10/30/2003

Thanks :  for all the advice about Texas by the way...
posted by Garreth at 6:25 PM

War baby :  I bought a laptop. It has a wireless network card. I like the idea of getting something for nothing - the nirvana for infinite value for money. It turns out that 'ethical security advisors' coined a phrase for the activity of trying to get free internet access (and more) using wireless network cards - the grandiose 'wardriving'. This involves trying to discover and use wireless networks provided by other people. Not like at Birmingham airport, where it costs eight quid an hour to use the internet from your wireless network equipped equipment.

I spent some time trying to get free internet access in Spain without the benefit of a car. More like 'warwalking', which sounds a bit naff. More 'battlestalking', I liked to think. But then I thought of the perfect term for attempted wireless hacking - 'w-hacking' or 'whacking'. Because it sounds rude. Turns out some other wifi mofos have coined the word. I don't care, because right now I am on the wrong side of some Special Brew, and the right side of some free internet access in a guesthouse in Cambridge. VFMtastic.
posted by Garreth at 6:01 PM

Hatfield meets Essex Man :  My friend Joe grew up in Essex. He loves to race fast cars up and down the Braintree bypass with no licence plates to avoid speeding fines. Joe's Essex mentality is great - it involves as little work and sleep as possible. Joe started university a few months ago. I visited him a few nights ago since he lives near an airport I had to go to. I asked him how university was going for an Essex man.

"It's alright. They expect you to do all this work though."
"You have to turn up and do stuff?"
"Well, not really. A few people owe me favours. They sign into lectures for me."
"Nice. And the coursework?"
"Yeah, well I get other people to do that. Already people owe me favours. They love to help out when coursework needs to be handed in."
"Really? What, they don't mind you copying?"
"Well sometimes they give me stuff to copy and it's too bad. Sometimes they just do the work for me. One time I just went into someone's room and stole his work."
"Nice. How come so many people owe you favours?"
"Well, I sort people out with Viagara. They're only eighteen years old, but they think they need Viagara. So I sort them out. It's not even illegal."

I was amazed. We went out, got into a bit of trouble. It was one pound a pint night, so I bought a bunch of students a round of drinks. Joe groaned and told me this was bad etiquette. As he predicted, all of them then went home to avoid having to return a round of drinks. As consciousness returned the next morning, and the strange reckoning process of drinks price versus money spent progressed, I prepared to head off. Joe asked me if I could do a few Excel spreadsheets for him for his coursework. Sure, I said, as I headed off to the airport with a packet of Viagara. I'm sure Joe will do just fine at university.
posted by Garreth at 5:41 PM

10/27/2003

Isle Of Man United :  Best quote from my trip to the Isle of Man from one of the inhabitants of this relatively closed community - "I only know of it happening once. A father and daughter got together, and they had a kid whose father was also its grandfather."
posted by Garreth at 10:35 AM

10/22/2003

Texas is the place :  "So full of shit, diarrhoea for fingers"

Such great lines from that redneck cowboy rousting anthem, "Beers, Steers and Queers."

I was in a bar tonight. The "drink as many as you can for free" kind. This is worlds away from the "drink as many as you like for free" kind. The biggest difference is that in the former, you stop liking after about the first half-drink. You switch to spirits and mixer. Sure, they pour a whole mess of nasty spirit brewed from distilled fermented cervical smear leftovers into the cocktail, but the mixers. Well the mixers are all derived from the same base (dental hygeinist mouth-rinse), mixed with gloopy emetic syrups, asked for by colour, not by flavour. The resultant concoction hits you in the guts with a few uncalled for shots to the kidneys, and you don't feel like to many more, but hey, it's drink as much as you can, not as much as you like, so you fix your guts with some gaffer tape and pour away.

Anyway, I was in a bar tonight. And I figured out that I was going to be in Texas in a week's time. And I know absolutely diddley squat about the place apart from the aforementioned "Beers Steers and Queers" lyrics. Once the dentist mouthwash had drained from my oesophagus, I figured it was two weeks away, but gosh darn, this is what I know about Texas:

• one ex-US resident told me to avoid it because the (allegedly) good guys (men in shiny boots with handguns) kill people they suspect of being bad guys
• someone else told me to stay away from bad guys (men in cowboy boots with handguns) who would make me squeal like several pigs in a pig choir rehearsing for pig Christmas carol season
• someone who lived there told me it was nice and had decent weather
• someone told me it was the land of opportunity and that it was hard to get Tabasco on your sandwich
• someone told me that they were really excited to help me find a property there, and then directed me to someone else (I presume real estate agent is an alias for lying two-faced codsucker in American)
• oh and apparently Mr. Shrub used to be in charge

HELP! CAN ANYONE TELL ME ANYTHING ABOUT TEXAS Only thirteen days until I touch down in Houston (as in "Houston, we have a problem"). And if you know any rich people who need their Ferraris walking in Austin, please let me know.
posted by Garreth at 2:47 PM

10/21/2003

Jordan does not invade Russia :  A Russian swimming team is staying in our hotel. Yet still I get pestered by small boys called Jordan about whether or not I'm going to be swimming each day.

Why would British people call their sons Jordan? It's as if a bunch of fathers were drunk at their sons' naming ceremonies five years ago, and opened a copy of the Sun for inspiration. They may have even stuck a pin in at random and by the probability of column inches and chest acreage, landed up with 'Jordan'. Better than 'Randy Vicar' or 'Monster' I suppose. So from now on, I must behave like Clint Eastwood in 'Firefox'. Must think in Russian:

Jordan1: "Hey Mister. Are you swimming later?"
Me: "Niet."

Jordan3:"Hey swimmer-dude, are you in the pool today?"
Me: "Priviet. Niet."

And yes, Jordan3 really calls me 'swimmer-dude'.
posted by Garreth at 10:24 AM

10/19/2003

French geriatric in bad manners apology claim :  Sources from the Hotel Griegomar restaurant in Torremolinos, Spain, claimed that an elderly French lady actually apologised for her bad manners next to the food dishes at the buffet.

"She turned round to a man in the queue after stepping on his toes just twice and said, 'Sorry'," claimed a buffet regular who chose not to be named.

The French women refused to either confirm or deny these allegations. Indeed she took it on herself to elbow one of our reporters out of her way before standing in the main restaurant doorway with a group of her friends, obstructing all those wishing to pass. The French embassy in Spain has refused to comment.

posted by Garreth at 7:28 AM

10/18/2003

The first ever :  Father / Daughter I Quit Match. If the WWE didn't exist it would have to be invented. Seeing as we're here to (pay-per) view it. Isn't that the weak anthropomorphic principle of sports entertainment?
posted by Garreth at 1:32 PM

Saved by the kidz :  Friday 21:00, Room 602.

Ron's mother: Would you fetch me a cup of tea from the bar please?
Ron: Sure. I'll bring it right back.

Friday 21:05, 6th floor corridor
Ron arrives at the door with a cup of tea and a plastic cup of red wine for his efforts. Ron's keycard will not open the door.

[Knock knock]
Ron: Mum! The keycard won't work - can you let me in?
Room 602 is silent.

[Knock knock]
Ron: Mum! Let me in!
Room 602 is silent.

The door to room 601 opens to reveal a blonde neighbour in silky underwear.

Ron: Ah, wrong mum I think.
Blonde: Yes, perhaps. You can come in if you want.
Ron: Well I'm supposed to be delivering this cup of tea.... but it seems my mother is asleep...
Blonde: Are you going to come in then?

[Footsteps racing towards the rooms]
Kid1: Mum, mum that's the swimmer I was talking about!
Kid2: Yeah he's the deckist swimmer.

The door to room 602 opens.

Ron's mother: Ah, there you are, I'd just fallen asleep.
Ron: Right, here's your tea. Sorry for the noise, neighbour.
Blonde: No problem.

Saturday 13:05, swimming pool

Kid1: You're that man that was talking to our mum last night.
Ron: Yes, I couldn't get into my room.
Kid2: Yeah, you're that swimmer that was talking to our mum, aren't you?
Ron: Yep.
Kid2: He's in room 602.
Kid1: You're in room 602 aren't you?
Ron: Yes. Got to fly.

Ron leaves the scene feeling slightly embarrassed for something he hasn't done, having been caught in no particular act by some kids who seem quite happy to tell anyone what room he's staying in.
posted by Garreth at 1:07 PM

10/16/2003

Shandy calling :  I am in a hotel three quarters full of white-haired old dears. Most of the white-hair belongs to the female of the species, outliving their partners seems common. I was reminded of the fact that cruise ships, another magnet for white-hairs, have a spare kitchen pantry assigned as a morgue for all those whose mortal coils are gently shuffled by the ripples on the ocean. They freeze the bodies on the high seas. In our hotel, I imagine they just cook them. Since we lost a biddy on the steps of the hotel lobby last night, I will be steering away from any pork kebabs for a few days.
posted by Garreth at 6:49 AM

10/15/2003

I'm not big-boned - the shared pasture principle :  Value is a relative thing to me. I wouldn't sell my grandmother, that's not what I mean. Imagine you have paid the same amount for a shared service as some French person. The amount of service you consume relative to the French person tells you who gets the best value. Value for money is relative.

Imagine you're staying at a hotel where the shared service consists of three buffet style meals a day (plus snacks and free booze). Imagine you want better value than the French man next to you. That's a recipe for days filled with ten courses of no-spoons-barred scoffing.

I can eat a fair amount when pushed. I used to think I could've been a contender. Until I worked with a guy called Scott who is a contender - we used to watch him inhale burritos in Oakland. He's good. He's won awards. But I can still put it away when I have.

But imagine the dirty tactics of the value loving Frenchman in the buffet. He'll have a plate of meat. Slices and slices of meat on a plate, and he'll set about them in a leisurely fashion. Me, I'm all for the sprint - get it all down your neck before your stomach realises that it's just had four plates of spring rolls, chips, cannelloni, carrots, fish, chicken wings, yoghurt and cake. And some lettuce for the ladies. But the Frenchman's value proposition is based on stamina, and now he comes back with a plate of fish. He's amazing in his grindingly slow way. Especially as the budget conscious hotel kitchen fluffs the food out with MSG to make you feel full. And some other unidentified ingredient which my scientific studies have revealed will make you feel bloated no matter what you eat. He keeps on chomping away, going for the pasta course next, convinced he can win.

Drastic action is required. No longer can he be out eaten by a mammal with only one stomach, and your stand-in mega-intestined bovine is off sick. So it's food wasting time. You're imagination has to outwit his guts. Start to fashion hybrid animals from the buffet. Take a few chicken wings and add them to the body of a fish. Weld the animal together with ice cream. Give it horns made from gherkins, wheels made from pineapple rings. Become a mealtime divine creator, and fashion your answer to the duck billed platypus from high value buffet foodstuffs. Then leave your creations on your table, and walk out as the Frenchie is still trying to squeeze in dessert. He is beaten. More food has been consumed by the anti-massive neo-deity. Value is yours.
posted by Garreth at 2:09 PM

10/14/2003

Genitals reported stolen in Torremolinos :  A distraught man called up interpol in the Spanish tourist town of Torremolinos at 6pm today. He wanted to report his genitals as missing. We have a transcript of the conversation below:

Interpol operator: "Could you tell us the details of the alleged theft please?"

Caller: "I was in the shower, and I looked down to see my old chap, you know for reassurance. We're very close normally, but I hadn't been giving him the attention he deserves of late. Well I dropped the soap faster than a punk-assed bitch in the prison shower when I couldn't see him staring back at me. I think someone must have stolen him in the night."

Interpol: "Don't you have to urinate sir? Surely you must have noticed that your 'old chap' wasn't there during urination since last night?"

Caller: "Well I'd been near the pool most of the day. You know how it is when the pool is closer than the toilet, and there's a heap of screaming Scottish kids floating about who could do with a mouthful of chlorinated piss?"

Interpol: "Moving on sir, have you checked for any signs of a struggle at the scene of your 'old chap'?"

Caller: "Hang on..."

[Rustling and noise on the phone line]

Caller: "Bloody hell! My old chap's back! Ah. I see. He's hiding underneath this lump of flesh. That must be my belly. It wasn't there before. It must be this all you can eat cack at the hotel. Well that's a relief."

[click]
posted by Garreth at 2:05 PM

Prison Guard at HGM :  I watch the fresh meat check in. Some call the new inmates "fish", but these cock-knockers can't probably even float, let alone swim in this penitentiary. You should see them at their first meal. They don't know where to sit, how to get to the food before the Spanish take all the best cuts. Shute, they ain't even figured out that it ain't smart to sit with people from other places. The long-termers give them a hard time for being out of place, even though most of 'em are geriatrics.

This fresh meat often has short sentences to serve, but I know 90% of it will be back again, after a brief spell outside. It's in its blood. That's why we often get whole families reunited in here. Three generations meeting on the inside. Scum.

They'll fight in here. Break the rules. You think it bothers me? Not at all. They can rip each other's faces off and throw each other from the highest floors for all I care. They can smash the marble walls with each other's skulls, it don't matter to me. I'm just a garbage man. I just drag the waste away when the dust settles.

There are so many dumb-asses in here - they ain't even figured this is an open prison. They get their prison bracelet clamped on their arm, and they figure they're trapped - if they try to escape the facility that they'll be identified and shot. That's bull crap. It's low security here - they could up and leave through the front door at any time - nobody'd stop 'em. Truth is there ain't nowhere to go much around here - just a bunch of other low-security pens.

They'll do their time. Get out. I'll see their candy asses next year. And they'll get a new bracelet on their arm. Their arm will be older, feebler. But the bracelet will still say the same thing: "All Inclusive at the Hotel Griego Mar, Costa Del Sol".
posted by Garreth at 1:07 PM

10/10/2003

Reployed or unentired? :  At a reunion the other day, a volley of fact finding small talk was launched at my starboard side by a chirpy scouser:
"What are you doing these days?"
"Nothing," I said in an honest kind of way.
"Where do you live then?"
"Well, nowhere really."
"You must live somwhere, surely?"
"Not for any length of time."

We weren't getting anywhere, but the discussion has forced me to do a bit of introspection.

Am I retired or unemployed? Here's what I came up as evidence that I might lean towards the retired side of things, based on my understanding of giffers and old aged pensioners:

• joined a Bingo club
• came on an all inclusive package holiday slightly out of season to the Costa del Coffindodger
• started to read my mail, and thought about writing letters of complaint to many of the senders
• thought about having a nice cup of tea on more than one occasion
• remembered someone's birthday and even got a present for them
• went for a long walk
• played a game of cards for one person
• started watching Eurosport. "Say, what about the mighty Glinka and the Polish women's volleyball squad?"
• sat very still and did a few hours of staring at people and grumbled to myself about the youth of today

Admittedly, the last one was in a nightclub in which I was incapable of standing, but I think the writing is on the buspass.
posted by Garreth at 2:25 PM

Restless in Torremolinos :  "I can't believe you went to work after the weekend we all just had. I've phoned in sick for you for less," I said to R. Indeed it had only been three days since I phoned his place of work to tell them R. was too unwell to get out of bed. I didn't mention that he was well enough to take our hangovers to a driving range so that he could badger people on the first tee with his mighty one wood.
"Nah, I was fine. In fact I felt great. That could've been the prozac though," said R. "do you want some?"
"Er. What are they like?"
"Well. Sort of a bit speedy. Very like weak pills. They keep you chipper though. As long as you don't take more than five. Oh, and you might not be able to sleep very well."
"What happens if you take five then?"
"Your brain turns to mush and you can't think. But you don't feel bad about it."

This conversation was going round and round in my head last night when I was lying on my bed staring intently though not intentionally at the back of my eyelids, unable to sleep. I didn't feel bad about my insomnia though.
posted by Garreth at 2:06 PM

10/08/2003

Arnie :  I was whore-harrassingly drunk on my last night in Italy, and decided to watch the televised California governatorial public debate. I must say that the Huffy woman spoke a fair bit of sense, but that Lieutenant Governor Cruz Bustamante was pants. Not only did he look smug and arrogant, but he looked like his title should have been in quotes. What I mean by this is that he bares more than a passing resemblance to "Mean" Gene Okerlund, the famous wrestling announcer who sells burgers now. As such, I expect he too has a past which involves "Made Up Titles" and large hairy men.

Hurrah for Arnie. Maybe Bustamante can introduce the governator before he physically pounds US politicians. Celebrity Deathmatch without the clay models.
posted by Garreth at 2:51 PM

The importance of being undercover :  The privilege of being invited back for a formal college reunion was bestowed upon me. Although the invitation did say that, "the pleasure of your company is requested" which really means that I was doing them a favour. We had dinner in long formal gowns in a long formal dining hall that King Henry VIII used to like.

They didn't bring us much of the advertised 'fine wines' at dinner. They wouldn't even sell us wine during the meal, let alone the tequila, aftershock and bacardi we really wanted. Perhaps the organisers figured that people would want to talk politely about how many wives called Clare they had collected since graduation, how their firm of lawyers was doing, and how the three kids were. My compadres had no wives called Clare, and we didn't want to talk politely. We wanted to drink. Someone even pointed out a long forgotten habit of a friend who would kick open a door to a room at college, enter and shout, "I've been drrrrinking!" and look pleased with himself.

Once the meal and the odd grindingly tedious speech was over, the bar decided to live up to its name, and actually sell us the booze we required for our mission. We set about throwing red wine over each others clothes. Or at least that's what it looked like in the cold light of the following morning. During the festivities, I was introduced to a man called Evan. The next day I found out that he was the Liberal Democrat Member of Parliament for Oxford, but he was not introduced as such. This allowed him to avoid the painful process of me thinking of something clever to say to an MP, or to feign any interest in what he did.

Innocent to his profession, I offered the undercover MP some of our recently purchased wine, that rested by some glasses on the table. The undercover MP went to get some, only to be viciously assaulted verbally by a third party who was determined to protect the drinking interests of those she knew. The MP wasn't on her list of allowed drinkers.

The following day I found out that he was an MP. I think it was better for both of us that way. Not least of all because he didn't go to our college to the best of my knowledge, and we would have had to throw him in a river for intruding. Or talk about politics.
posted by Garreth at 1:06 PM

"See the young man in his new gown" :  The idea of the college reunion suddenly struck me as a most dreadful one as I travelled with Raz towards college. There was presumably a pretty good reason for not staying in touch with 500 people you had last spoke to eight years ago. My point was reaffirmed by a chance meeting in a dull pub before the event. I was struggling to get out of the pub with my rucksack, when I was pressed against someone who looked vaguely familiar. Such was our proximity and inability to move that trying to pretend we hadn't seen each other and to avoid the subsequent small talk was impossible.

It took me right back. My college was small and such passings in the ornate quadrangles were hard to avoid. It was like studying for a degree in small talk, which I'm sure I hadn't signed up for. During winter I wore a balaclava to avoid such meetings. Eight years on in the pub doorway, we looked at each other. I kicked off,

"Hello Ros, how are you?"
"Great. It's Tom, isn't it?"
"Ron actually."
"Oh yes. Are you going to the gaudy reunion?"
No. I always hang around in this dire pub opposite our old college.
"Yes, yes. I'll see you in there."
"Yes, yes"

This little piece of social lubrication freed us from our predicament, and we obviously didn't speak a word all evening. I've got eight years to think up some better small talk. As Bauhaus said, "Small Talk Stinks"
posted by Garreth at 12:47 PM

Arsehole of the Southeast :  On my way to Croydon, I stopped at a bookshop in Oxford. The title of a book caught my eye, while I queued to pay. "The Idler Book of Crap Towns". I picked up the book, and flicked through. The page opened on Croydon. I skimmed through the statistics, and the following descriptive phrase caught my eye: "smells of piss and vaseline". I carried on regardless, wondering to myself about the smell of vaseline.

No-one on the Idler website has chosen to defend Croydon, compared with a handful of people who leap to even London's defence. In fact many people leap to put the boot in at this discussion of Croydon.
posted by Garreth at 7:17 AM

10/06/2003

Sunday quote of the day :  "Get rid of that rusty brillo pad off your chin." - Andy Whyman
posted by Garreth at 4:16 AM

Fine wine and sophistication :  Day four, and my brain is still drowning in a protective cushion of wine. Luckily Libby, a college alumnus of technical sophistication has managed to publish some photos of days two and three. It brings back a few mammories.
posted by Garreth at 3:58 AM

10/02/2003

London's Not Burning But It Should Be :  As I don't live in London any more, I feel I can freely insult the place.

Today I arrived in the filthy capital, and was immediately conscious of all the nasty, busy people hurrying to their doom, and queueing to pay five pounds to travel on the stinky Underground. I couldn't bring myself to go on the stinky Underground as it trundled in the dark at walking pace. I decided to walk the pollution-clogged streets for the three miles to my destination, despite carrying a rucksack stuffed with fluids and large textbooks.

My trek perked up at one point. I saw that the bushes had been hastily fenced off in Bloomsbury Square with an ill fitting wood and wire barrier. A sign indicated that this was to allow the vegetation to flourish. I laughed to myself thinking that it was probably to stop the Russel Square runoff from using the bushes as camouflage for their illicit activities.

It's hard to pee in London, without paying for the privilege. I like peeing, the prospect of which helps me focus when I'm struggling to finish long drinks. I don't like paying 20 pence to urinate. Why can't pervert internet users pay my urination fees in exchange for access to webcams in the cubicles?

The population of leaflet distributing and placard holding people on Oxford street has increased an order of magnitude since I was last here a few months ago. There are people reading books and pretending to listen to personal stereos underneath placards at every corner now. This is how I found this internet cafe.

Enough on London. I don't really live anywhere particularly come to think of it, so I can insult everywhere else too. Want me to insult your hometown? Drop me a line. Very reasonable rates for mild insults to your neighbourhood.
posted by Garreth at 8:08 AM

The secret lives of books :  My friend from the communications department and I were kidnapped from the college library several years ago. We were sorely missed no doubt, though no rescue attempts have been made. Prior to my abduction, I had spent a decade telling undergraduates all they needed to know about electronics. With my hardback covers, and almost 600 pages of no-nonsense facts, I was a seminal work in the field. I am not light either, and the kidnapper must have been very determined to get us out (fortunately) in one piece.

My kidnapper left no ransome note. He bypassed the librarian completely, and her state of the art pen and paper reservation and booking system, and I was smuggled out to help in exam preparation. Far from being liberated after the exams were completed, my kidnapper ran around drinking and eating kebabs, completely overlooking my return, and the anguish my absence had no doubt caused the librarian.

My companion and I had been gathering dust in the home of the kidnapper for many years, but something changed this morning. We were loaded into a rucksack and transported many miles. From our dark resting place, we can make out the noise of traffic, of announcements about Kings Cross Saint Pancras. We think we are in London. In the rucksack with us are many things. A suit. An invitation to a reunion at the college of our library. A dangerous looking bottle of 95% pure alcohol, and another of Buckfast tonic wine.

We are excited - our minds reel with possibilities. Perhaps he plans to return us to our library. Perhaps we will once again rub shoulders with Howatson, Lund and Todd and all of our other library friends. Oh please let it be so. Take us back to the paradise library, where they the books are fine and the shelves are sturdy, oh won't you please take us home.
posted by Garreth at 7:40 AM

10/01/2003

Holiday from my holiday :  I have just booked a holiday. A package holiday. I haven't done that in ages. There's probably a good reason for that. I booked a trip to Torremolinos during the UK half term holidays. It's an all inclusive deal, so I can eat as much spam and chips as I want, and drink as much nasty booze as I can, while a seething mass of hyperactive schoolkids drink sugar-based drinks and throw free food at each other under the negligent eyes of their sunburnt parents. Joy.
posted by Garreth at 5:53 AM