisively at her, a sparrowhawk suddenly hurled itself javelin-like toward the rising sun and took the toppermost starling clean off the tree. It made the most horrific, startled anguished screeching as the hawk carried it down to the field. Last I saw of it was a mass of feathers tossed into the air as the hunter stripped down its feast.

But while I have no love for starlings I like blackbirds. RIP.

Auction

I went to an auction last week. As previously reported, I've been having a lot of problems with my bike. The aged rear wheel finally broke, so purchased a cut price new one at £10. Two weeks later, this collapsed too under my vast weight; this time I dropped the vehicle into a cycle shop for repairs. The owners persuaded me to let them fit both new wheel and front and rear brakes. They then charged £10 for service and £38 for parts. Robdogs. So having spent £58 on a bike which only cost £110 new, I decided to buy a new one, or at least a second hand one.

My friend Jo had told me that Bangor auctions was the place to go for bicycle auctions. She's a regular there. My mum's a huge fan of shows like Bargain Hunt and Flog it! So she came along too.

When the taxi arrived at the address in the industrial estate, the car park was teeming with all human life. A burger van had pulled up outside and was doing a brisk trade. It turns out that the auction is very popular. Entering the large warehouse premises, the place was jam packed and very hot. It was difficult to view the items due to the crush. A good proportion of the attendees seem to go there as a form of spectator sport. Loaded up with paper wrappers full of steaming chips, they lounge around on the sofas and chairs for sale, eyeing the auctioneer and the bidders.

I eyed up a number of bikes and noted the auction numbers. Many of the people around me had catalogues, so went to the front to get one. The auctioneer quoted me a price of £1. Since the catalogued consisted of six sheets of photocopied A4 paper, I declined. However, when the auction started it soon became apparent that to bid for anything you needed an auction number, and to get an auction number you needed a catalogue. A catch 22 then, and a nice little earner for the company.

Most of the stuff for sale looked pretty ordinary to me. It wouldn't have been out of place in church jumble sale or charity shop. There were really old, rusted golf clubs, which sold for three quid; a dirty old petrol lawnmower the seller hadn't bothered clearing the grass from; boxes stuffed full of assorted crockery and cutlery, impossible to sort through; old toys; fridges, freezers and even a speedboat, amongst much, much else. There were six hundred lots and the auction was scheduled to run from 6pm until 10pm.

I found it boring as hell to sit through the first hour of auctions waiting for the bikes to come up at 7.30pm. I think I may have left if they had been at the end. Half the time I had no idea what was being bid on, the items came thick and fast, and were sold in a few seconds of bidding. Most goods sold for a few quid, if they sold at all, but every now and then a prized item appeared. Then there would be frenzied bidding between unseen bidders. Some plumbers went crazy for a pipe bending tool. A box of scented candles went for over £40. Then a big American-style fridge freezer, which looked brand new, went right up to over £300.

My mum decided to liven things up by buying a big vegetable steamer for £10; I doubt she'll ever use it. Then she decided on a pair of binoculars. I got excited about these, as they'll be useful for birdwatching; in our eagerness to win we started bidding against each other. Another bidder entered the market and things got very confusing, but eventually one of us won for £8.

When the bikes came round I was hot, bothered and fed up. My mood didn't improve when the main bike I had my eye on went for £55, far too much since it had two bald and flat tyres which needed replacing. So I bid on a second bike, one I wasn't too sure about as it seemed a bit small and rusty. With few counter bidders, I won with a bid of £28. Add on the 15% commission and the VAT, and that comes to £32.83. A man came came up and shook and man and told me I'd got a bargain, but I wasn't so sure.

When I got the vehicle outside for a spin round the car park, I found that the gears didn't work, the rear brake rubbed on the rim, the seat was ridiculously low for my long legs, and the tyres were part deflated. Hmm. This was a problem as I intended to cycle the thing the five miles home. A passing tradesman helpfully informed that I just needed to tighten the gear cables to make them work, but he nor I had any tools.

I went back into the auction in a grumpy mood. I didn't really want to stay but there was an acoustic guitar I fancied bidding on. Jo turned up, she was in a grumpy mood too because she had sent her dad ahead to bid on a double bed while she was at work, but he hadn't bothered. The bed went for £4. While waiting for the guitar, I had to sit through the 'fancy' ceramics and paste jewellery auction. This provoked a scrum of mostly grey haired folk to mill around the auctioneer to get a close eye on the goods. Amidst the Royal Doulton and cheap trinkets were the following catalogue items:

Cider Bird - not an alcoholic duck, but a clay woodpecker advertising, well, Woodpecker Cider. A discontinued brand, I believe. Went for a fiver.

Jewish Religion - I asked the auctioneer if I could see 'Jewish religion' but he just directed me to a glass cabinet. I couldn't find it. Turns out it is a tiny, roughly carved piece of wood that looks like a shoehorn, with triangular lines scraped on it. Went for three quid. My ma said you hang it over your door, like a charm.

Unfortunately, the guitar already had a starting bid of £30, and soon went up to £60. I think that's overpriced for a basic Yamaha acoustic, especially one that isn't in perfect condition.

So I left my mum to fend for herself with her steamer and binoculars, after phoning her a taxi, and set off home on my bike. I released the rear brakes completely and pedalled along the pavement of the dual carriageway. With the low seat, it felt like my knees were around my ears when I sat down, like a clown's bike. It was stuck in the lowest gear so I had to peddle furiously, especially when going uphill. But I made it home, soaked by the incessant rain, and fed up.

My mood lightened considerably when I fixed the seat and brakes in a matter of minutes. But I still haven't fixed the gears. The bike has been lying in the garage while I ponder this problem. Any ideas?

Stenchbreath vs The Cat

An eager cat attempts to befriend Stenchbreath

Happy Birthday Roger and random thoughts

Roger said he'l leave a comment on my blog if I wish him a happy birthday. He was annoyed that I didn't mention this on my blog. Roger, my blog is not for wishing happy birthdays. That's why God gave us text messaging and Facebook. But happy birthday.

Happy birthday to Wandering Photographer too. We must have a belated birthday drink soon.

I hurt my shoulder pushing weights. So I've started swimming instead. I swim 20 or 30 lengths per session. That's between 500 and 750 metres. It doesn't seem much when you write it down. But it feels a lot. I love it. Maybe I will knock the gym on the head. Swimmers have better figures than gymaholics anyway.

I broke my bike again. The rear axle snapped. So I bought a new one. But when I fitted it, it ground against the wheel. So I took it to the bike shop where I bought it. They persuaded me to fit new brake blocks and a new rear wheel, then charged me £50 for parts and service. Robdogs. I might go to the auction and buy a new one. I might cycle to Belfast soon. But not up Cavehill. Maybe someday, when I have a trustworthy bike.

I'm still working at the call centre. I'm getting good at my job, but I'm very busy. Sometimes I take aroung 90 calls a day. My tongue gets tired and my brain gets fuzzy.

I've been off the drink for a few weeks. It feels good. I'm saving a lot of money too.

On the other hand, I've discovered the joys of ebay and have bought lots of unnecessary items.

I bought a battery charger and heavy batteries today. So hopefully I will be able to take more photos before my camera packs up.

I cut my own hair and made the back all lopsided. The nape, is that what the back edge of your hair is called?

I've become addicted to 'The Wire' on BBC2, but have to wait two weeks until the next series due to the snooker.

I've been getting up at 5am to watch my beloved Western Bulldogs play Aussie Rules via illegal live streming websites. But I think the sites have been closed down. Boo. There is still live streaming radio.

When I say I'm off the drink, I did have a pint with Roger yesterday, and a pint the week before with some random strangers. I only drank one pint of ale each time, so it doesn't count. Both times I smoked half a cigar. Now that the summer nights are here, I may have more, in the beer garden. It's my guilty pleasure.

Teeth Part 2

Following on from......

Halfway through the treatment, many thanks to Dr George and his carbamide peroxide!

Oh me of little faith!

£8.99 on ebay, a bargain

Country Walk

I took advantage of the mild spring weather and the bank holiday to take my first walk over the back roads to Portavoe for a while. I could have got some good pictures but as usual my power-hungry camera decided to run out of batteries as soon as I turned it on. I think it must have a fault. I must look into getting a replacement in the unlikely event of having some money any time soon.

Anyway, just like this time last year a mild, dry spring means you can tramp over the fields and byways without wading boots. Summer might be a different matter, so enjoy it while it lasts. The predominant colour in the hedgerows is yellow; the gorse above is a golden riot, while the dandelions dominate below. It's too still early for the white and pink flowers, such as hawthorn or wild garlic. Gorse is a traditional Easter flower; when I was a kid you found a few people collecting the flowers to boil up with hens' eggs. It dyes them an attractive golden colour for rolling down the hills. Does anyone still do that? You can make wine out of them too, if you're brave enough.


I walked over the old lane and up the backroads, along a road I haven't used for years. There were wild geese overhead and pheasants hooting in the trees. I was keeping an eye out for the local buzzards. This magnificent bird of prey was until recently a scarce sight, having been hunted close to extinction. These days, you can't fail to spot them; they seem to have overtaken the kestrel as our most common raptor and are visible circling the skies all over the north east countryside. I usually see two or three wheeling around, but this time one flew low over a field before alighting on a low tree about fifty metres behind me. Bloody lack of camera, it would have made a good picture.

I just hope the pheasant shooters and gamekeepers keep their guns away from it. I'm sure they take a few pheasants, although they mostly feed on dead carrion. Speaking of which, I found a big old dead rat squished on the road. I didn't know rats grew that big. It was rabbit sized. It'll make a tasty meal for a buzzard or carrion crow.

As I was passing the entrance to the reservoir, a man called to me about a much larger piece of carrion. He was examining something under a blackberry bush.

'Someone's dumped a dead dog here' he said.

I didn't know quite what to say. Was he asking for help?

'Oh, lovely' I replied. 'Who would you call about that? The water service?'

He didn't reply. I think he just wanted to share his discovery. He rootled around under the bush a bit more and said 'It looks like one of those Staffordshire terriers.....no wait it's one of those illegal ones......"

'An American pitbull?' I offered.

'Yeah, one of those.' he agreed. I asked if it had a collar but it didn't. I decided against going over for a look, so with a 'Some people huh' shrug I continued on.

People use the hedgerows as a dumping ground. It's usually just bottles and cans, but shortly after the dead dog incident I discovered another disgusting sight. Someone had left two ten litre cans of rancid cooking oil by the side of the road. They looked like they came from a fast food restaurant. They were full of dead flies. Beside them was a clear plastic bag full of something grey, squishy and indefinable. Behind the hedge, spring lambs bleated at me.

Why do people drive out to the middle of nowhere to dump their rubbish? The bottle bank is free to use, and surely there is a recycling facility somewhere for old oil. Ferals.

I passed the newly ploughed fields, still full of wood pigeon, pecking the sown grain. I can't believe the farmer doesn't cull them. Judging by the contestants on Masterchef et al, wood pigeon is a fashionable and expensive food. I should try and snaffle some. I will google 'trap wood pigeon' after I write this.

I cut over the fields and back home. The potato field was full of rotting spuds. I knew I should have picked some up a few weeks back, when the farmer was gathering them. They've gone to waste now.

Yellow teeth

After attending a wedding last week and viewing the subsequent photos, I was shocked at how yellow my teeth have become. Indeed, some of them are turning a distictly unpleasantly brown. It isn't the dread nicotine that is doing this; I gave up smoking over two years ago, except for a very occasional cigar.

I presume the main culprit must be the 10 cups of strong tea I drink every day. I love tea. At work, I'm restricted to snatched cups of 20p brew from the vending machine, and I'm not allowed to drink at my desk. As my tea drinking break is only 15 minutes long, and the tea is very hot, I sometimes mix it with cold water so I can drink it faster. This means I can drink two or three cups in the allotted teaspace.

When at home, I am unrestricted. I have a special pint mug for my tea. I use two bags in this and mash the brew for 3- 4 minutes. Some days, I can drink ten of these. Ten pints of tea a day is bound to have a deleterious effect on my once pearly, Hollywood smile.

So, being as vain as the next dapper metrosexual, I have decided to do something about this. I asked a friend at work with a dazzling smile how she keeps her teeth so white, despite her smoking. 'Laser treatment, £250,' came the reply. I can't afford that kind of denistry, as tempting as it may be. So I searched for tooth whitening products on dearest Google and friend Ebay. After reading numerous product reviews, I settled on Dr Georges Teeth Whitening System. It's the number one home tooth whitening kit in America so it must be good. I trust the Americans on such matters. Look at the teeth on 'The OC' and 'American Idol' and '90210.' I bet those boys and girls are all big fans of the Dr George.

The package was waiting for me last night and I eagerly set to work. First up are the patented "E-Z Trays," two clear rubber gum shields with a tab on the edge that acts as a handle. After reading the instructions, I boiled a pan of water and let it simmer before I dipped the shields in to make them plaible. I shoved them in my gub and with fingers and tongue I pressed them and pulled them and sucked them as per Dr George's instructions until they fitted snugly. I ran them under the cold tap to make them hard and moulded.

I got out the 5.2 oz bottle of 16% Carbamide Peroxide Gel and syringe from the package. I was supposed to suck out a bit of the liquid and apply it too the gumshield thingies but due to my clumsiness and the viscous nature of the gel I got it all over my fingers and the syringe. But I eventually got a bit on the gumshields and stuck them in my mouth.

The literature promises that " Due to the snug fit and thick gel, the gel stays within the tray, even on the lower teeth. You can even speak while you whiten! " I can report that "no it bloody doesn't!" The gel soon floods from the gumshield, mixes with your saliva and soon you have a mouth full of gel. If you are thinking that 16% Carbamide Peroxide sounds a bit like bleach, you'd be right. It feels like gargling with Domestos. Indeed, the instructions warn "DO NOT MIX WITH HOUSEHOLD CLEANSER FOR STRONGER RESULTS." Not that I was tempted to do this, but you'd see how some daft folk might be tempted by the taste of the stuff.

I was supposed to keep the shields in there for 20-30 minutes, but because I kept having to spit out bleachy saliva I bailed out after 15 minutes.

I tried again an hour later after hatching an ingenious plan. I stuffed my mouth with kitchen roll, paying especial attention to the under-tongue region. This wasn't very pleasant but stopped my mouth filling with spit. So I watched the last half hour of 'The Wire' with two plastic gumshields full of bleach and a mouth full of kitchen roll. That's livin alright!

Rant

No, if your daughter's lost her effing passport she can't have another one tomorrow. It doesn't matter how posh and patronising you are. You can't speak to my team leader and putting the phone down and ringing my colleagues won't work either. Ha Ha. What sort of effwit goes out drinking and using her passport as ID at every effing boozer in Sittingbourne (probably) until she loses it? When she's got to fly to Canada in 2 days? eff away off and dry your eyes.

And no, you don't need a passport to travel to the Isle of Wight. If it was an April fool's joke on me I wasn't in the mood. If your mates were playing an April fool on you, you fell for it. And you're a effwit.

And how the eff am I supposed to know how your sister is going to get a French passport to go on a school trip by Saturday? A french passport? And axeing me how old you can be on a French parental passport before you get your own? Look up 'UK' in your effing encyclopedia.

And 'how do I register for the machine at Terminal 5 that reads your eyes so I don't have to queue up with the other plebs' ?????? What am I , the effing Bladerunner helpline or something????

And can you PLEASE take the effing crying baby away from the mouthpiece or call back when she's not crying? I know it's hard being stuck at home with a bunch of kids but it hurts my ear, it really effing does, and I can't hear what you're saying.

And if you're Turkish and your daughter is British but lives in Turkey and you live in the UK but you're daughter lives in Turkey with your sister-in-law and the child's mother ran off and disappeared and you want to apply for a UK passport - effing slow down a bit. You're a nice bloke and this is all very exciting for you but if you talk at 1,000,000 miles an hour I'll just have to get you effing repeat everything 1,000,000 times.

And very rich people - stop phoning me from effing private planes to get your effing passport renewed tomorrow. It's a very bad line and the noise from the effing plane engine drowns you out.

Sponsored by the Mumbai Telecommunications Organization

Spud Picking

The local farmer is finally picking last year's spuds. I took this photo from my bedroom window just now. He left them in the ground over the winter. Maybe it's easier to pull them up in the spring and he gets a better price for them at this time of year. As with most farming these days, it's mostly done by machine, though he's got a couple of farmhands riding on the back of the tractor. There's also a great big Alsatian dog sprinting up and down the rows of spuds, having the time of its life.

Call Centre, week two

So I have finished my second week in the new job. I am working on a top secret 'campaign.' For security reasons I cannot tell you what this is. But I can give you some clues. I provide customer service for people enquiring about a very important travel document. It comes in a little burgundy book. It has a photograph in it, that you probably hate. This object begins with 'p' and ends with 't' and has an 'ass' in the middle. And a 'port.'

I only work a thirty hour week, spread over three weekdays and one day at the weekend. I had to work on Saturday, meaning that I thought I wouldn't be able to watch the Scotland - Ireland rugby game. I rang the Scottish Rugby Union to ask if they wouldn't mind moving the game to Sunday, but they said they couldn't do anything at such short notice. Luckily, my company has a contract with Setanta Sports, meaning that there are TVs on the call floor tuned to Setanta Sports News 24/7. But someone disloyally turned the channel over to BBC1 so we could watch the game, albeit at a distance of 40 foot away & with the sound turned down.

I have not had many difficult calls to deal with so far. Mostly I just book people in for interviews or help them fill out an application form. A Scotsman got very upset with me because he was flying the next day and had put his passport in the wash and ruined it. He seemed to think this was somehow my fault, and was unhappy that he would have to wait a week to get a new one.

Then I was helping a father complete an online application for his 15 year old daughter.

At the end of the call he says 'Will this passport enable her to travel abroad without her parents?'

'Oh aye' says I, thinking she's off on a youthful school trip

'Only she's going abroad with her 19 year old boyfriend and he's arranged it all' says Mr Dad.







Now, when I say it's a thirty hour week that's not quite true. I don't get paid for my lunch and teabreaks. That's a new experience for me - even when I worked for some big American companies in Australia I got paid for my breaks. Never lunchbreaks but always playbreaks. I didn't know that was legal. So I work a 34 hour week but get paid for 30.

Furthermore, the company times how often you go to the toilet, or just generally move away from your desk. You are only allowed 12 minutes per day. You have to be back at your seat right on time or your in trouble. We've already been ticked off about this. And all for less than £10,000 a year. One colleague got ticked off for eating a plum at her desk yesterday.

Reading this makes me wonder if there is any point being a Labour supporter. We've had 12 years of a 'left-wing' government for this? Apparently, union officials aren't even allowed on
site. I was told that the local rep got into a shouting match with an employee in the canteen and was barred. It wouldn't surprise me if this argument wasn't engineered by the company. I've been told that the union rep sometimes comes and stands at the front gate and hands out piss-taking leaflets. I'll have to look out for him and have a chat, maybe they'll put my name on a blacklist.

Anyway, people vote with their feet and rarely stay long in the job. There's a massive turnover of staff and I've even been offered a £200 bonus for every worker I can find for them who stays in the job a few weeks. It makes me wonder why they don't treat their workers better. I've read somewhere that staff retention, or lack of it, is one of the most expensive outlays for many businesses. What's the point of spending so much on neverending advertising, recruitment & training just to treat your staff like cretins?

They even draw up a productivity formula for each worker, based on electricity costs, heating costs, breaks we take, work we do, time idle, time at the toilet, time on holiday and calculate it to the nearest penny. My own productivity formula, like a big old battery hen.

stenchpaper

Stenchbreath doing her party trick in a fancy headcscarf. She's quite the local celebrity. Sorry about the sound quality.

Trained by a fantasist

I have a job now. You'll be morbidly jealous when you find out what I'm doing. Get this - I'm working in a CALL CENTRE! For MINIMUM WAGE! And I even have to pay £30 to hire my own headset. I get the £30 back when I leave the job if I return the headset 'in good condition.' When I was told this, I felt a little self-pitying at how low I have debased myself. It's the 21st century equivalent of going down t' pit. With less death and blood and disease and hard work, obviously.

I have to wear a tie and smart shirt too. Why?

As my musings on this blog are fed directly on my Facebook page I have changed my security settings on the latter. Only friends and family can view me know. As I may write about my employment , I don't want Them reading about it. Maybe I should take my picture off this site too.

Anyway, I don't know if you are aware of the tall tale telling character 'Aldridge Prior the Hopeless Liar' from Viz magazine. It appears he is training me. I am stuck in a room for the week learning the job from a man who regularly, even continously, interrupts his work to make claims such as:


1.) His dad was a major in the British army. He trained Nato forces all over the world and thus ole dog's mess claims to have lived in just about every country on the planet.

He eats a croissant very day because he lived in the south of France when he was 11 and ate one every on the way to school every day. Fresh from the bakery.

'Where did you live in France?' asked one of my new colleagues.

He uhmmed and ahhhd and rapped his knuckles on the table pretending to remember.

'Somewhere in the south' he eventually offered. He can speak 'a bit of French' too. Surprisingly, he didn't show it off.

His dad's work also took him to the USA for a few months, so our boy was awarded an American passport. But the Americans took it off him when they discovered he had a British passport. This greatly annoys him.

Later, we were discussing the countries of the Commonwealth, as this is relevant to the job. He reeled off Canada, South Africa and New Zealand............and then mused that Burgundy in France was part of the Commonwealth too. 'That's where the Normans who invaded England came from,' he solemnly informed us.

Yeah, the Normans from Burgundy. The Normburgundians?

2.) He keeps going on about his various mystery illnesses, many of which involve his rectum. He couldn't follow his dad's army career because he strained a muscle in his back and had to retire to bed for several months.

Then he told us that the company frowned if you took more than 12 mins toilet break per day (FFS!) . He used to get told off for running to the toilet all time himself, but now he has special dispensation because he has Crohn's disease. It used to affect him very badly but if he cuts out wheat, sugar and acidic foods he can control it.

"Aye, that's why you're drinking a bottle of Coke!" interjected the young lady to my right.

And sure enough, while he'd been telling us this he's been swigging away from a 500ml bottle of Coca Cola.

He ignored her and informed us that if he keeps running out the door it's because of his Crohn's. Which isn't very bad. His friend's Crohn's is much worse.

He hasn't run out the door once. And he stuffs himself with croissants, fries and sugary drinks.

I used to work with a guy who had to take a daily cocktail of drugs and was frequently hospitalised by his awful Crohn's disease. Funny, that.

3.) He has a criminal record. He broke into a house 14 years before he was born. How's that you ask? Well, someone with exactly the same name as him lived in his parents' home before they bought it. This fella was 14 years older than our trainer. And because he had a record for breaking and entering it was transferred to our bloke and he just can't get rid of it. Doesn't matter how often he complains. He went to police headquarters and everything. But he just can't get rid. His reputation is forever sullied.

4.) His uncle was in the navy and he and his mates got two days leave on an island so they went mad and got blind drunk for two days and suddenly they realised they had to get back to the ship so they stole a 2CV but the clutch broke so they fixed it with a shoelace but that burnt so the uncle climbed on the bonnet and moved the clutch by hand while they drove at 60 mph, then they crashed the car and stole a boat and got back to the ship but - get this! - the leave was for 3 DAYS not 2 DAYS! They hadn't realised they had an extra day! And all the sirens were screaming on the island as the authorities looked for the phantom car and boat thieves. Ha!

Later, the uncle was shot by pirates in the Suez. Blew his shoulder off, they found it on board behind a pillar. Pity, the uncle spoke 4 languages, all self-taught, he could have been a navy translator.

Kerry Blue and Primary School

The day started off in exciting fashion when young Matthew from across the road knocked the door and presented me with a curly haired terrier. 'Twas very likely a full bred Kerry Blue if I know my dogs. It was a lolloping, friendly, tonguey sort of a dog when presented with humans. However, as soon as it met Stenchbreath it jumped on top of her and got medieval on her neck. To quote the Kerry Blue wikipedia entry "they have always been loyal and affectionate towards their owners and very gentle towards children but were often considered downright mean toward other animals including other dogs." I concur on this limited evidence.

So I tied the animal to the fence with Stenchbreath's spare lead and phoned the Dog Warden. I got an answering machine and left a message. Then I rephoned the answering machine half an hour later. Next I rang the council switchboard and politely asked what I should do with the creature. They finally got a warden to contact me and said they'd send someone out.

With the situation in hand I went out for an afternoon stroll. I met a young girl coming down the road shouting what sounded like "Taxi! Taxi." When I got closer she asked me if I'd seen her dog Pepsi and after asking her for a description I reckoned the captured beast was hers. She set off with with barely a by-your-leave and soon child and animal were reunited to scenes of unbridled joy. Champagne corks were popped, the sky was black with tossed hats etc etc and the dog warden was turned around and set on his way via a quick phone call. Which was lucky for the wee girl, as I don't think brer pooch was licensed.

The second part of the day's exciting adventures was a trip to my old primary school. Built in about 1975, the old school building has come to the end of its lifespan and is being demolished in favour of gleaming new facilities on the same site. The 1970s seem to have been the era of the jerry-built school with their flat leaky asphalt roofs and flimsy corrugated plastic window fittings. Compare this to the many sturdy Victorian school buildings, built to last like the churches of the day & still in use.

I was a bit apprehensive about going because I didn't really enjoy primary school and thought it might evoke bad memories. But it was fine. Everything was amazingly familiar, even though I hadn't set foot in the place for well over 20 years. It wasn't like stepping back in time, it felt like I'd never been away. Maybe that's because I've worked as a primary school since.

The only person I talked to out of my year was a person I see regularly anyway. The only teacher

I talked to didn't remember me. But it was good to have a look around the old place. Everyone was enjoying themselves but we were unceremoniously chucked out at 9.00pm sharp. First time I've ever been forced to leave the school gates. And I didn't even claim my free styrofoam cup of boxed red wine.

The current pupils told me they are getting a week off while the building is demolished, but they're annoyed because they have to bring work home with them. It's a hard knock life.



Someone has put my P1 class photo on Facebook. I wish I got still grow my hair like that.

Credit Crunched

The credit crunch comes to Ballyholme. Not one of the houses on this street are worth less than half a million quid so I doubt if there's too much belt tightening going on here. Maybe that's part of the writer's message.

However, unemployment is rising steeply in North Down. The dole office are taking on extra staff and staggering sign on times.

Sisyphus clears the sand at Ballyholme

Every month or so North Down Borough council sends a backhoe digger and a lad with a shovel down to Ballyholme Beach to clear the sand from the lower part of the promenade. They dump the sand in mounds, as seen to the left and below; these were much bigger a day ago but the tide has already eaten most of them away. Their Canute inspired efforts are completely pointless; within a few days the sand has already starting building up again.

When I were a lad there wasn't any sand on this part of the path. Is it a sign of global warming, with rising sea levels driving the sand onto shore? Perhaps the promenade has become eroded by the constant crashing of sea, sand and stone? Maybe.
























However, the failure of the council to upkeep the groynes is the most likely culprit. The entire landscape at Ballyholme Beach was a magnificent piece of Victorian engineering, with its raised promenades, sea walls, sweeping grass banks, bridges and elevated roads above. Central to the enterprise are the aforementioned groynes. Recognizing that the tide sweeps along the bay from west to east, these sea defences were added at regular intervals to prevent the sand from building up at the Groomsport side of the beach.

Sadly the century-old groynes are succumbing to the elements & are in dire need of repair. I read in the local paper that this would cost £40,000. It doesn't seem a lot to save a genuine tourist amenity, particularly as the water service are currently installing new drains to (hopefully) solve the pollution problems.

Meanwhile, the council has just voted in an 8.1% increase in rates, the second largest rise in the province after Fermanagh. In order to save a little money, £14,0000 to be exact, our representatives voted that toilet blocks should no longer be opened during the evening. One councillor, who manages to combine his local duties with a well-paid MLA job at Stormont, claimed that families or tourists wouldn't use the facilities, only "late night revellers." Yes, on the long summer evenings in June & July everyone in this town goes to bed at 6pm leaving Bangor in the hands of crazed drunks hanging out at the bogs.

I have heard dark rumours that the monster, monstrously expensive new wind turbine at Balloo isn't fit for purpose. I'm all for renewable energy - as long as it works. Maybe our DUP members have installed a deliberate 'own goal' to fuel Sammy Wilson's righteous crusade for more carbon emissions.

Here's the path in question; two days after the clearance team have left the sand is already starting to build up on the left hand side.

Click on the photos and they become huge.

Masterchef 16/2/09

Welcome to Masterchef for semi-final time. Now, Masterchef doesn't have semi-finals and a final in an FA Cup knockout head-to head style. Instead, they start off with a big load of contestants and whittle away until they decide have enough left to contest a final. It's more like Big Brother. Sometime this seems cruelly arbitrary, as in last week's "best of the best previous losers" quarter-final when a poor lass didn't even get to cook. She was shown the door because she couldn't identify a random selection of fishes and root vegetables laid out on a table. Less 'Masterchef' than 'Master of bizarre parlour games.'

So tonight, we've got 6 contestants and tonight we're paring them down to 4. I presume that by the end of the week we'll have 3 left, in time for next week's finals.

So it's Angela, Andy, Chris, Christopher, Dennice and Mat livin' the dream.

It's just one simple task tonight. CHICKEN! CHICKY-CHICKY-CHICKY-CHICK-CHICK-CHICKEN! They have one hour to produce a restaurant quality chicken dish. Sadly no-one is doing twizzlers, and there's nary a jar of Chicken Tonight in sight.

First up it's Chris, a 40 something call centre manager who wants 'a life in food' which could be a bit Peter Greenaway but probably has a different meaning. He has Cypriot heritage but usually cooks Thai food, though tonight he's gone all retro and is doing a simple meat and veg dish - chicken baked with leeks and bacon, carrots, Tarragon sauce and a spud gratin.

Next we have Angela, a 22 year old office temp. Has something of the Nigella about her. She's "wildly exciting" claims Torode. Giddyup! She's heavily into experimenting. With her cooking. She wowed the judges with her Basil and Lemon (!!!!) tart in the last round. Determined to keep on with her crazee concoctions, tonight she's offering chicken stuffed with aubergines & pine nuts, a peach and basil sauce (!!!!!) and peach and potato cakes (!!!!!!????!!!!.) Good luck with that.

Christopher ticks the Masterchef cliche checkcard early doors by announcing he "wants to open a deli." I'm still waiting for the Masterchef contestant who wants to open a burger stand. He's young, he's hip, he's happening, but he's inexperienced as he hasn't been at it long. And he hasn't been cooking long either. He's doing a sort of Chicken Wellington, bird stuffed with mushrooms and baked in flaked pastry. Sounds pleasant to me.

Andy is the comeback king, the best of the best of the best of last year's losers from last week's quarter final week. His magnificent ravioli got him here, described as one of the best dishes ever by the judges. Even better than that Heinz ravioli in tomato sauce your mum gave you for tea when you were a kid? I doubt it, that was a quailty tea. He's described as 'arrogant' by Greg and he proves this by doing pretty much eff-all with his chicken: a quick fry with a noodle side-salad that seems to require minimal effort. It looks more Ready Steady Cook than M'Chef. Will it be enough?

Matt is a forager. He collects his own food. Even dives for it. If it's a choice between a five minute trip to Tesco's for scallops or a six hour round trip to the seaside to fanny about underwater with a waterproof torch & an oxygen tank he'll choose the latter. Possibly. He has a weird Kiwi-English garbled accent and looks like Tolkien's Gimli. His food is plain and rustic and he freely admits he can't do that fancy-dan presentation. It's chunky and hearty and there's plenty of it. I like him, and think he's good.

Lovely Afro-Carribean lass Dennice is a social worker and mum of four. She's got eff-me boots and a magnificent barnet not seen this side of the glory days of Jason Lee that makes her look like a walking palm tree. She's very nervous. She's cooking chicken, carrots and a thing called a polenta & onion cake. For those who remember Chris Morris' fictional drug 'Cake' on the infamous Brass Eye episode: that's what Dennice's polenta and onion cake looks like. It's roughly the same size too.

So, down to the judging. "Your time is up, step away from the benches!" bawls Gregg, with the air of a LA cop with his finger on the Tazer trigger.

And so, we'll hastily summarise the results:

Angela - her peach and basil based nonsense was as awful as it sounded. G & T give her short shrift, basically telling her it's complete crap, and the tears well up before she gets shirty and defends her experimental style. She's gorn.

Christopher - One part of his dish is too salty, the other part is underseasoned, but otherwise it's delicious.

Andy - Gets told off for doing eff all but his food is lovely & the noodle salad is crunchy & crispy with a delightful sauce.

Matt - Gets told off for having too much chicken and too much meat, no balance. Sounds ridiculous, what? Don't listen to them Matt, serve it large and hearty like you're feeding a coachload of Texans. If it's too much I'll get a doggy bag.

Dennice - While her food is being judged she's shaking and quivering like the proverbial shitting dog. All well and good apart from the ridiculous big polenta cake. I'm no gourmet but even Blind Tony could see that. It's like "a big alien thing that's landed on the dish."

So the six entrants retire while G & T go through their brief deliberations. They return to the maudlin strains of Adele's 'Hometown Glory' before that low, ominous one note Moog tone kicks in, straight out of Pertwee-era Dr Who, that always gets played to signify high tension in this programme.

Thumbing their noses at the BBC's equality & diversity guidelines, all four men remain. The two ladies are shown the door, wiping their eyes to the strains of a rawking Coldplay tune, while the fellas clink champagne flutes. And so onto "the most intense cooking experience of their lives..........."

The day after Valentine's Day

 

A deflated heart-shaped balloon tied to a tree. Insert your own metaphor/simile.

Italy - Ireland

Italy - Ireland was brutal. On the eyes. The second half was mostly one long, continuous scrum. In the first half both sides played like they had just taken up the sport and were becoming acquainted with the rules as they went along.

Tomás O'Leary used the ball with the slow deliberation of a chess grandmaster pondering his next move. Surprisingly his replacement, mini-me Peter Stringer, looked far better. He was so much much more decisive & sharper.

Heaslip had another great, rampaging game at number 8. This seems to be a golden age for 6 Nations no.8s. Think I'd still rather have Harinordoquy but Heaslip is growing in stature.

Ronan O'Gara has unfortunately started where he left off from the World Cup. He's badly short of form when kicking from hand to boot. He missed touches off penalties, had a kick charged down and dived into blind alleys when running. He's lucky he no longer has David Humphreys competing for the out-half spot. Ireland are winning despite of him, a dangerous situation.

The noise

I finally discovered what was making the clanking, grinding noise on my bike which occurred once per wheel revolution. I discovered this when my left pedal worked its way off in the midst of heavy traffic on the High Donaghadee Road. The nut holding it had been gradually working its way loose.

It was one of those awkward embedded nuts that required a socket set to tighten. So I went to the nearest Poundland style shop to buy one. I hunted high and low amongst the jam-packed shelves of string, torches and allen keys until I found one.

I expected to pay a couple of quid but it was £4.99. Robdogs. Needs must and desperation drive a hard bargain so I gritted my teeth and bought it.

I went out to my tethered bike and ripped open the packaging. I soon realised I had been sold a pup as the sockets were all tiny. Only the largest one fitted my pedal nut. But it did the job. I went to tighten up the nuts holding the rear wheels to the frame but all the sockets were too small for them. Bah.

So I went to tighten up the nut holding the right pedal. But as I did so the socket holding device thingy broke. The mechanism gave way and refused to tighten any more, no matter how hard I pleaded with it. I felt like crying for a minute until I realised I was right outside the shop and after a panicky minute hunting through pockets I found the receipt (but not before finding countless other receipts dating back over the past year for a variety of big ticket items like headache tablets, fruit juice and chewing gum.)

I told the 12 year old behind the counter my problem and he called over a 15 year old and after he inspected the mechanism and briefly tried to convince me it was working, I firmly assured him it wasn't. So I got my £4.99 back and my bike is repaired. Result! Well, partially repaired. The rear wheel keeps rocking from side to side. Might need a new one.

Masterchef

It's the three best losers from the last series tonight. Before we've started Gregg's little voice piece at the start shouts to us "THIS WILL CHANGE LIVES!" as if it's something important, like X factor or Gladiators. Well, if the contestant wins this round, and the next, and the next after that, then they get an awful job cooking food all day for hard to please diners. Otherwise, they get to enjoy their 15 mins & it's back to the day job. Unless Gregg intends to disembowel the losers and serves their guts up to Torode on a bed of wasabi.


Tonight we've got -

Mark - big eared, big nosed, Ricky Sbragia/prop forward type. Ex Forces. Can probably catch his own food before he cooks it, expect a main course of wild elk or somesuch.

Rachel - pretty blonde, scary pale blue killer eyes, posh Dublin 4 West Brit accent. Housewife, wants to open a deli, husband on €150,000 a year I'd say, no less.

Anna - Nice plain Northern lass, seems a bit dull, but goes raspberry red in the kitchen when under pressure. Her voice stays steady and dull at all times.

First up is 'stamina day.' They've got to go to a posh London hotel to cook breakfast. 100 daft sods with money than sense have turned up. Who eats breakfast in a posh restaurant with la-di-da waiters and that? Revolution, backs, wall, etc. And the food is more Little Chef than haute cuisine. You can have eggs, lots of eggs - poached, scrambled or in an omelette. Then there's the bacon, sausage and I think I spot a pot full of simmering baked beans, presumably out of a tin. I wonder how much they charge? I'd bet there's not enough notes to wipe your arse from a fifty.

The omelette is the only fancy part, because it has little crunchy bits in it, onion or peppers or somesuch. Rachel is on omelette duty but she screws up the first one, it flops all over the plate like well trodden dog's mess. She pronounces herself "confused" by omelettes, probably not the best idea when you're on national TV auditioning for a catering role. But her second omelette is nice and crispy. The mumbling Italian chef in charge gives her a grudging thumbs up.

Anna is in charge of poached eggs. She screws up her first lot, I don't know how, how many ways can you screw up poached eggs?

Mark is in charge of scrambled eggs. He doesn't screw up. I suppose if they had a fourth contestant he'd be in charge of minding the toaster.

Then the contestants are flipped and tossed into a black cab and it's off to Kensington for the day shift. At another, virtually identical posh restaurant the contestants have to design and prepare their own main courses for more eager paying punters. "THIS IS SERIOUS!" bawls a grinning Gregg. Gordon Brown, Barack Obamas, Shimon Peres, The Talibans, are you watching? They're going to COOK! FOOD!

So, Rachel chooses big ole prawns with their shells and tails left on, sitting on a bed of couscous, with chorizo. I bloody hate having to shell my own prawns. Anna chooses sea bass and new potatoes. Mark has steak and spud rosti, with some foul looking green paintlike sauce pished all over the rim of the plate.

Torode and Gregg keep hovering about, sticking their grinning mushes through gaps in shelving like a pair of culinary peeping Toms. I would have been tempted to 'accidently' tip a pan of hot oil over the pair.

Mark is perfect at first but as the orders keep coming he cooks a steak for too long on one side. The chef informs him of the complaint and he goes puce, swears loudly and looks like he's going to cry. But he pulls his s-h-one-t together after that.

Anna keeps slightly burning the sea bass and the chef makes her throw it in the bin. Oh the humanity! It was only slightly singed, surely Gregg could have eaten it. I wish me & Stenchbreath were there, we'd have fished it out the bins.

Rachel's dish goes down a treat. She wins this round, despite omelette confusion early doors.

Back to Masterchef HQ for a two course meal. I may have missed some of this bit due the multifariousness of ingredients involved.

Anna - Mutton, spuds, carrots & beans. Then Yorkshire puddings stuffed with bananas, with a cinnamon and toffee cream. I must admit that both of Anna's courses looked delicious. They got the thumbs up from Gregg but Torode said the pudding was 'unrefined' and too sweet.

Mark - Wild mushroom and truffle soup, with giant croutons. The giant croutons seemed to be ridiculous loaf-sized lumps of fried bread that didn't fit in the little soup bowls. For mains he did salmon on a bed of spuds with a load of lonely asparagus spears stuck on the side of the plate. The asparagus didn't go down well, out of place and had 'too much iron' according to Torode. The Torode/anemia rumours untrue, then. Gregg thought the soup insipid.

Rachel - Poached lamb & boulangere(?) spuds, then a macadamia and chocolate cake with a raspberry couli (ie sauce) squirted all over the plate like something from Hammer Horror. It all went down a treat, apart from the raspberry mess which the judges found 'overpowering.'

And thus to the rousing strains of 'Tonight, Tonight' by Smashing Pumpkins Rachel was declared the victor. For her, 'the dream continues.' For the vanquished 'the dream is over.'

Snow

Snow on 8/2/09 which disappeared all too quickly.

Birdwatch

My RSPB Birdwatch results:

Blackbird 4 - Blue Tit 3
Chaffinch 5 - Coal Tit 2
Collared Dove 2 - Dunnock 2 (AET)
Goldfinch 17 (SEVENTEEN) - Great Tit 2
Greenfinch 2 - House Sparrow 19 (NINETEEN)
Longtailed tit 0 - Magpie 0
Robin 1 - Starling 20 (TWENTY)
Thrush 1 - Wren 1
Jackdaws 2 - Redpoll 2
Feral Pigeons 3 - Female Blackcap 1

Replays to be held on the week starting 20/1/10

It's not surprising that goldfinches, starlings and sparrows come out on tops. We support a great colony of goldfinches with feeders constantly replenished with nyger seed and sunflower hearts. Despite reports of their decline, starlings and sparrows have always been numerous in these parts. They eat the bread and porridge we provide for them at a fierce rate.

There used to be many more greenfinches, but sadly their numbers seem to be in decline. Meanwhile, blackbirds are doing very well, not just in the garden but in the surrounding district. Maybe the damp weather provides them with plenty of slugs and snails to eat. The male blackbirds are healthy and round, and are already attacking each other prior to the mating season.

There are a few thrushes around. These were once numerous, but declined sharply, and now their numbers seem to be recovering. Maybe the cats decimated them.

My favourite visitor to the garden, a male sparrowhawk, did not put in an appearance. He alights and hops around on the cherry tree as the little birds take cover in the midst of the hedge. I wonder what they are thinking as he searches for them? Is it like taking shelter in a cave as an angry lion prowls outside?

There were a load of redpolls earlier in the winter but now only a few remain. The female blackcap arrived a week ago and continues to hop around.

Last Night's Dream

I was watching TV and there was live footage of riots in China. One of those coves implicated in the Chinese milk scandal was being transported to court in a cage, on a cart, pulled by a horse. The rioters swamped the horse and cart, there were so many of them you couldn't see what happened next but things weren't looking good for the fella in the cage.

Then the camera panned to the prison where the other Milk Scandal Felons were being held. It wasn't much of a prison, more like a modest two story house, with a low pointed metal fence around it. The rioters soon stormed it, and again in wasn't looking good for their victims, but we were spared the full details by dint of massed throngs.

Sudenly noise of riots could be heard outside my house. I didn't panic, because I knew I wasn't implicated in the milk scandal & my obviously western features would convince the rioters of this. But I thought it might be best to get the feck out of Dodge so I left the premises and headed towards Groomsport at a light jog.

It was a lovely summers day. Sure enough, some of the rioters caught up with me but they pretty much left me alone after some light jostling.

I kept jogging. The street was much longer than real life. The noise of rioting faded away and I became calm. At the end of the street, Philip Schofield was parked up in a nice red convertible mustang. Only he wasn't the Phil Scofield off the telly, he was a cool, snakeskin, hepcat Phil Schofield. He opened the boot (trunk) of the Mustang and a sassy, pretty 1950s woman came out of a house. She seemed to know Schofield and was wary of him. They flirted in a Tennesse Williams fashion. The conversation seemed to be about the mystery object in the trunk. They ignored me.

My crapola pingu/fleet foxes interface

If I was doing it properly I could have downloaded loads of Pingu vidoes and chopped and changed them to fit the lyrics. But I haven't the enthusiasm, so I used one Pingu video that sorta works.

Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah

Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah

As nearly heard on Radio 5 live.

If you have the facility to add some echo to this tune - perhaps by selecting the auditorium setting in your realtek audio manager- I reckon this sounds half decent! Until the singing kicks in.

I Found a dead body in the garden

I was just out bringing in the washing when I stumbled over a dead body lying in the garden. I went into the garage to get my inspection lamp and took a good look at him. It's an old fella in his 60s or 70s. He's wearing a pair of sweat pants and a old t-shirt, like he's just got up from bed or something. He's bald apart from a few wee tufts. Skinny old fella. He has no wallet or ID on him but I took an old fiver he had in his pocket.

He was lying on his side like he was sleeping, he looks peaceful, with his arm tucked under his head like a pillow. I swear he even has a wee smile on his face.

I called some of the neighbours over to have a juke but none of them know him. After they'd gone my mate Wee Rab from across the way hung around. We couldn't resist pulling his trackies down and having a juke at his wab, it's pretty shrivelled already or maybe it was always like that. He has a big old scar on his arse, looks like he ripped his cheeks at some point in his life.

Anyway, we got the football out of the shed and Rab and I took it in turns to hold him up & try and get him to do volleys & headers off the garage wall. It was good for a while but even a skinny old fella weighs your arms down after a few minutes. We got some good footage for youtube though.

Anyway, to cut to the chase, how can we tell if he died of natural causes? I know we should report it but if he died peaceful Rab & me thought we might as well take him down the back field beside the sheuch and bury him ourselves. Rab can get the lend of a bobcat digger from Decksy four doors down, and I can chisel an old stone for the top of it. It'll be like the grave of the unknown soldier, a wee local talking point.......

Here, Wee Rab just got a bee in his bonnet about organ donation. He's away to get a butcher's knife and plug in my old chest freezer. I've rummaged through the drawers and found some freezer bags.

With the help of an old GCSE biology book I reckon we can get the liver, heart, kidneys and that. Is there anything else we should go for? I suppose we should hurry while he's still warm. He hasn't got a donor card on him but I saw on the news that you don't need one to take people's insides any more.

So while we're getting the organs out we can have a look at them, what should we be looking for to see if he died of natural causes? If his heart is all full of chip fat or his lungs is all black that means he died of natural causes, aye? So it'll be OK to bury him? I've taken plenty of photos just in case his family come lookin him so they can identify him.

I've got that bit from the bible about 'ashes to ashes dust to dust' all lined up to say as Rab's backing the dirt over him in the bobcat................

Well, I managed to persuade Rab not to slice the old boy open to get at him. He just looked so peaceful lying there. Rab had a couple of beers in him anyway, I wouldn't trust him with a plastic fork nevermind a butchers knife.

We wrapped the old boy up in a tarpaulin and left him in the shed. Next morning he was sitting up, it fair freaked me out, his muscles mush have contracted. I tried pushing him back down but it was no good. So I called Fat Joesy from down the street, she came and sat on his chest. That did the trick, he went back dowwn but his back gave out a big snap, musst have broken it or something.

Anyway, word must have spread because most of the neighbour's came to take a wee juke at him and take a few photos. We dragged him up and draped his arm round us, put a lit ciggie in his mouth and stuf lol it was great crack altogether. Then some of the old wans told us off. Dexy's ma brought a nice old sheet or curtains or something. Then all the lads got together and whacked up an old coffin out of scrap wood and nailed him in it. It looked OK.

I got the big stone and wrote on "RIP OLD MAN GONE BUT NOT FORGOTTEN" in permanent marker. Then Kayso had a bright idea, instead of using the chisel he got a big power drill and we drilled into the letters on thee stone. It looked wile good but Flipper spoiled it by pouring gold paint in the letters.

A big crowd came down to the field to watch. Rab had got the hole dug already so me and the boys tipped him in. The coffin was a bit skew wiff but it was alright when Rab backed the soil over him. Then we put the big stone on top. Some people had printed out photos of the Old Man and wrapped them with clingfilm so we stuck them on the big stone. A few wee girls had candles so we put them on. I read my bit from the Bible and some of the girls were cryin, it was dead movin. Then Dexy's dad sang "dANNY bOY" and more people were gurnin, it was great crack.

After the peelers came but we told them it was just a movie for a project, they believed us, nobody squealed. They wouldn't dare anyways after what Dexy did last time! It was after he broke into that wee girls house and the dog saw him & chased him onto the carriageway. He ran in front of a car and the car hit the dog and killed it stone dead. Dexy was so out of it he brought the dog back to the girl. He wrapped in his T-shirt all covered in blood. The wee girl was Ok about it I think she liked Dexy or something. But the wee girls brother squealed on Dexy to the peelers and he was locked up for a bit. So when Dexy got out, he caught the brother and made him eat one his pet mice, he kept them in the garage. Then he glued his neck to a lamppost......

After we put orange and lemon peel on the grave, that keeps away dogs & cats and stops them shittin in the grave. Somebody said Tiger shite is good for that so if i AM AT BELLEVUE I will ask for some.

Late on when the schools were out I saw wee Poke and Hughsy go down there with a spade, they were going to dig the Old Man up but we see them and chased them off. Some people have no respect.....

HOW I WILL SPEND CHRISTMAS DAY

Put on 17th Quaker costume, load musket

Kill a magpie, hang it from tree

Chop down hawthorn tree, burnt it

Crawl through a ditch and slither in mud

Take magpie from tree

Go home, roast magpie, with stones

Throw in bin

Ring every taxi firm, no answer, cycle into town

Break into Woolworths, take 4 good sweets from pick and mix

Knock on random doors begging for wishbone & sprouts

Go to town hall, wank in letterbox

kill another magpie, while cycling, with good shot from musket

Cycle home

Wax moustache

Watch queen's speech on youtube, fall in love with her all over again, write usual erotic fantasy involving me and the queen in purple ink, sign and seal

Think very hard about Jesus, wish him bon anniversaire, apologise to him for that cross business

Start preparing for next years Christmas

Forever Young - Sung by kids

Dear Blog

Dear Blog,

Sorry I have been neglecting you. I have been Java programming, Java programming, going to the gym and Java programming and that is too boring to write about.

I went to Belfast and drank last Friday with my collegiate chums but although I had fun I don't really want to write about that. You wouldn't be interested. I spent another £60 on alcohol.

I will write more when something interesting happens.

Oh, here's something interesting:

I had fish and chips for tea. Yesterday I had stew. On Sunday it was roast pork. On Saturday I just nibbled bread all day. On Friday I had a pizza from Little Italy beside Robinsons. That is as far back as I can remember.

Love,
Bresker xoxox

Africa is giving nothing to anyone -- apart from AIDS

According to Kevin Myers that is in an article here

Something the article doesn't mention is that our forebears went into Africa and ripped the bejesus out of it - colonised it, enslaved the inhabitants, took away all the natural resources etc.

Now we've cleared off, but we still rip off the oil and the precious metals and give AK47s in return. We preach democracy but deal with dictators. We don't just give aid - we 'loan' money through the world bank and then demand that Africa imports our products. Often, that's stuff like sugar and cocoa which has been grown and processed there and repackaged in he West. We've even started buying up African state water and electricity companies to try and squeeze out more profit. Google 'ACTIS' for more information on how the UK government is helping corporations profit from African desperation.

I agree that giving aid isn't a permanent solution. But Myers 'let them die' attitude isn't acceptable to a lot of decent folk. And as for his assertion that Ireland's famine was different because 30% of the population was cut - surely that's the point of aid? If Myers had a time machine and a whole load of food wouldn't he go back in time and help those starving in the great hunger? I know I would.

Writes Myers:

How much morality is there in saving an Ethiopian child from starvation today, for it to survive to a life of brutal circumcision, poverty, hunger, violence and sexual abuse, resulting in another half-dozen such wide-eyed children, with comparably jolly little lives ahead of them? Of course, it might make you feel better, which is a prime reason for so much charity. But that is not good enough.

Change the word 'Ethiopian' to 'Irish' and Myers be an establishment Tory writing about the 'Irish Problem' 150 years ago. That might not bother him, I suppose.

I don't know where Myers got his crystal ball from to predict this ongoing misery. Times change. Civilsations fall and new ones spring up, often in a generation. Ethiopia was the cradle of an advanced, powerful empire centuries ago. Why can't it rise again, with a little help?

Aid is a choice anyway, Myers doesn't have to give if he doesn't want to. I rarely give to charities myself, partly because I live on £120 a week & partly because these days I'm never sure where the money is going. But it grieves me to see people dying of hunger while I watch fatties stagger out of McDonalds with their veins full of lard. Maybe they could do an exchange scheme with an Ethiopian for a month.

Portavoe 1/12/08

 
 
 
 

Some views around the reservoir at Portavoe, near Groomsport & Donaghadee.

I wonder what the people who lived in the house would think if they returned today and saw the dilapitated state of it, and the lake pooling around their front door?

I'm sure that there used to be many such houses around this area, but they've been dismantled and the foundations ploughed back into the fields. There was even a national school on the coast road near here; no trace of it remains.

These days, there are large farms covering many acres in the district, run by a single farming family. However, back in the 19th Century there was a thriving community at Portavoe. Most of the inhabitants were tenant farmers, scratching a living from the land and paying rent to a landlord. The Ker family of Portavoe lived in the 'Big House' next to the reservoir, though the latter is manmade and dates from sometime in the later 20th century.

Whether the Kers are still there I cannot say; I know there is a Portavoe house in the land adjacent where these pictures were taken, but I have never seen it & know not who lives there. There is a massive book called 'Portavoe' in Bangor library that I must read; it is a comprehensive history of the area.

There's some information about them in the Northern Ireland Record Office:



The family is descended from David Ker, a merchant of Ballymena, Co. Antrim, who
had taken a lease of the first fall on Sir Robert Adair's mill-race at Ballymena, c.1710.
He married Jean Boyd of Clontfinnan near Clough, Co. Antrim, and had a family of
eleven children of whom three were prominent merchants: William in Ballymena,
Hugh in Dublin, and David in London. David Ker settled in London and traded at
Cateaton Street, first as Ker & Elmes, then after 1755 as Ker, Elmes & Priest, and
later after 1758 as David Ker & Co. In 1765 he purchased the Portavoe estate near
Groomsport, in the Ards. He died in 1770 and was succeeded by his son, David,
during whose lifetime the firm traded as Ker, Pope & Dyson and later as Ker,
Brookland & Priest.

Anyway, the tenant families were often large, and only the eldest son could inherit the land. Many younger sons and daughters had to emigrate or move to the towns and cities. There wasn't the land to go round.

Portavoe 1/12/08

 
 
 
 

The landscape over the fields beyond Ballymacormack and Groomsport.

I walked up Gooch's lane, as I believe it is called. Then along the Springwell road, past a Fairy Fort. That's the gorse-covered mound in the second picture down. Apparently, some farmers won't touch them for fear of disturbing the little people, who'll come and snatch your children off to the land of Tir na Nog. In reality, they are often the sites of ancient homesteads. Maybe the farmer just can't be bothered cutting the rough ground on the crest of the hill. Some fairy mounds are covered in ancient blackthorn trees that no farmer would dare remove for fear of angering the sprites.

The other views are of the Lower Balloo and Kylestone roads. Taken on a bitterly cold, windswept 1st December, with buzzards and kestrels swooping overhead.

Portavoe 1/12/08

 
 
 
 

More views of Portavoe reservoir and the road towards it.

The sign at the bottom was placed there by the water service when the lake was a fully functioning reservoir; now it's used only by dog walkers and fishermen. I'm sure the sign must put off some potential visitors, which is a shame. I don't know why the water service would want to discourage visitors to this lovely local amenity.

Portavoe 1/12/08

 
 
 
 

More views of Portavoe and surrounds.

The water tower beside the lake presumably fed the pipes to the mains; the reservoir itself is low lying and gravity is needed to establish pressure in the water system. These days, all our water comes from high up the Mourne Mountains. There's no need for water towers at that height.

The first picture is of an abandoned stone house at Portavoe. It contains empty drink cans and tins of sweetcorn, oddly.

The second abandoned house still contains some furniture. It's on a little hidden street called McIlwaine's lane off the Groomsport bypass. Wooden bungalows were surprisingly common around Groomsport - you usually see that style of housing in warmer climes, like Australia or the US. There's still a few wooden homes in Orlock and Andrew's Shorefield in Groomsport. Most of them are disappearing to make way for new developments. There were a few round Ballymacormack when I was a boy but they've all been knocked down to make way for large brick homes.

Awake

It's 5.14am

I fell asleep at 8.15 and woke up after 2am

It's cold

I ate a bowl of cold porridge with raisins & semi-skimmed, an apple, a cold leftover leg of lamb, a pancake, some natural yogurt mixed with pineapple juice, two mugs of tea and some camembert cheese.

I was hungry after cycling and pounding the machines in the gym this afternoon.

I have lost two kilos, suddenly. Must be stress. And cycling.

Now, should I go back to sleep or just fight the tiredness till this evening?

An afternoon nap would mean I can't sleep tonight.