Dented Nerd

The Start of Something Huge

2009-06-16T15:11:00.002+01:00

My arms are covered in pinch marks. I keep expecting to wake up from this dream I've entered, but it's been ten days now and there are no signs that this is anything but real. All the shit I've been through these past six months has been a prelude, a trial I had to suffer in order to be given this fantastic reward. In hindsight, it all has meaning and purpose now. You can't climb a mountain unless you start in a valley, after all.

Allow me to explain.

On May 26th, I began a Gateway to Work program. It's a government-funded heap of bullcrap that you have to attend once you've been out of work for six months. I was ashamed to blog about it, because it represented a new low. That first morning, sitting small, nervous, and totally overdressed in that classroom, I noticed the people that had arrived before me. Amongst the typical assortment of Salford scallies, one guy stood out. He had his head buried in 'The Subtle Knife', one of my favourite books, and with his shades and lip piercing, I immediately pegged him as an instant ally.

Introductions were made. I soon marked myself as a complete outsider - ridiculously overqualified, with hopes of becoming a music teacher. My soon-to-be friend was named Will, and although he had been working in security, he wanted a career in music. I had to talk to this guy.

Our first conversation, during our first cigarette break, was about cats. I'd been talking about Plum inside, and he told me about his cat giving birth out of the blue some years ago. The more we talked, the more we found we had in common. When the subject of Warcraft was inevitably brought up, he told me about his love of dice-based roleplaying games and Warhammer. We talked endlessly about music and each other's work. When things became tedious over the course of the fortnight, we kept each other sane. On days when he didn't come in, I was sad.

When the course ended at midday on June 5th, we went out for one last cigarette and one last dig at our tutor (as clueless ginger twats go, he was rather epic). Will invited me to his brother's for a game of poker, which naturally I couldn't refuse. We met his brother Spider on his way to the precinct, and Spider's greeting - "you must be Jo!" - confirmed what I'd been secretly hoping: Will had told his friends about me.

Going back to Spider's was a lot like following the white rabbit down the rabbit hole. I found myself surrounded by a colourful group of new friends in a tiny little flat at the other end of the Crescent from mine, whooping ass at Texas Hold 'Em and having an absolute blast. I should have felt like a complete stranger, but instead it felt like a homecoming. When Will walked me home at stupid o'clock the next morning, with an invitation to play Call of Cthulu at his place the next day, my head was reeling from all the laughing I'd done, and my amazement that I seemed to have slotted myself into place with a group of new people, like the missing piece of a jigsaw.

One crazy mission to Eccles later, having widely impressed with a few of my songs and kicking ass in my first session of Cthulu, Will and I stayed up all night talking. (Just talking, you dirty horndogs, nothing else!) We confessed that we liked each other, and by sunrise we were officially a couple. Yay!

Friends, I take great pride in telling you that I am in love with one of the finest men I have ever met. Will is a true gentleman, as kind and courteous and chivalrous as I could have ever imagined. He's intelligent, sharp-witted and fiercely protective over the people he loves. He's a Leo, a pagan, and a brilliant songwriter. His sense of humour is caustic and tangential, and I have laughed more in ten days with him than I have in ten months before meeting him. He calls me his princess, and he is my prince. I feel as though I have known him forever, and that we've just been waiting for life to draw us together. In the few aspects of each other's personalities where we're not similar, we complement each other perfectly.

But what's amazed me is the circumstances that brought us together in the first place. If I hadn't forced out of that stupid call centre, I wouldn't have been unemployed so long, and I'd have never been on that course. If Ben hadn't been such a dick to me, I wouldn't have even looked at another man, let alone wanted to speak to one. If I hadn't been so miserable, I wouldn't have been able to appreciate this love for what it is. Will doesn't make me feel useless or second best. Instead, he's someone that I can make proud, someone to motivate and encourage me, someone to come home to and feel instantly gratified for everything I do.

I'm in love!

Telltale = God.

2009-06-01T20:32:00.003+01:00

Friends, my prayers have been answered. So many fond memories, so many questions left unanswered... but today, only joy. Telltale be thy name.

Allow me to explain a little. In the beginning, there was Lucasarts. They brought us Maniac Mansion, Day of the Tentacle, Sam & Max Hit The Road, Loom, Grim Fandango, and some small-time series named Monkey Island. (I don't like to mention the Ar-stay Ars-way crapola. Hate the franchise.)

When Lucasarts abandoned development on a much-awaited sequel to the game Sam & Max Hit The Road, a company named Telltale sprang up from the ashes. Now, Telltale knew how to do it up right. They released the new Sam & Max game - games, rather - in episodic form. Five separate games released monthly, with an overarching storyline to tie them all together. Groundbreaking? Fo' shiz.

Now, Telltale won my heart fair and square last summer when they made a game based on my very favourite website - Strong Bad's Cool Game For Attractive People, or SBCG4AP. It was an unexpected slice of awesomeness that made me incredibly happy over the five months of its release. I couldn't get Strong Bad to read one of the many, many emails I've sent him, but I did make some awesome Teen Girl Squad comics.

Last week, with Telltale's fifth anniversary giveaway, I decided to buy Sam & Max Season Two and the SBCG4AP DVD so I could get the extras, fangirl that I am. When my coupon codes went a little squiffy, their tech support was fantastic about it, giving me exactly the right help I needed, in almost no time at all. Can't ask for more than that, eh? So I was brimming over a little with love for Telltale, especially considering the fairly crappy couple of weeks I've had.

But today surpasses all of this.

You see, right now, I'm 24. Eighteen years ago, the Thunderkittens and I borrowed a certain Lucasarts game from our cousins to play on our Amiga 500. (So adorably retro, even then.) I had to read the dialogue to Pook and Marv so that they could understand the game. We only got half the humour - I was six and they were three, so the typical George Lucas references were lost on us - but we played it incessantly. When the sequels came out, we devoured them one after another. Now, nearly ten years since the last game, we had all but given up hope.

But there is no need for hope anymore. Friends, Guybrush Threepwood sails again.

...Yeah, I know. And before you ask a silly question, of course I've preordered it already!

To coincide with this, Lucasarts has another special treat for we hardcore - should that be 'arrrrd-core? - fans. Can we say special edition?

I'll leave you to rejoice. For, after all, if you're not rejoicing, you can hardly be called a gamer.

Up In The Air

2009-05-31T21:30:00.002+01:00

If you've found me, here at http://dentednerd.blogspot.com, congratulations. It's not cool to have to write your first post in a while at a completely different address, so I'll explain everything that's been going on, not just with the domain, but with real-life me too.

Firstly, dentednerd.com still exists. However, right now that domain is entirely in the hands of my former ISP. According to WHOIS, dentednerd.com has expired, yet all the contact details are the ISP's. How handy. Since before it expired, I've been trying to get the domain transferred to my new ISP. My old ISP are simply not playing ball. I'm trying to get the issue resolved and get my domain back, so I'll keep you informed.

I've finally got my PGCE application sent off to my referees. It's a month before the deadline, but the whole process has taken months more than it has done. I've been messed around by circumstances entirely out of my control, and nobody is really to blame, but it's felt like an uphill struggle just to get one crappy online form filled out these past few weeks.

My social life is a shambles at the moment. Having been on a few outings this week, largely skinting myself in paying for tickets to friends' gigs, I suddenly find myself ignored when they don't need my ticket money. When I have to pay to socialise with so-called friends, that's fine. But when it comes to just hanging out, I may as well not exist. Apparently I'm not worth the same effort I give them.

As for the ending of the Relationship That Never Was, it's now degenerated into a stalker-like nightmare. Constant texts and voicemails that ask nothing of how I am or what I want, but whine on at great drunken length about how shit he's feeling, how he wants me back. I hope he's reading, although part of me knows he won't - save your phone bill. It's over.

Pook's bought pets. Two duprasis, or fat-tailed gerbils. Not really selfish at all, considering that she doesn't contribute enough towards the bills, we can barely afford to feed ourselves, and we have a pregnant cat in the flat already. If she wants me to babysit when she's away, I've got two words for her.

Everyone seems hellbent on pissing me off lately. It's at times like these that I thank the gods for Warcraft, so I can just disappear and pretend it's not happening.

Being Watched At Grand Central

2009-05-20T01:39:00.003+01:00

Grand Central, favoured watering hole of the Manchester rock and metal community, was the scene tonight of one of the Battle for Bloodstock semi-finals. (Bloodstock is a metal festival; unsigned bands are competing for a slot.) Among the six bands lined up tonight were Visitor, who Pook's boyfriend Gaz plays guitar for. A whole gang of us went down to watch the show, and the night went really well.*

Now, GC is my favourite place to watch people. As you'd expect from a bar known for its heavy jukebox and regular metal gigs, the clientèle is a colourful conglomerate of extremes and alternatives. Guys that drink there often have longer hair than their female friends, and almost exclusively wear black T-shirts adorned with band names. In contrast, the girls usually make an effort to look extremely well-presented. Again, black is the colour of choice, but used to the opposite effect alongside hair of all colours and styles. The clash of scruffy, hard-looking men against perfectly-groomed, sparkly-eyed women is something you don't see in any other scene in this town.

It's always loud in GC, gig or no gig. We'll stand around playing air guitar, comparing bands and telling dirty jokes at full volume, lads and lasses alike. Here, two guys screaming in each other's faces isn't a sign of trouble - it's a greeting, usually followed by a hefty hug and another round of pints. The insanity of it all is that it's one of the least violent venues in town. I've never seen a fight break out there, despite the dark backdrop and thrashing soundtrack. You just know that the seven-foot-tall bruiser at the bar with the ponytail and the full-sleeve tattoo is a big teddy bear, just like everyone else.

Whilst I wouldn't class myself as a metalhead by any stretch of the imagination, I love the atmosphere, the music, the conversations and the people. It's the only place where I've ever been able to ask for "the usual" at the bar. Home sweet second home.

So, after milling around in the crowd, catching up with my buddies and watching the gigs all evening, I went out for a cigarette. It's then that a guy approached me, wanting to know if he could ask me an odd question.

"Did you really, honestly enjoy that gig?"

At this point, it should be noted what I was wearing: a cream skinny-strap top, long denim skirt, those brown slingback sandals (quick aside: my feet are sore, but blister-free!) and a dinky little necklace that Sharl got me for Christmas. I didn't look like I listen to metal at all. As usual, I looked like a floaty little hippy.

So I told him that, despite appearances, I live life pretty damn loud. I explained how I came to see Visitor, that I used to live with a whole metal band, and that although metal is not always my first choice of listening material, it's always a good night at GC. In turn, the guy explained to me that, because he's teetotal, he does a lot of people-watching on nights out, observing how nights like these progress as everyone gets drunker and drunker. Apparently, my presence had completely perplexed him, as I just didn't fit in with the crowd at all.

This pleased me. I take great pride in my individuality.

Anyhow, we had a chat about the bands and the scene, and eventually went our separate ways. But it was great fun to talk to someone who does exactly what I do in our beloved pub, and very amusing to know that, for once, the watcher was being watched.

*Despite a great performance, Visitor didn't make it to the final, but congratulations go to our friends in Bisonhammer, who did.

(Inspired by Plinky. Slightly edited.)

Saltwater

2009-05-14T00:45:00.003+01:00

Plinky has this creepy habit of asking particularly relevant questions with impeccable timing. Case in point: May 10th; "It's true that you shouldn't cry over spilt milk. Over what is it okay to shed tears?"

Shit went down on May 10th. My response to Plinky, two days later, was this:

It's okay to cry when you realise that a two-year emotional investment has come to an end.

It's okay to cry when it becomes clear that the commitment you were hoping for reciprocation on would never come. To love yet not be loved in return is worthy of tears.

It's okay to cry fondly over memories of good times shared, to cry bitterly at the memory of the point it all changed, and to cry with sorrow for what might have been had that day never come.

It's definitely okay to cry white-hot tears of anger at the other party's complete refusal to see how it all went wrong. When the straw-man accusations and the last-ditch attempts to instigate guilt come flying at you, there is no shame in crying then.

It's blissful to cry tears of relief at the realisation that you no longer have to bear anyone else's burdens but your own, to no longer have to play the faithful lapdog, the emotional trashcan.

It's perfectly acceptable to cry with fear at being alone again, at facing your multitude of problems without that same backup to rely on anymore.

But you know what else is okay? It's okay not to cry. As trying as the past three days have been, I haven't expressed my sadness in tears. That's not to say I won't in days to come, but an obstinate voice in my head is telling me not to waste saltwater on something that had been flawed for so long.

After all, he wasn't even my boyfriend. Still, it's over.

That was two days ago. The sadness started to creep in a little today, but as a wise hunter advised me earlier, I'm not letting the sadness make me forget why I'm angry. I mourn the loss of what was, but I'm still overwhelmed with rage at the way in which it was lost. This was something I'd fought against, an event whose inevitability I denied. That inevitability is now crystal-clear to me, but it could have happened so differently. There's hate now where there was hope only days ago. It makes me even angrier to have to admit that it is hate - that the love I had wasn't simply allowed to die and fade away, but was poisoned and turned into something awful. Maybe that's why I haven't cried; there's so much fire in me that there's no water left.

I'll be okay, but my regular posting schedule might be interrupted for a while.

Typing Words, Crafting Art

2009-05-09T21:13:00.003+01:00

I'm a perfectionist, so typing allows me to keep myself in check. Erasing mistakes comes as simply as a keystroke, rather than having to turn the pencil upside down, rub away, turn it back and write again. I'm also a habitual doodler, as my ring binders full of uni notes will testify. They're nonsensical if not illegible, and are full of stories, conversations and insults hurled at my classmates.

Come on, do you really think the average human's attention span would cover a whole musicology lecture?

At a keyboard, I can get things written down as fast as I can think them, so it's not so much a fight with my attention span as it is a battle to project my stream of consciousness into something worth reading. However, it's for that exact reason that I handwrite my song lyrics. They're worth thinking about and pondering over. Writing them with pencil and paper gives me the feeling that I'm actually crafting something tangible and meaningful. I feel as though I owe it to my art.

(Inspired by Plinky. Slightly edited this time.)

Hooray For Good Music!

2009-05-06T16:37:00.005+01:00

Today's the most important day in early May. There are those who celebrate Star Wars (ick) on May the Fourth, and many more who celebrate Mexican culture on Cinco de Mayo. But today is May 6th, and it's the 12th annual Hanson Day! Today's a little musical Thanksgiving for me - I'm grateful for the inspiration Hanson's given me, not just through their music but also the guts and determination they showed in setting up their independent label and managing their career on their own terms. Theirs is a story in which good music triumphs over money-grubbing record labels, and a kind of artistic zen is achieved by regaining complete control. This humble fan is surely proud of them, and hopes they'll tour the UK again soon (pretty please?). Happy Hanson Day to one and all!

It's been a while now since Hanson released 'The Walk', and it looks to be another little while before their next album reaches our ears. Whilst I'm wetting my little knickers in anticipation, I'm getting as much new music under my belt as possible. So in the spirit of celebrating good music today, here's a few endorsements I'd like to make.

Jill Scott

If you're a fan of BBC crime dramas, or TV adaptations of bestselling books, you'll recognise Jill Scott from her recent role as Precious Ramotswe, the finest lady detective in Botswana. I loved 'The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency', but what I didn't realise is that Ms Scott is an established singer and poet, with no less than three Grammy awards under her belt. How cool is that? After checking out her discography, I'm ashamed to admit my former ignorance of her work. Man, this gal's got soul. She's got this luscious, groovy take on hip-hop that's sexy and chilled, yet understated and raw. This lady's so popular that she's even got an album full of collaborations with artists such as Lupe Fiasco, Will Smith, Mos Def and will.i.am.

Yoshihisa Hirano

I've been a bad otaku of late. I haven't been keeping up with my anime, and at the moment I'm struggling to get through Code Geass. Maybe it's because I blew a funny fuse at Ouran High School Host Club, a gloriously funny take on Japanese host culture. Set in a wealthy high school, the story follows Haruhi Fujioka, a first-year female student who gets roped into the school's host club after an accident. It's a hilarious parody with an excellent soundtrack, composed by Yoshihisa Hirano. It's the latest addition to a long list of Japanese orchestral soundtracks that I love, creating an atmosphere that's the perfect balance of stately grace and comic slapstick.

Yet this isn't the first Hirano soundtrack I've been a fan of. I don't need to rave about Death Note; the rest of the internet's already done that for me. Suffice it to say that no anime, before or since, had me on the edge of my seat for so long. Hirano was responsible for this soundtrack too, and it goes to show his amazing versatility. Where Ouran is light and cute, Death Note is brooding and suspenseful, using that same orchestral sound to create tension rather than comedy. That's the mark of a good composer right there.

Jukebox the Ghost

I know I blogged about these guys last week, but their gig at the Roadhouse had me bouncing with joy for days afterwards. Ben got me listening to these guys months ago, having met piano player Ben Thornewill at another gig some time ago. (We all agreed at the gig that Bens appear to be taking over the earth.) They get a lot of comparisons to Ben Folds and Mika, but I don't think these do them justice. With a rather large penchant for the dramatic, Jukebox the Ghost have this unique brand of piano-based pop-rock that draws you in with its intricate, quirky sound, then stomps all over your brain with witty lyrics about things like the end of the world. They kinda make you want to run around with your hands in the air squealing "Yay! The apocalypse is coming!"

The beauty of Jukebox the Ghost is that, because they use so little production in the studio, they can recreate their recordings perfectly on stage. They've got presence by the truckload, and they're an absolute treat to watch. Not surprising, really, considering the amount of touring they do. If you're lucky enough to get to one of their gigs, I can't recommend them highly enough.

Tinted Windows

I can't let Hanson Day go by without a heads-up to Taylor's new project, the unlikely yet fantastic supergroup known as Tinted Windows. Ten years ago, if you'd told me that there would one day be a band, with a Hanson and a Smashing Pumpkin in its ranks, that would play power-pop to rival that of Head Automatica, I would have laughed like so many others. Yet it's true, and I've not quite managed to lift my jaw from the floor since. Tinted Windows is slicker and bouncier than a greased-up rubber ball, and some of those guitar riffs stick in your head like bubblegum in a shagpile carpet. Biased? Me? Of course. But you don't need to take my word for it when you're still singing their songs three days later.

Cats I've Known

2009-05-04T15:07:00.002+01:00

In another life, I might have been a dog person. If the street I grew up on had been populated with more dogs, perhaps, or if I'd just been around them when I was little. But the little ones that barked a lot scared me, and I discovered I was allergic to the bigger, hairier ones. Instead, I grew up on a street where three-quarters of our neighbours had at least one cat. We weren't one of those households, but we made an awful lot of feline friends all the same.

First there was Max, who would wait on our front doorstep for us to come home from school every day. He loved the attention, and didn't mind that we were little and would sometimes pull his tail. He never hissed or scratched, probably because he was too old to care. When he finally passed on - in our back yard, where our next-door neighbour had to rescue him - he was twenty years old.

Jesse liked to eat. He'd sneak into our house when we weren't looking and sit at the refrigerator expectantly, even though he knew full well he had another home to go to. After Max passed on, our neighbour would happily feed Jess too, and pretty soon he got really fat.

Then there was my dearly departed Puddy, my bestest fuzzy friend. Once he knew he had friends across the street from him that he could visit whenever he wanted, he'd howl like a werewolf at the moon to be let in. He was a grumpy old thing, mostly because of the arthritis in his back legs, but he'd sit on my lap and listen to me while I talked to him, occasionally meowing advice at me. He was very loyal. When our neighbours discovered he had cancer and had to put him down because of his age (Pud was eighteen, only a few months younger than me), I cried all evening.

When new neighbours moved in next door to where Puddy used to live, one of their rescue cats, Mima, started visiting us. She had an odd quirk - because she hadn't been weaned properly as a kitten, she would constantly knead with her paws. She'd knead the air, the floor, our laps, anything. I called her Mima-rin after an anime character. We never did find out what happened to her after she disappeared, but we think she must have gone away to die. Poor Mima.

When Pook and I moved into our flat, we inherited yet another cat companion. Our landlord could only take one of his cats with him to his new apartment, so he left Norman with some friends of his round the corner from us. But Norm liked to make sure his old territory was in good hands, so he'd come and visit us every day. He's like Max - very affectionate, and black all over. Norm hasn't come to visit in a while, but last time we saw him, he'd been in a fight and was missing some fur from his head. Hope he's okay.

We aren't sure what our current adoption's name is, but we call her Plum. She must be getting fed somewhere - she's never hungry although we can't afford to feed her - but we don't know where she lives. The first time she came to visit, she did exactly what she does every day now - came through our French doors, ran straight through the living room into my bedroom, and fell asleep on my bed. I wondered if maybe she was the reincarnation of Puddy - she's tabby on top and white underneath like him, and she likes sleeping on my bed, just like Pud used to. It took Plum a while to get used to us - at first she was nervous and hissed a lot, but now she's as sweet as sugar. She likes being tickled under her chin, and sleeping on the furry blanket I got for Christmas.

When I've got a decent job, I'll adopt a cat of my own, providing Plum doesn't mind. I like cats for their independence, in comparison to dogs - they can look after themselves, but they always come back for some affection too. Doggies are sweet in their way, but they like being told what to do, whereas you can't tell a cat to do squat.

Besides, whoever heard of a loldog?

(Inspired by Plinky.)

Here's To You, Miss Marriott

2009-05-02T15:55:00.004+01:00

Who wasn't my enemy when I was ten?

I was the class overachiever. Full marks in every spelling test, ridiculously well-read for my age, the first to volunteer for anything, the loudest singer in the school choir, the overall star performer.

Oh, and let's not forget this vital fact: because I'd been pushed around by some little prick the year before and hadn't told anyone until he was found out, I'd been told to tell an adult the instant someone gave me shit. So not only was I the overachiever, I was also the tattle-telling goody-two-shoes. I may as well have wandered around the playground with a target painted on my chest.

See? Even you hate ten-year-old me.

If it's names you're after, here's a few: there was Emma, one of the bitchy overlords of the playground, who told my on-again-off-again best friend Julia that if I was invited to her birthday party, neither Emma nor any of the other girls in class would go. Then there was Stewart, the token troublemaker and every teacher's worst nightmare, who nearly broke my finger in a hockey match and never let me forget it.

But here's the really sad part: when I was ten, my arch nemesis was my year 5 teacher, Miss Marriott. She was newly qualified, liked teaching PE best (my overachieving did not extend to the sports field), and had absolutely no idea how to deal with a kid like me. She didn't think I was anything special academically, and she believed that I brought all my problems on myself.

Yeah. Bitch.

I'll never forget that one afternoon when I came running out of school, crying hysterically, to my mother. I'd spent an entire day getting ripped on in class and being ignored by my teacher, and I seem to remember wanting to run away and die. Ma being Ma, marched me right back into school and went apeshit at Miss Marriott, who at first tried telling her that I was partly to blame.

"How dare you tell me she started it? Don't you have any idea of the grief she gets? Would you like to be the mother of a child that's miserable all the time because she's being bullied at school?" By the end of it, Miss Marriott was speechless and Ma was so angry that she was in tears. It was only the second time in my life that I'd seen my ma cry, so I was freaked out, let alone my teacher.

*snif-snif* Is that the smell of someone getting burned?

The day was saved by my to-be year 6 teacher, Mr Newell, who liked teaching music best (he ran the school choir) and knew exactly what was going on with me. He calmed Ma and I down, and no doubt had a few words to the Marriott after we left. Once I turned eleven, life got a little easier knowing I had someone in the classroom to back me up.

But here's a learning for you to take away, kids: when it comes to playground bullying, there's no bigger bully than the teacher who turns a blind eye.

(Inspired by Plinky.)

When In Doubt, Blame The Grill

2009-04-30T16:55:00.006+01:00

What's the most useless thing in my flat, eh?

My instinctive answer to this question would be Pook. However, Pook is only useless because she's never in the flat.

Conversely, I know Pook's answer would be me, as would Ben's. (He told me this, the traitor. He'll be getting no more of my magic pesto chicken.)

My next choice might be the vacuum cleaner. It has no effect on my bedroom carpet. But on second thought, it's not bad on the hardwood floors.

Then I wondered about Marv. He makes a mess, leaves my computer on, and can never remember our security code to let himself in. But he keeps Ben quiet when they play Pro Evo, so he's not all bad.

So I guess my final answer would be our grill. It's been broken for months, and not even Dad can fix it. I'm sure that having to fry everything has contributed to my shocking Wii Fit age. I hate you, Broken Grill. You made me fat.

(This part of the post was inspired by Plinky.)

In the spirit of uselessness, I've been making a few tweaks to the site lately that nobody's really going to notice. Want a little tour? Yeah, I'm sure you don't. But you're gonna get one all the same!

The links in the navbar have changed. Instead of my largely useless "other" sites, it's now a list of pages relevant to just the Nerd. "Just like a Wordpress blog!" I hear you gasp. Yeah, but this is a Blogger blog, and don't you forget it.

The left sidebar's been given some badge-like graphics (which have popped up around the blog elsewhere), and the "Latest Posts" list is now feed-based, rather than being derived from Blogger's Recent Posts feature. It now shows the five latest posts, rather than the ten posts made previously to the one you're viewing.

The Tags list has been around a few weeks by now, but it's a neat little hack of the Labels feature included in New Blogger that I dug up from the net somewhere. The Nerd still rolls with Classic Blogger, and proud to be, so this little feature's very handy for browsing.

The right sidebar's been given a whacking big overhaul. If you're on the main page or any of the navbar pages, you'll see the miniblog. It's still powered by Twitter, but it's now only the latest five tweets. Below that is my new blogroll, entitled Now Try These. But is it a blogroll? HECK NO! It's a carefully crafted mashup between Yahoo! Pipes and Feedburner that brings you the latest updates from my favourite blogs. But these all disappear when you view a previous post. The right sidebar becomes the archive list, to make it easier for you to browse through old nerdence.

Assuming you want to, that is. An assumption too far, perhaps?

That's Another Fine Mess I've Got Myself Into

2009-04-28T14:12:00.002+01:00

I'm bored.

I'm unemployed and I'm bored.

Nobody will give me a job, so I'm unemployed and I'm bored.

The recession's messing everything up and nobody will give me a job, so I'm unemployed and I'm bored.

I quit my job, but the recession's messing everything up and nobody will give me a job, so I'm unemployed and I'm bored.

My managers hated me, so I quit my job, but the recession's messing everything up and nobody will give me a job, so I'm unemployed and I'm bored.

Apparently being nice in a call centre is the wrong thing to do, and my managers hated me, so I quit my job, but the recession's messing everything up and nobody will give me a job, so I'm unemployed and I'm bored.

I got a job to pay the bills, but apparently being nice in a call centre is the wrong thing to do, and my managers hated me, so I quit my job, but the recession's messing everything up and nobody will give me a job, so I'm unemployed and I'm bored.

I wanted some me time, so I got a job to pay the bills, but apparently being nice in a call centre is the wrong thing to do, and my managers hated me, so I quit my job, but the recession's messing everything up and nobody will give me a job, so I'm unemployed and I'm bored.

I decided to take a year out because I wanted some me time, so I got a job to pay the bills, but apparently being nice in a call centre is the wrong thing to do, and my managers hated me, so I quit my job, but the recession's messing everything up and nobody will give me a job, so I'm unemployed and I'm bored.

Becoming a secondary school music teacher seemed like the way to go, but I decided to take a year out because I wanted some me time, so I got a job to pay the bills, but apparently being nice in a call centre is the wrong thing to do, and my managers hated me, so I quit my job, but the recession's messing everything up and nobody will give me a job, so I'm unemployed and I'm bored.

After graduating with a 2:1 in popular music last July, becoming a secondary school music teacher seemed like the way to go, but I decided to take a year out because I wanted some me time, so I got a job to pay the bills, but apparently being nice in a call centre is the wrong thing to do, and my managers hated me, so I quit my job, but the recession's messing everything up and nobody will give me a job, so I'm unemployed and I'm bored.

I worked my ass off for four years at university, and after graduating with a 2:1 in popular music last July, becoming a secondary school music teacher seemed like the way to go, but I decided to take a year out because I wanted some me time, so I got a job to pay the bills, but apparently being nice in a call centre is the wrong thing to do, and my managers hated me, so I quit my job, but the recession's messing everything up and nobody will give me a job, so I'm unemployed and I'm bored.

The moral of the story: a degree doesn't get you jack these days.

(Inspired by Plinky.)

Yum Yum (No, Seriously)

2009-04-25T23:11:00.003+01:00

In the centre of Manchester stands the Printworks, a former printing press turned entertainment centre. It's home to several eateries, drinkeries, clubs I wouldn't be caught dead in, and the Odeon cinema I worked at a couple of summers ago. You can get great cocktails at Norwegian Blue or the Hard Rock Cafe, and the food's good at Old Orleans or Nando's, but you've got to be feeling rich to eat here - the Printworks is notoriously overpriced.

But there's always one exception that proves the rule, and in the case of the Printworks, that exception is Yum Yum. It's a Chinese all-you-can-eat buffet that's not only excellent value for money, but has food that really lives up to the name of the place. Their barbecue chicken wings are out of this world, and their amazing sausage satay is the first thing I go for.

Yum Yum saved my sorry ass a few times when I was working at the cinema. In the middle of a long and hungry shift, filling one of Yum Yum's takeaway boxes for £3.80 was the antidote. Weekdays, you can eat there for less than a tenner. Yum-yum, indeed. If we're trying to have a night out on a budget, Yum Yum is our first choice for a cut-price stuffing. It's great on Wednesdays, when we can follow it up with an Orange Wednesday at the Odeon.

Then there was last Tuesday. There was nothing left in the fridge, and we needed to eat fast. Luckily my ever-wise gramma had sent me £20 for Easter, so Ben and I stuffed ourselves silly on the best buffet in town, before heading to the Roadhouse to see a fantastic band from Philadelphia named Jukebox the Ghost. Okay, I admit it: this whole post has simply been leading up to a plug for a band I really like. But they're seriously good, criminally underplayed, and really nice guys too. They have an album available on iTunes called 'Let Live and Let Ghosts' that's well worth a listen or three.

(Inspired by Plinky.)

Sobriety, Politics and the Vengaboys: How To Kill a Party

2009-04-23T20:43:00.002+01:00

when the conversation becomes one guy's political soapbox

"Hey there, Sergeant Buzzkill. Yeah, the state of the nation sucks, eh? How 'bout letting someone else get a word in edgewise there? No? I guess I'll just be going then. Psst. Hey, don't let this guy drink any more."

when the Scouser gets angry

There are things that you should avoid at all costs, whatever the situation: fire, floods, beehives, the emo room at Jilly's, and Liverpudlian anger. Getting in the way of this kind of temper can only end in tears, especially for southern fairies like me.

when the ugly guy starts cracking onto you

Some of us have this curse - ugly guys immediately zoom in on us as we enter the party, and point-blank refuse to leave us alone. The words "no", "I'm taken", or "please take yourself in a northerly direction and find someone who cares" mean nothing to this most awkward of foes.

when the party runs out of booze

This is an unforgivable sin. People will start to become confused. They might cry. They might sober up! Make confession to the party fairy, and do penance for at least a week afterwards.

when the music goes from funny to nasty

'Gay Bar' by Electric Six is a perfectly acceptable party tune. 'The Vengabus is Coming' is not. There are certain songs that are just not fit for human ears, no matter how drunk you are. At this point, it's best to just run for the hills and hide until morning.

(Inspired by Plinky.)

Insane in the Mary-Jane

2009-04-20T22:55:00.002+01:00

Happy 4/20, everyone.

I'm looking forward to the day when marijuana is legalised. Now, I'm not its biggest fan, and I've seen first-hand the psychological damage it can do when it's abused. (It indirectly jeopardised my final year at uni. Long story, for another time maybe.) But try comparing it to the two drugs that are legal - alcohol and tobacco. Both of these are responsible for around a quarter of all deaths in the developed world, placing an unnecessary workload on our already struggling healthcare systems. Yet their abuse is encouraged, as it provides a booster for our flagging economy.

Cannabis gets its bad reputation simply because of its common use with tobacco. However, on its own, the evidence of its medical benefits based on research from the past ten years is mounting up. It's an excellent analgesic and has been shown to effectively treat the symptoms of multiple sclerosis, arthritis and even HIV. Yet it's illegal to even prescribe it medically.

Legalising it, however, would be only one step towards regulating its production, its sale and its use. Keeping it illegal seems stupid to me - those that would control it have little to no idea who's growing it, or who's consuming it. There's a lot of money in the marijuana trade. That's money that could do a lot of good in the right hands - for instance, funding more research into its medicinal effects - but nobody knows whose hands the money's in right now.

Marijuana's not this big evil monster the government would have us believe it is. Yes, when used incorrectly it can wreck people. But I see marijuana in the same way as music downloads or DVD "piracy". The powers-that-be hate it because they're losing revenue because of it. But people will find a way of doing it, so the only sensible long-term option is not to fight it, but to harness it. The sooner the government embraces the cannabis trade instead of shunning it, the better.

Think about it: when was the last time you saw two stoned people in a fight? Wouldn't it be easier on our police forces if people were stoned instead of drunk on a Friday night? When was the last time you heard of someone overdosing on marijuana? Yes, the health implications of smoking weed are bad, but say it were to be legalised, and healthier methods of consumption were found, especially for those who use it medically - would that not take some of the pressure off our hospitals?

Legalise it. Regulate it. Tax it. Use it as a power for good. At the end of the day, it's just a plant, not Lucifer incarnate.

(Inspired by Plinky.)

Questions Without Answers

2009-04-17T00:35:00.003+01:00

I haven't answered a Plinky prompt in three days. I know - WTF, right? Plinky's been my little addiction this past month or so. It's helped to stave off the boredom, and I've actually started to have a little confidence in my writing ability.

Truth be told, the prompts from the last three days have made me sad. I know Plinky doesn't mean to make me sad, but the questions they've asked have reminded me that my life continues to suck. Writing about my past adventures has made for an excellent escape route, but I can't write about the present. There's nothing to write about.

So I'm going to do my best to answer their questions here. That way I'm keeping my whining away from Plinky.

Relive a vacation.

I wanted to write about the trip to Greece that Matt and I took in September 2005. I wanted to describe the best vacation I've ever been on - a whole week away in a brand new country, swimming in the sea and drinking cocktails without having to worry about anything. I wanted to remember that sunset cruise we took, that one perfect evening that I wanted to wrap up in a box and keep with me forever, my own little slice of heaven.

But I haven't been on a vacation since. I can't afford to. And I'm tired of the rain, of being indoors with nothing to look forward to. And I can't think of that holiday without remembering what I was clinging onto. We were falling apart at the seams even then, and I was in such denial. I just wanted everything to be okay with us. I miss Matt very much, and I feel very lonely sometimes. I know I've got Ben and we're as close as close gets, but we're not a couple. Matt and I were the package, you know? The whole caboodle.

(Sorry, Plinky, but you made me cry again.)

If all the world's a stage, and we're merely players, how does your next scene begin?

My next scene is exactly the same as the one before it, and the one before that, and the one before that. I'll wake up sometime between 10am and noon. I'll have snoozed all my alarms because there's nothing to wake up to. I'll boot the PC, read my emails and feeds. When I get to the Cheezburger pictures, I'll remember to check on the kitty. She'll either be outside wanting in, or inside wanting out. I check the job vacancies on the usual sites. If there are any changes I'll email some applications out, knowing full well I'll never hear anything back.

If I'm feeling positive, I'll bust out the Wii Fit for an hour or so. If I'm feeling negative, I'll hit the couch with a brew and Jeremy Kyle on TV. Seeing society's dregs screeching for DNA tests for their bastard children makes me feel a little better about myself.

On a good day, Ben will come over and we'll do something, often revolving around cooking and whatever good tunes we've been listening to lately. We'll watch The Simpsons at 6, Family Guy at 11. If Ben doesn't go home after Family Guy, we'll watch a DVD on his laptop before sleepytime. On a bad day, I won't move from my computer. If I log onto WoW and Matt's online, the day is made much better. If not, I'll do something pointless and web-related, like this. When I'm tired, I'll put on three episodes of Thundercats and fall asleep.

There are variations on this theme. Every second Thursday I sign on. I go out for supplies at least once a week. If Ben's got a gig on in Manchester, I'll go to it. Pook comes and goes depending on her job and boyfriend. Marv comes over almost every day when he's here, but he's been with the folks for two weeks, and to be honest I've forgotten what he looks like. I have a very, very casual job working match days at Manchester United now, but they come so infrequently it's barely worth the money.

All in all, I'd sell my soul for decent employment right now. I never expected graduate life to be so bad.

There's never enough time, is there? What would you do with an extra three hours today?

What difference would three hours make to me right now? Three more hours in bed? Three more hours of Thundercats? Of Warcraft? Of Jeremy Kyle telling some chav he should have put something on the end of it?

Three hours is just three more hours of having to live without any income at all. Three hours is three more hours on benefits. Three hours is three hours more of being screwed over by Salford Council (latest news from them - they want to take us to court over a supposedly unpaid council tax bill). Three more hours of hearing nothing back from supposed employers. Three more hours of hopelessness.

I'm sorry. I feel so utterly defeated today.

Balti In My Blood

2009-04-14T16:44:00.005+01:00

Italy has pasta, that foolproof staple of my kitchen that goes with everything. Italy also has pesto, which I only discovered, to my shame, at uni, and which has not been absent from my cupboard since.

Japan has ramen, udon, sushi, miso, gyoza... oh crap, I'll need to clean the drool from my keyboard now.

Portugal invented this little thing called piri-piri. Nando's took the magical piri-piri and made chicken taste unbelievable. Domino's took the sacred piri-piri and made a mind-blowing new pizza.

Yet all these I would happily deny for a year. You see, I'm immensely proud of my Indian roots, especially where food is concerned. (It's not like I can be proud of my British culinary heritage, is it? Almost everything the Brits are famous for cooking is either grossly unhealthy or unhealthily gross.) Give me curry, my friends. A nice lamb bhuna or a chicken pathia ought to do it. Don't forget the pilau rice and the keema naan either.

Now, before you back away in horror crying "But your mouth! Your stomach! Your arse!" please remember that I've been raised on curry. Dad had me eating spicy lentils and rice from the day I could eat solid food. In fact, I'm fairly sure my blood type is Balti Positive. So don't you worry that it'll be too spicy for my tongue, or too rich for my stomach.

As for troubles of a more southernly nature, those only really apply to skinny white boys who'll eat the hottest madras in Rusholme just to prove how 'ard they are. If they're too dumb to realise that true Indian curries are nowhere near that hot, and that that level of spice is purely a British invention (as I said: grossly unhealthy), then they deserve to get the runs in the morning.

Give me a curry a day for a year, and I'll be more than satisfied. It's the closest I'll be getting to India for a while.

(Inspired by Plinky.)

A Perfect April Afternoon

2009-04-11T14:47:00.001+01:00

It's one of those rare April days where the sun's beaming down, but the trees haven't sprouted leaves big enough to give any shade. It seems a little incongruous, having bare trees on such a gorgeous day, but it adds to the effect - days like this don't come often.

I'm sitting in the biggest greenhouse in town, working on my tan from indoors. Okay, it's a restaurant, not a greenhouse, but it's all window, if you catch my drift. I'm here to see a band I've seen fifty times, that play songs other bands have played a hundred times or more. That's exactly why I like them, and it's why they get booked to play here so often. Every other outing I've taken in the past six months has been to this place, I swear.

There's a beer festival going on outside. A lot of people are basking with pint or glass in hand, including a table of shirtless lads who keep getting up to sway drunkenly to the songs. After a long, miserable, British winter, the atmosphere here's not only refreshing, it's invigorating. It's working its magic on me too; feels like I haven't been this happy in months. Maybe that's the house wine talking, but it's certainly true.

The owner of the place comes over to pay hi; a gorgeous Danish lady that, to my surprise, recognises me every time I come in. She tells me that I look like a true groupie, sitting on my own grinning like a goon at the band. That's true to a certain extent - it helps when the bassist is your rock husband and bestest friend in all the world. Heck, if he played a gig in Australia, I'd stow myself away in the luggage hold of the plane.

See, this is my idea of heaven, regardless of my groupie appearance. I'm quite content to listen to a great band for hours on end on my own, especially in a setting as beautiful as this one. For a geeky would-be singer, that loves live music but can't get out enough to hear it, I couldn't ask for a better afternoon.

A Rather Reasonable Ransom, If You Ask Me

2009-04-08T22:37:00.002+01:00

People of Earth! All your right shoes are now locked in my basement! I want all my demands met, or you'll all spend the rest of your lives limping around and looking really stupid!

Johnny Depp, in his underpants, in my bed.

This request originally read "Johnny Depp naked in my bed", but Pook suggested I should keep some mystery in the scenario. Acceptable alternatives to Johnny Depp include David Tennant, Edward Norton, or any of the Hanson brothers.

a box of Oreos delivered to my door daily

Before you raise an eyebrow and say "Whut? Why not buy some?" please know that in my neck of the woods, Oreos are damn near impossible to come by unless you shop online. Girl's gotta have something to dunk in her milk, right?

my student debts cleared

It's somewhat frustrating to be sent out into the world, freshly graduated, and already owe at least a year's wages to other people. I'd like to be able to buy nice things once in a while - computers, dresses, Jack Daniels - instead of constantly fretting.

a purple Lotus Espirit

It'd be an expensive lawn ornament unless I had driving lessons to go with it, but it's my dream car. Someone used to drive one of these around the hometown, and I drooled every time I saw it.

a General Election, like, NOW please

It's our only hope of ending the spectacular failure British politics is right now.

no more Big Brother

The first couple of seasons were a neat little sociological experiment, but this monstrous publicity machine that now assaults us from all media on an annual basis is only an experiment in driving sensible people crazy. (I'll spare you my rant on the whole Ade-jay Oody-gay debacle for now.)

one of every model of every bass guitar in all the world

Just to keep Ben quiet.

a Ben and Jerry's vending machine in my kitchen

My waistline hates these demands. But my waistline isn't the boss of me. Now bring me my Half-Baked!

(Inspired by Plinky.)

It's Actually Pretty Easy Being Green

2009-04-06T01:24:00.002+01:00

One thing that confuses me about modern politics is why environmental issues aren't higher on everyone's agendas. If our environment cannot sustain life, then questions of crime, education and healthcare all become a moot point. Ain't nobody gonna whine about taxes when we're all dead.

Anyhow, this question of environmental concern is oddly coincidental. Last night Channel 4 ran two movies back-to-back: 'The Day After Tomorrow' and 'An Inconvenient Truth'. The former I've seen several times and like very much; the latter I hadn't seen before, to my shame, but came away feeling much more educated. Both movies, in their own ways, have the same essential message - we need to be more worried about our planet, because if we don't it might turn around and kill us.

I started worried about the planet when I was seven or so. When I wrote about giving away a vast sum of money last week, I mentioned Ma's love of environmental charities. She had me subscribed to the junior version of the WWF, and I'd take the factsheets they used to mail me into school to show my teachers. I'd march around the playground with them, indignant at the rate of deforestation in the Amazon, and proudly proclaim that 'Captain Planet' was my favourite cartoon. (Well, it was 'Thundercats' really, but hey, when you've got a point to prove...)

Now, don't freak out. I haven't grown up to be some crazy activist hippy that doesn't bathe and writes protest songs on an acoustic guitar. Political punk rock, maybe, but I never really went in for Bob Dylan. I am still concerned with environmental issues though, and though I don't march around waving WWF literature anymore, I do lots of little things to decrease my carbon footprint.

Pook and I have a pretty green life in our flat. All our lightbulbs are energy savers, and our small electricity bills come from npower, who do a lot of good work with renewable energy sources, so I'm told. Our water usage is even smaller - because our bills last year were based on estimated readings, and we used such little water overall, our bills this year have shrunk to something tiny because our water provider now owes us money. Not bad, huh?

Neither of us drive either. Pook can't afford to learn yet, but I'm holding off until transportation becomes difficult. The whole car issue is one problem I really don't want to be a part of. Our public transport links are perfect for our needs anyway, and we carpool with Ben on any big or awkward road trips we need to take. (His car, Ethel, is very economical too. She gets him everywhere on very little petrol.)

I wish I could say our council's recycling system works as well as our public transport. In theory, every household in our district is given a green box, in which we put cardboard, glass, tins and plastics. This is then emptied every week by the council for recycling - at least, in theory. We had to call Salford Council several times this month to complain because our box was somehow being ignored. But as it goes, we recycle a lot. I'm hoping they'll bring in a paper recycling system (at the moment, we save all our paper until the folks come to visit, then ask them to take it to the recycling bins for us, as there aren't many near enough for us to carry it all), and a composting initiative so we can recycle our vegetable waste.

If I have one flaw, it stems from my fear of the dark. (Yes, I'm 24 and scared of the dark. I'm big enough to admit it, a'ight?) Unless I have company, I absolutely cannot sleep without a movie playing on my computer. It used to worry me that I'd end up leaving my computer on all night, and before I'd have to force myself to wake up in the middle of the night just to turn it off. But I've now developed a finely-tuned system for uninterrupted sleep: unless my insomnia's going through a rough spot, I'm normally asleep within two episodes of 'Captain Planet' (or, indeed, 'Thundercats'). My defrag program is then scheduled to run after my cartoons end, then shut the system down for me. In the morning, I wake up refreshed and guilt-free.

Oh, and I don't litter either. Litter be bad.

(Inspired by Plinky.)

Songs To Rediscover

2009-04-03T14:13:00.005+01:00

Erasing your memory is a dangerous game. 'Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind' taught me that. You don't learn from past mistakes - you just make them again, only the consequences become worse because you don't remember what happened last time you messed up. Why would you want to set yourself up to fail again?

So my theory is to erase good things from your head, so that when you rediscover them, you get that same feeling of elation, that awestruck sensation that you lose after the first few encounters. Not so much 'Eternal Sunshine' as 'Fifty First Dates', you get me?

With this in mind, I've chosen three songs that I love that I'd have erased from my memory. Remembering how it felt to first hear them makes me wish I could hear them for the first time again.

Samson by Regina Spektor

I'm sitting at my computer with a few conversations going on MSN. Pook's got some music on, so the titles are popping up in the window. Then this one pops up, and I've never heard of Regina Spektor. So I ask her about the song, and she sends it to me.

'Samson'. I's amazing.

Completely blown away, I get onto another MSN conversation with one of my uni buddies. "Dude, you HAVE to listen to this," I tell him, sending the song on. Songs this powerful should not go unshared.

Little do I know that Regina's already a massive hit on campus, and by the time her tour takes her to the Academy, not only am I there, but half of Salford Uni is too.

The Walk by Hanson

Unlike Regina, this story starts at at the Academy. Hanson are in town, and I'm standing in a fairly good spot, way over to stage right. I can't see the drumkit at all, but there's about three people between me and Taylor. The atmosphere's great, the tunes are rocking - yessirree, I'm having a blast.

Hanson have a segment in each show where they each perform one solo song. When it comes to Zac's turn, he sits at the piano rather than taking up a guitar, which surprises me - I figured he'd sing 'Misery' from the album that they're promoting, 'Underneath'.

Instead he plays this new song named 'The Walk'. All the screaming stops, and I'm stood there with my mouth open. I'm used to being moved by Hanson's songs, but to hear this one for the first time, and live to boot, was something truly awesome.

Some time passes, and Hanson's new album is due for release, unsurprisingly entitled 'The Walk'. They come to town again, this time at the Apollo, and when Zac plays the title track this time, he fluffs it up a little in the middle, grins at us all, and carries on.

It's A Motherfucker by The Eels

You know how couples have 'our song'? Well, the Eels was 'our band' - one of our bands, I should say. Coldplay were the other one. But it was the Eels we went to see first. I got him tickets for his birthday when they came to the Apollo. When Mr E started playing this song, I cried a little. If you know the song, you'll know why.

I already knew it, of course, I'd had the 'Daisies of the Galaxy' album for a while. We'd play the Eels constantly on roadtrips, especially 'Souljacker'. Even though we had an immense amount in common, our love of the Eels stands out to me.

We're not together anymore. Circumstance and all that. I still listen to the Eels on my own, but not this song. It sums up my feelings for the whole situation far too perfectly, and I'd prefer to get through the album without remembering and crying. It's a beautiful song though, so I'd have it erased only to listen to it, then take it off my playlist again. It really is a motherfucker being here without him.

(Inspired by Plinky.)

Making a Virtual Fool of Myself

2009-04-01T13:47:00.002+01:00

I was out drinking last night - for the first time in months, I might add, so it was well deserved. This morning, completely unaware of the date, I checked my feeds and email like normal. (At this point, I'd like to thank Mozilla for Thunderbird, and Google for Gmail. There's no more nutritious breakfast than the one they serve me each day.)

Near the bottom of my daily list is WoW Insider, bringing the inhabitants of Azeroth daily headlines from inside and outside the game. One of my favourite weekly columns is Guildwatch, with news of all the latest guild action - who's downed who this week, and who's recruiting who for such-and-such, that sort of thing. My favourite part is the guild drama section - people taking the game WAY too seriously, and getting into all sorts of fights and flame wars over the forums. I tell you, there's no better source of comedy.

So imagine my horror when I'm faced with this line: "But the drama is always so vicious, and no one ever seems to like it too much, so from now on, we're going to be covering a different side of the game: guild goodness." Did WoW Insider blow a funny fuse? What's going on? Don't they realise that laughing at angry nerds is one of the simpler pleasures we derive from this game? Why would they take our drama?!?

(I've reserved this space here for you to imagine a Peanuts strip, that's just three frames of Charlie Brown screaming "AAAAAAUGH!")

But then I checked the date, and the penny dropped with a rather loud clunk. Oh, Joey, you gullible little thing, you. Go fly your kite, Charlie Brown, they were just kidding. I'm such a sucker for pranks. I';d like to say that this was the first time something like this has happened; luckily, this is only the first time that something like this has happened while nobody else has been around.

(Inspired by Plinky.)

Plinky Bits!

2009-03-30T17:15:00.001+01:00

As you can tell from my latest posts, I'm thoroughly enamoured with the Plinky community. It's given me a truckload of material for what would otherwise have been a very static blog (my life is not very interesting at the moment), and it's also got me in contact with many other great writers, some of whom have given me very sweet feedback on my answers. I'm starting to truly love writing again, so I'm very grateful to the good folks of Plinky.

Some of my answers are too short to stand on their own as posts on this particular blog, but that doesn't mean they're not worth sharing. So here's a few bits and bobs.

Animal face-off! Who would win in a fight between a bear and a shark?

Hello? Strong Badian security measures, anyone?

For those unfamiliar with the Homestar Runner universe, the bear holds the shark, not the other way around. This implies a certain amount of fail on the part of the shark, and conversely, a victory for the bear. Furthermore, sharks cannot hold bears.

If you were named based on your traits, habits, or likes, what would your name be?

Let's see... if I were to be named after one of the greatest joys of my life... so much to consider...

As if you need to ask. Annie Mae.

Hybrid Prius or Escalade with gold rims?

I don't drive, and I have no intention of learning while I'm living this close to the city centre. This means I don't really give a rat's left buttcheek about cars - how they look, how fast they go, how many miles to the gallon, blablabla.

If I ever did learn to drive, it would be for practical reasons. So with this in mind, I would choose the Prius, which is a much better option for the environment, and serves an excellent purpose.

Besides, what little I know about style tells me that gold rims are Tackyville, like body kits on Corsas, or that Westwood guy on Pimp My Ride UK that needs a good slap. Bleurgh. Xzibit FTW.

Describe the coolest thing you've seen in another country.

Cologne Cathedral, or das Kölner Dom, if we're going to get literal, is the most beautiful building I've seen. I was on a school trip to southern Germany, and the day we went to Cologne was spectacular for two reasons - the cathedral, and the almighty rainstorm that we had to hide inside the cathedral from. The deluge was sharp but short, so we had plenty of time to admire the gorgeous Gothic architecture.

I reckon if MTV managed to get God on Cribs, He/She would show them around this house right here.

What’s your favorite live music venue?

My favourite music venue in Manchester is the Apollo. The acoustics are great in there, far better than the Academy or the MEN. It's got a lot of character - it's the kind of place where, when you enter, you can imagine all kinds of famous people having gone there before. At the Apollo, I've been caught in a Lostprophets mosh pit, screamed at Hanson, shed a little tear as the Eels went into "It's A Motherfucker", and rubbed my nipples at The Mighty Boosh. (Gotta love Bob Fossil's School of Dance.)

Conversely, the worst music venue in Manchester is the basement at the Dry Bar. Fuck the joss sticks, can we get a little air-con down there please? It fucking stinks!

Is it trampy or is it fun?

(I interpreted this one as most Plinky folks did - the difference between "sexy" and "slutty".)

Sexy is subtle, smart and almost effortless. Sexy knows what it's doing, but doesn't want you to know that. Sexy doesn't care what you think - sexy is as sexy does.

Slutty, on the other hand, cares very much what you think. Slutty is in your face, to the point of causing offence. Slutty values your opinion of it more than its own.

Sexy is secure and sure of itself, whereas slutty is not. Slutty will put itself through pain for your perceived pleasure, whereas sexy realises how futile that would be. Sexy doesn't realise it's sexy, but slutty tries too hard to be sexy. Slutty's intentions are plain to see. Sexy is more enigmatic.

But this is all based on appearance. Slutty is probably really sweet underneath, and just going about it all wrong. Sexy might be a manipulative bitch. First impressions don't mean squat.

What will you do when the zombies come?

If video games have taught me anything, it's that when the invasion arrives, all you have to do is lop their heads off with various kitchen utensils, grab any and all weapons and first-aid kits that will appear as if by magic on the street, until you get hold of the BFG and can blow their heads off one by one, whilst sitting on your rooftop drinking your finest Cabernet.

"Can you climb, motherflipper?" BANG! "Nah, didn't think so. Ooo, this vintage is exquisite!"

(If you're on Plinky, say hi sometime! You'll know me by my screenname, radicalshorty, and my Zefiris avatar.)

Trying To Be Matilda

2009-03-28T15:37:00.003Z

I learned to read at a very young age. Ma tells me I knew my alphabet by the age of two, and was reading like a seven-year-old at age three. I became a little bookworm, soaking up page after page like a sponge, or so my teachers said. My aunty, a primary school teacher herself, was wise enough to instil a great love of Roald Dahl in me, and before long I'd read all of his books, even the more adult-oriented ones. But the first one I ever read, and my favourite, was 'Matilda'.

What a heroine Matilda is! She was the first character in a book that I could truly relate to. She's smart, but her frustration at school leads her intelligence to manifest itself in telekinetic powers. I too was frustrated at school. Being so well-read, yet being taught things that I already knew, made me bored and hungry for something to sink my teeth into. (One of my earliest teachers misunderstood me in spectacular fashion; her end-of-year report on me seemed to have been written about an entirely different child.)

I longed to be placed higher up in school, like Matilda was in the end. I remember sitting in class, having finished my sums and spellings way before everyone else, trying to move my crayons with my eyes, like Matilda could. Oddly, my wish to be moved up came true - myself and a few others were sent directly from reception (the equivalent of kindergarten, I guess) into year 2, with classmates at least a year older than ourselves.

Like me, Matilda was well-read. Her feat of reading the entire library left me awe-struck - I'd never be able to manage so many books! I tried to read as many as possible, which has led to a knack for getting through books at a ridiculous speed. A couple of years ago, a friend of mine was astounded that I got through 'The Vagina Monologues' in less than two hours.

It was Matilda that gave me a strong sense of social justice. Bad people should be punished, no matter what their age. Luckily my family, and my lovely headmistress, were much kinder to me than Matilda's, but the notion of a a young person righting wrongs committed by their elders became an important part of my morals. (In another end-of-year report two years later, I pointed out to Ma that my teacher had made a spelling mistake. When Ma told my teacher this, she laughed and said "Yes, that sounds about right.")

But most of all, the fabulous Matilda gave me hope for triumph over adversity. In the end, Matilda doesn't need her powers. She feels challenged in her schoolwork, her teachers are nurturing, and she is adopted by her beloved Miss Honey. Even book-smart, uncool little nerds like me (even back then, I identified myself as a nerd) could find happiness.

Reading 'Matilda' was one of the more defining experiences of my young childhood, so it gives me a warm feeling to remember it. Coming back to it time and again was like meeting up with an old friend, and although it would have been a treat to have a real friend like Matilda, reading her story would always make me feel a little less lonely.

(Inspired by Plinky.)

Of Rock Gods and Famous Folks

2009-03-26T17:46:00.002Z

I went on a rock adventure last night. Ben had managed to score tickets to the premiere of the 'We Will Rock You' tour, and he had a spare one for me. Like any well-educated kid, I was born and raised on Queen. Having seen the show in the West End back in my gap year, I figured that seeing how the show had progressed in five years would be an excellent way to spend an evening.

So, if Stroke of Luck #1 was getting this ticket, Stroke of Luck #2 would be my instant upgrade. Having somehow squeezed myself into the very back row, right up in the gods where everyone at ground level looked like ants, a kind steward brought a few of us some tickets for unfilled seats downstairs, presumably from folks who weren't able to make it. Win.

As I and a few lucky others were being directed to our new seats, right up close to the stage, I suddenly noticed a few famous faces around us. Two seats in front of me was a guy I knew from TV, but couldn't place (whom I later discovered was Gray O'Brien, who's currently in 'Coronation Street'). Over to my left was Antony Costa, one of the lads from that old boyband Blue that Pook used to go nuts for. I spotted Paddy McGuiness over the other side of the auditorium. Ant McPartlin wandered past me a minute or so later. Then came a hefty entourage of folks, the most famous of whom ended up sitting a mere five seats away from me, leaving me totally gobsmacked. I mean, this was a guy who'd adorned the walls of my bedroom for a considerable number of my pre-teen years.

"But who was this idol of yours, sitting so close?" I hear you ask. Oh, just some lad from Stoke named ROBBIE FREAKIN' WILLIAMS.

(I shall pause here to bask in the sweet glow of your envy.)

I soon discovered the reason for Robbie's presence - his good buddy Jonathan Wilkes was starring as Khashoggi, and a damn good role he played too. (Being a total dish didn't hurt either.) I was also hugely impressed with Brenda Edwards, a favourite of Ma's from an X-Factor series, now playing the Killer Queen. Dang, that lady can sing!

But the real triumph came at the end of the show, when the gods themselves, Brian May and Roger Taylor, joined the cast onstage. Man, I've not heard a crowd scream so loud since last time I saw Hanson. For a humble nerd to witness, in the flesh, two heroes of rock music whose music has been like bread and butter to her since she was a baby, was a truly awesome moment. As Mister May cut into one of his blinding solos, I did spare a thought for my poor ma, who would be sure to be grumpy with me when I told her what I was seeing.

It's an amazing show, still as hilarious and awe-inspiring as it was the first time round. I loved the guy playing Brit, and all his martial arts hijinks, as well as the big Welsh guy playing, unsurprisingly, Robbie. (Ben and I both said that his pronunciation of "rock and roll" instantly reminded us of Ol.) There are some great new bits in the script too - I had a good giggle at the "Facebook poke" skit near the beginning, and the reference to Big Brother later on. "What a bunch of wankers!" Quite.

If you do go and see it, as all good rock fans should, I can't guarantee you'll be in the company of such famous folk. Indeed, it's a great shame that Brian and Roger can't play every night. But what I can guarantee is one heck of a show. I reckon that somewhere, the sorely-missed spirit of Freddie Mercury was sitting back and having a good old chuckle at last night's performance.

I came out of the Palace, almost tripping over two of the Loose Women on the way, ecstatic and ready to brag about my good fortune to Ben, who'd also been upgraded but not as close as I was. Ben came out, and instead of waxing lyrical about the show his favourite band had just performed (he likes Queen even more than I do, if that's possible), launched into a twenty-minute diatribe of everything the bassist had played wrong throughout the show. Some nerds, it seems, are not so easily pleased.

Pffft... boy wouldn't know a rock spectacle if it jumped up and bit him on the arse...

Before The Bucket

2009-03-23T19:27:00.003Z

Five things I want to do before I die, eh? Aside from swimming with dolphins and climbing a mountain and all those other clichés? Let's see...

get grade 8 on at least one instrument

When it comes to musical solo endeavours, I have the attention span of a goldfish. Throw me in a group or a band, and I will work my butt off from dawn till dusk (providing rest of said band has the same mindset). But when it comes to individual instrumental studies, I've not yet maxed out my potential. I could easily have passed grade 8 in classical guitar before I finished high school, but with so many other distractions going on - academic exams, alcohol, boys - I only managed grade 7. A couple of years before that, I was hitting a proverbial brick wall on the piano around the grade 5 mark. But I know that if I knuckled down to it now, I could easily make the grade. A few months ago I came across some Italian arias that my vocal teacher at uni had had me singing - arias that Ben told me he'd sung in his grade 8 vocal exam. That's hopeful, right?

Trouble is, what would I choose first? Vocal? Piano? Classical guitar, or electric? Bass, even? It's nice to have so many strings to my bow (if you'll pardon the pun), but I don't want to be a jack of all trades, master of none - I can master a few, right?

visit Tokyo

No-brainer, this one. Sure, I'd have to save up enough spending money to buy, like, ALL of Akihabara, but I sure would die a happy otaku.

officially, legally, own a cat

Cats love me and I love them. I wouldn't mind dogs if it weren't for my allergy, notwithstanding the cute 8-week-old wiggly woofle that we're currently puppy-sitting for the night. Cats are elegant and independent and so gosh-darn gorgeous.

Now, I've never actually owned a cat myself. My family never had pets, but back in the hometown we lived on a street where just about every other house had a cat. As we were friends with our neighbours, so their cats were friends with us too. We'd have cats wandering in and out all the time, and now I'm not living in halls in Manchester, exactly the same has happened. Something about me must scream "FELINE FRIENDLY" to nearby cats.

But I feel bad for not being able to treat my kitty companions how I'd like to - feed them, set up a litter tray for them, NOT kick them out at night when they're curled up so warmly on my couch. I'd just like one of my own to fuss over.

write my magnum opus

I'm keeping this one deliberately vague. I'm not sure which format my greatest work will take - musical or literary - but I do know that it will take me frickin' years to write. Take my final-year composition portfolio for example, completed less than a year ago. At the time it sounded great to me, the best thing I could have produced and had produced to date. Six months down the line, I took another listen, and a lot of it sounded like barf.

Now, I know that in theory, that's a good thing - it means you're progressing to bigger and better things. But it all comes down to my short attention span yet again. I probably wouldn't be able to keep my mind to it once I started. There are always too many possibilities to explore, too many distractions of other, shinier things. In terms of non-musical writing, I'm even worse. I've started so many works of fiction before, the kind I could whip out at a moment's notice at primary school, that I've quit somewhere around the middle of the first chapter. Starting things is my forte; finishing them is not.

But one of these days I will. I'll create something amazing, that I can be proud of after it's done. That great concerto of mine, perhaps? Or my memoirs? Or a children's book about a talking cat that makes me the next JK Rowling?

make a little person

I'm 24 years old. I'm done with uni, with going on drinking benders, with being crazy (all the time, that is). And I have to admit that I'm becoming somewhat broody. It'd be nice to have a little mini-me running around my feet, that I can teach all my learnings to and have fun with.

My plan - if you can ever plan such a thing - is to take four years to get myself settled, preferably with a man (I hear one is still needed to create a baby these days, am I right?), and get some semblance of a career going first. But that's a totally ideal-never-gonna-happen-world situation. Still, if and when the time comes, I think it'd be a great adventure to be a mama.

(Inspired by Plinky.)