Phew! I just about got this blog finished on time. I didn’t want the clock to hit midnight as it would mean creating a brand new page for September 2006. How’s that for speed? I can write and upload my blog before midnight of 31st August, but Ashley Cole is still to piss off to Chelsea! Anyway, the main feature presentation…
Yesterday I went to the cinema to watch Severance. This was Mr. Watkins’ choice of film and a choice I would like to congratulate him upon. Well done Johnny! You have surpassed yourself. This film was much better than some of your previous choices which included Boogeyman, The Jacket and Christmas with the Kranks… although I think that last one may have been mine.
Severance is one of those British films which stars a handful of British, Z-List celebrities you know that you have seen before, but can’t remember where. Maybe it was in a Guy Richie movie, possibly a BBC sitcom or even a television advertisement. Only IMDB.com holds the answer. I did wonder if the guy who played Steve (Danny Dyer) was a Brainiac. Sadly he wasn’t.
The film, like Shaun of the Dead, mixes horror with comedy, although it is a lot scarier than SOTD. A lot scarier! One scene involving a huge spider crawling up a dressing gown made me feel unwell. I could stomach the scene involving a foot being torn off by a bear trap. A woman being burnt alive – no problem. Hunters knife up the bottom – I didn’t flinch, but a spider on the back is the stuff of nightmares.
After the cinema I went to Nandos. It was late and because of this I was not hungry (my digestive system only functions 0700-2100 local time). For the first time ever, I left most of my Nandos, a terrible crime – burn me. After Mr. Watkins had finished his dish, he frowned at my poor attempt to consume a plate of chicken, chips and rice. I felt shame.
The only blessing of the trip to Nandos last night was that we got the meals 2-4-1 in conjunction with a special offer. The waitress serving us was also extremely attractive. I was convinced that somebody that cute could not have been cooking the chicken that evening as if she had I would have found a way to eat it, even if I had been suffering from some terrible projectile vomiting disease.
On that pleasant note I will say goodnight. “Goodnight!”
Yesterday evening was spent at my friend Matt’s birthday party. It was supposed to be a surprise orchestrated by his girlfriend and up until Friday afternoon, the eve of the party, it was. Matt cottoned on that something was out of the ordinary when an industrial sized spit roast and pig carcass were delivered.
The party was noticeably different from others I have been to in the past. Nobody was vomiting into the rose bushes, the pet cat was left unhurt and the neighbours didn’t feel the need to start fighting the guests, a somewhat civilised and more enjoyable affair I felt.
The spit roast was delicious, in fact the taste of well done pork has made me think of copying Gordon Ramsey and buying a couple of pigs myself, raising them in the back garden and then slaughtering them in a brutal and bloody massacre.
To fully complete the festivities there were fireworks. It’s been a good few years since I have had the pleasure of attending a firework display in somebody’s garden. It’s an occasion where you have to forget everything you were taught in your work’s health & safety training course and hope that a flaming rocket doesn’t fall down to earth and onto your back.
Whoever positioned the fireworks deserves a pat on the back for hilarity. They were all seated within 2 feet of Mr. White’s prized mountain bike. As rockets shot into the air and coloured flames were spewed from the ground, White looked on anxiously hoping not to smell burning rubber.
This afternoon Simon came to my flat to watch football. The first game of the afternoon saw Leeds take on Sheffield Wednesday. Leeds won 1-0. I’ll take the 3 points but still hope and pray that the manager will soon fuck off.
We were then both left equally frustrated after watching a lacklustre Chelsea steal a win from Blackburn Rovers. The arrogant yuppie Chelsea supporters are so infuriating. You just know that the only reason they support Chelsea is for a fashion statement and before the Russian billionaire bailed “Chelski” out of inevitable liquidation, they probably didn’t even know the rules of football.
Finally for tonight, while searching on YouTube, I came across this movie trailer. Interesting looking film, I believe it’s available on DVD. If you have young children and want some clean, wholesome, family entertainment, I don’t think you’ll be too disappointed with this one.
British Slugs. A nation of boozers
I don’t know who left this can of beer outside the front of the house… “WHITE!!”
This may look like a spit roast, it is in fact a rotting human corpse I spotted while exploring the party host’s basement.
DanInTheMix finally makes it to a Chelsea game
A few years ago I made a promise to myself to never, ever go to town shopping on a weekend as it is just too busy. This afternoon I disobeyed myself and went into town, my God I wish I hadn’t.
Imagine Hell, only instead of demons there are charity workers asking for your bank details so you can sponsor an elderly dog and instead of evil people from the past like Nazis there are masses of tourists and overweight families moving around slowly in herds.
Outside The Pump Rooms was the worst. It was like one massive tide of jam, but jam made out of people. I wished I’d had a 4×4 with a massive bumper. I would have driven that down the street, mowing down anybody who got in my way.
The main purpose of my trip into town was to buy some clothes. As I waded through the masses of people, I became increasingly frustrated with the lack of clothing available which was any good. The Officers Club was the worst of all. Some of the shit they sell there is just… well shit.
I eventually found some clothing which I was more or less happy with and after a quick excursion to Sainsbury’s, ran for the bus which would take me home to safety and tranquillity. I did think about popping into Café Nero for a relaxing fruit smoothie and slice of cake, but that too had been taken over by foreigners and fat families.
The lession learnt from today: Never, ever, EVER go into Bath on a weekend.
It was like a mass pilgrimage. There must have been a million people (maybe)
The typical, wet English weather sent a few running, but it was still too busy for my liking
Words cannot describe how pleased I was to get the bus home
It was my friend Mr. White’s 24th birthday yesterday. Instead of the traditional, midweek pub crawl which normally takes place on birthdays, he decided that he wanted to go for a curry in one of Bath’s finest restaurants, The Eastern Eye. A change very much welcomed by myself who prefers a plate of curry to a table of pints.
The meal, as always, was delicious, the atmosphere and service, excellent. I did feel a little embarrassed towards the end of the meal when certain members of the party (note: Not myself, Watkins or Mr. White) let themselves down badly. Maybe the behaviour was fuelled by excess consumption of Indian beer, but the subject matter degenerated and a loud conversation involving unsanitary topics arose. The term “lager louts” came to mind, fine in a pub, not in a stylish restaurant.
The evening was crowned off when I received a text informing me that Chelsea had lost to a little known team called Middlesbrough. Cue the spamming of derogatory text messages to Dan’s mobile. If you are a Boro fan, or indeed a supporter of any team which isn’t Chelsea, why not send him a message on his blog site?
If you are in this picture, I apologise. I hope that your meal was not too disrupted by a conversation which included the line “Surprise Sex”.
This evening I went with Simon and Steve to play football in the park. I was a little more enthusiastic this evening (as opposed to Sunday). Probably because Leeds won the other day and I believe the sacking of Public Enemy No.1 (Kevin Blackwell) is imminent.
Another good evening. Not so good was he state of the park toilets. They were very dirty, the liquid soap was basically water and the air from the hand dryer smelt like farts.
Judging by what was written on the toilet walls, I don’t think these toilets had been used by many gentlemen.
One would hope that the white table is not used for that purpose.
On this website, you’ll find me blogging (almost) daily about everyday life, living in Bath, working with computers, and the occasional bit of football stuff thrown in.
If you're expecting The Man Booker Prize, you've come to the wrong place. If you want to read a collection of sometimes eccentric, often disturbing and rarely amusing ramblings, gorge your eyes on this.