Just found a gadget to link my picasa web album to blogger. Hopefully it'll work, but then it is IT, so fully expect it to collapse taking all of your files with it and then fiddle with your relatives in an undesirable fashion. Two posts in one day! Surely no one can live at this speed...
...
As expected, it didn't work at all. Still, you can look to the right to see them scrolling around
Thursday, 1 January 2009
Happy New Year!
Well, it's ridiculous-o'clock on the first day of the new year and I'm up nice and early on account of being like some bearded Mogwai who shouldn't be given coffee after 6pm. I seem to have reached the age where caffeine at night causes my brain to, after a brief period of deception where it pretends everything is ok and feigns sleep, kick into overdrive and begin to search for answers to questions way beyond its reach like Jade Goody on Mastermind with a specialist subject of "Fings wot ain't in my house". So rather than lie there trying to solve mysteries of interest which may perhaps in the long run better humanity and lead to a more Utopian existence, I instead choose to get up, make a cup of tea, provide the cat with enough pseudo-breakfast to keep it quiet long enough for Liz to emerge from sleep like a stumbling dormouse coming out of hibernation, power up the mac and spout crap on a blog.
A few things haven't changed since my last entry in, ahem, May. My blogging has taken on the properties of gym membership, sitting there quietly in the background like a nagging guilt which you promise to address at some point, after all, you said you would but you're still resting after you felt a twinge in that muscle in 1975, just to be sure and besides, there's a rerun of River Cottage that you've only seen 5 times and don't want to miss. At least no one ever tried and failed to get into a little black dress and spent the evening weeping in front of a mirror half-naked and crying "Why am I a monster?!" because they didn't type enough. The other thing that hasn't changed is that Plymouth is still shit. The one thing Plymonians don't seem to get for christmas is a desire to throw anything in a bin, so the city currently looks like a place Wombles would come for a busman's holiday, with the added advantage of feeling like The Beautiful People as they wandered amongst the locals. "Well, I may be fat and hairy, Uncle Bulgaria, but in the southwest, I'm the new Lindsay Lohan". Southwest water are about to embark on another War on Asphalt on our street as they've realised that they've left it to its own devices for 20 minutes and they don't want it getting too acquainted with the paving stones, which have been covered in dogshit since roman times. The letter describing the upcoming 6 weeks of chaos can basically be summed up as "We know there's nowhere to park now, so we're going to turn half the street into a chasm. If you have any ideas on how to alleviate the impending likelihood of people having to drive around for six weeks, we're keen to hear new ideas. Like how to build an elevator to the moon, because by our calculations, that's the nearest available space."
On the upside, I am now officially a PhD student after being offered a place during the summer after talking to some people whilst volunteering at Plymouth Marine Laboratories. So I am to spend the next three years studying the accumulation of polyphosphates in marine bacteria. Now, on the surface, that sounds like some pretty dull shit. Under the surface however, well, it still sounds like a topic which would drive you to seek out railway enthusiasts at a recovering alcoholic's wedding unless you are a true gene geek. Dig a little deeper though and there's some seriously interesting stuff. Polyphosphates were around long before ATP and so have been providing critters with energy since critters stopped eating cakes and watching Jeremy Kyle and required it. Consequently, evolution has driven them to be key components in a whole host of biological functions such as pathogenicity, UV protection and survival in water with fewer nutrients than a happy meal and so there's plenty to be looking into. The research is funded by Queens University Belfast, so I shall be spending some time out in Ireland and hopefully doing a stint in Oregon under the masterful gaze of Lord Steve Giovannoni, Commander of Growing things which Do Not Wish To Be Grown. Doing the PhD now also means I won't be graduating from Plymouth University, which is a shame as their ceremony has no expense spared and has recently been upgraded from the local ice skating rink to a tent in the windiest, wettest part of the city. Hopefully I'll still get to witness the clapping and cheering of elated parents interrupted by shouts of "Don't touch the sides!".
Liz has also found herself in cheerier times as she is now teaching fashion at Plymouth College of Art and Design. Now, given that a pasty-derived meat dripping stained plymouth argyle football shirt is the epitome of chic in this fourth circle of hell just off the A38, studying fashion in Plymouth is rather akin to studying marine biology in a desert, so the calibre of her students isn't exactly top class. However, she does have some gems amongst the turds and she's enjoying moulding their talents whilst terrifying the others with trips to such far flung places as London and Bath.
So yes. Hopefully 2009 will continue in the same vein as the tailend of 2008, with the following goals in mind:
A few things haven't changed since my last entry in, ahem, May. My blogging has taken on the properties of gym membership, sitting there quietly in the background like a nagging guilt which you promise to address at some point, after all, you said you would but you're still resting after you felt a twinge in that muscle in 1975, just to be sure and besides, there's a rerun of River Cottage that you've only seen 5 times and don't want to miss. At least no one ever tried and failed to get into a little black dress and spent the evening weeping in front of a mirror half-naked and crying "Why am I a monster?!" because they didn't type enough. The other thing that hasn't changed is that Plymouth is still shit. The one thing Plymonians don't seem to get for christmas is a desire to throw anything in a bin, so the city currently looks like a place Wombles would come for a busman's holiday, with the added advantage of feeling like The Beautiful People as they wandered amongst the locals. "Well, I may be fat and hairy, Uncle Bulgaria, but in the southwest, I'm the new Lindsay Lohan". Southwest water are about to embark on another War on Asphalt on our street as they've realised that they've left it to its own devices for 20 minutes and they don't want it getting too acquainted with the paving stones, which have been covered in dogshit since roman times. The letter describing the upcoming 6 weeks of chaos can basically be summed up as "We know there's nowhere to park now, so we're going to turn half the street into a chasm. If you have any ideas on how to alleviate the impending likelihood of people having to drive around for six weeks, we're keen to hear new ideas. Like how to build an elevator to the moon, because by our calculations, that's the nearest available space."
On the upside, I am now officially a PhD student after being offered a place during the summer after talking to some people whilst volunteering at Plymouth Marine Laboratories. So I am to spend the next three years studying the accumulation of polyphosphates in marine bacteria. Now, on the surface, that sounds like some pretty dull shit. Under the surface however, well, it still sounds like a topic which would drive you to seek out railway enthusiasts at a recovering alcoholic's wedding unless you are a true gene geek. Dig a little deeper though and there's some seriously interesting stuff. Polyphosphates were around long before ATP and so have been providing critters with energy since critters stopped eating cakes and watching Jeremy Kyle and required it. Consequently, evolution has driven them to be key components in a whole host of biological functions such as pathogenicity, UV protection and survival in water with fewer nutrients than a happy meal and so there's plenty to be looking into. The research is funded by Queens University Belfast, so I shall be spending some time out in Ireland and hopefully doing a stint in Oregon under the masterful gaze of Lord Steve Giovannoni, Commander of Growing things which Do Not Wish To Be Grown. Doing the PhD now also means I won't be graduating from Plymouth University, which is a shame as their ceremony has no expense spared and has recently been upgraded from the local ice skating rink to a tent in the windiest, wettest part of the city. Hopefully I'll still get to witness the clapping and cheering of elated parents interrupted by shouts of "Don't touch the sides!".
Liz has also found herself in cheerier times as she is now teaching fashion at Plymouth College of Art and Design. Now, given that a pasty-derived meat dripping stained plymouth argyle football shirt is the epitome of chic in this fourth circle of hell just off the A38, studying fashion in Plymouth is rather akin to studying marine biology in a desert, so the calibre of her students isn't exactly top class. However, she does have some gems amongst the turds and she's enjoying moulding their talents whilst terrifying the others with trips to such far flung places as London and Bath.
So yes. Hopefully 2009 will continue in the same vein as the tailend of 2008, with the following goals in mind:
- Learn everything there is to know about phosphates and the collecting of phosphates in microbes.
- Do more photography. I may start posting the photos on here so I can add insightful comments like "This is a picture of my cat licking its arse, where I've tried to capture the conflict between the drive for cleanliness and the realisation that she now has poo on her tongue. It was taken in the "drunk" style, with my thumb adding foreground interest".
- Reacquaint myself with my xbox
- Blog more
- Actually Blog more
Tuesday, 20 May 2008
A little later than expected.
Well, that didn't quite go according to plan... The exams are now over, bringing the first year of my degree to a close in a categoric overconsumption of watered-down beer. So, erm, to sum up the past 7 months....
Plymouth. Wow. It would appear that when the second wave of Homo sapiens wandered out of Africa and started to replace neanderthal man in Northwest Europe, they stopped at Exeter services for a coffee and then decided it was getting late and that living in a world without an Ikea wasn't worth the pain of maneuvering through A38 traffic. Over the next 60,000 years the neanderthals realised that illustrious cave art and culture was just a distraction from the real purpose in life of promoting pastry-based coronary heart disease and molesting your cousins. You don't need a time machine to watch Morlocks in action, you need directions to Devonport.
Shop assistants in B&Q stare at you in disbelief as you describe the wonderment of a flat surface called a 'shelf' which you wish to place in your 'bathroom' in order to imbue your shampoo with gravity defiance. People from service industries happily agree that they will be round on Tuesday to fix your problem, only to realise once they have put the phone down that they have no concept of time or calendars. Bat wings are then presumably thrown into a seething froth in order to ascertain how Tuesday fits in with the moon-gobbling dragon. Even if they do figure it out, it's not like they can tell you. The magic voice box that imparted the instruction is now silent and dusty.
You know you've reached the absolute arse-end of civilisation and then got lost down a dark alley when the local news refers to Taunton as 'The Far East'. They even import news from London on occasion to show just how scary the faraway world is and to convince you that you're better off staying at home where at least you can guarantee that it'll rain on most days and that sooner or later one of the six jobs the city has to offer might be up for grabs. Road atlases bought in Devon have 'M5' crossed out and 'River Styx' written in blood.
This house which caused us so much stress to acquire hasn't diminished its ability to frustrate. Walls are collapsing, damp is proving troublesome, boilers are threatening to explode. We appear to be uniquely positioned. Over the road, the woman has clearly never uttered the phrase "not tonight love, I have a headache" as a plague of demented spawn spill through the ever-open front door. Each morning begins with the chorus of our neighbours doing their utmost to examine the contents of their lungs by projecting them onto the concrete floor. I saw a boy put litter in a bin the other day. I nearly hugged him. I think it's fair to say that once the course is complete and I have a chance of earning any money at all which could be used for a mortgage we shall be relocating towards the East. Towards Civilisation. Towards the Light.
As for the course, well at least that is ok. Seems things have been simplified somewhat since my last degree, with virtually the entire first year being assessed through multiple choice, but there's been plenty of content to keep me endlessly busy (hence the somewhat sparse blogging..). Being 32 and surrounded by 18 year olds has proved less problematic than originally thought, mainly because many of my colleagues are thoroughly nice people. My tutor is a cross between Charles Darwin and Santa and is proving to be a most inspirational figure. Which is nice as it cancels out some of the sheer bloody ineptitude of other parts of the University (the IT department makes EDS look like they have the abilities of that kid in Heroes). This summer should see me helping out on deep-sea and tropical coral projects and getting hands on experience of genetics and bioinformatics as well as making contacts with people involved in ocean acidification research and no-take zones. So in terms of saving the oceans, it's all going to plan. If I can just earn some money in the mean time we'll be golden. I might even introduce the local plumbers and builders to watches. It'll be like when C3PO met the Ewoks.
Thursday, 23 August 2007
Shhh, what's that sound?
Listen carefully. There. Did you hear it? Get closer. Yes? That little high pitched squealing. It wasn't there before. Can you guess what it is? Well I'll tell you. It's the sound of every fucking atom in my oversized, bearded frame raising its tiny sub-microscopic voice to the heavens in euphoric cacophony. Mitochondrial DNA is currently cracking out the decks in preparation for an all night rave as chromosomes sway to rich, buzzing trance anthems, lit only by the flickering light of molecular glowsticks.
We have finally exchanged contracts on the house. This mundane-sounding event marks the end of a week that can only be described as a monument to epic clusterfuckery. In fact, it concludes the whole sorry event of house sales and purchases which began badly in March/April and then slid down a shit-stained slope like an obese child on a toboggan who, after the brief rush of adrenaline, realises they are sliding unstoppably towards a busy motorway. A motorway used exclusively by chunky-loving paedophiles.
We have had 30 sets of strangers through our doors and in a strange symmetry have been strangers in the same number of houses. We have experienced the full might of estate agent ineptitude. Just when we thought that their astronomical inability to market a house had hit a new low, they would dilligently pull out industrial shovels and dig like pirates near gold. In fact the only saddening part of exchanging contracts is that we will have to give these fuckwits money for their provided "service". I use the term so loosely that it's in danger of falling off and shattering on an incorrectly priced kitchen floor. I now wish that I had spent my time in IT more wisely and invented a way to digitally wipe my arse on electronic funds.
We've offered on and lost either 3 or 4 houses we liked as the September deadline loomed ever closer. After finally finding a house we liked and a buyer who could get over the fact that the garden wasn't big enough to reenact the Battle of the Somme, we managed to sidestep solicitors of considerable and well-publicised incompetence only to meet up with them again further down the chain, like an ex at a party who has spent the years getting fatter, uglier and more prone to involutary pant-spoiling. It was therefore only fitting that the story would conclude itself like a James Herbert novel, twisting and turning as you flick pages with an ever-increasing feeling that the hero is going to die and that the murderous beast will do much the same thing again in a month's time, in an entirely different book about entirely different people. In the past two weeks, completion dates have come and gone, stretching beyond the start of my course (and thus dooming me to 12 more months of XML-inspired labour-camp joy) only to be snapped back with a sharp tug on the leash, spewing rabid foam through 3-bedroomed teeth. Ex-wives have appeared as if from nowhere threatening to withold required funds unless the universe cowtowed to her new untested physical laws. New universes have had to be created and positioned to hit the completion date.
But with one phone call, we are there. Our Bristol-based solicitors (Burrough's Day if you haven't been paying attention and are still wanting to move) have been exceptional. Our removal firm have been thoroughly understanding of the process. Our sellers' estate agents (Stratton Creber) have been awesome. Our buyers and sellers have been superbly reasonable and I advise anyone moving house that direct contact with these parties will stop you wanting to smash kittens with hammers. My wife has been an absolute star, managing to stay positive through the whole saga whilst sat at home surrounded by boxes and Cillit Bang.
So, next wednesday we move and a new life of sea-related beard-stroking draws near. By a stroke of luck and deft toboggan manipulation the fat kid may well end up on a hard shoulder filled with lusty, oiled, chunky-loving Playboy bunnies. Playboy bunnies with pie.
We have finally exchanged contracts on the house. This mundane-sounding event marks the end of a week that can only be described as a monument to epic clusterfuckery. In fact, it concludes the whole sorry event of house sales and purchases which began badly in March/April and then slid down a shit-stained slope like an obese child on a toboggan who, after the brief rush of adrenaline, realises they are sliding unstoppably towards a busy motorway. A motorway used exclusively by chunky-loving paedophiles.
We have had 30 sets of strangers through our doors and in a strange symmetry have been strangers in the same number of houses. We have experienced the full might of estate agent ineptitude. Just when we thought that their astronomical inability to market a house had hit a new low, they would dilligently pull out industrial shovels and dig like pirates near gold. In fact the only saddening part of exchanging contracts is that we will have to give these fuckwits money for their provided "service". I use the term so loosely that it's in danger of falling off and shattering on an incorrectly priced kitchen floor. I now wish that I had spent my time in IT more wisely and invented a way to digitally wipe my arse on electronic funds.
We've offered on and lost either 3 or 4 houses we liked as the September deadline loomed ever closer. After finally finding a house we liked and a buyer who could get over the fact that the garden wasn't big enough to reenact the Battle of the Somme, we managed to sidestep solicitors of considerable and well-publicised incompetence only to meet up with them again further down the chain, like an ex at a party who has spent the years getting fatter, uglier and more prone to involutary pant-spoiling. It was therefore only fitting that the story would conclude itself like a James Herbert novel, twisting and turning as you flick pages with an ever-increasing feeling that the hero is going to die and that the murderous beast will do much the same thing again in a month's time, in an entirely different book about entirely different people. In the past two weeks, completion dates have come and gone, stretching beyond the start of my course (and thus dooming me to 12 more months of XML-inspired labour-camp joy) only to be snapped back with a sharp tug on the leash, spewing rabid foam through 3-bedroomed teeth. Ex-wives have appeared as if from nowhere threatening to withold required funds unless the universe cowtowed to her new untested physical laws. New universes have had to be created and positioned to hit the completion date.
But with one phone call, we are there. Our Bristol-based solicitors (Burrough's Day if you haven't been paying attention and are still wanting to move) have been exceptional. Our removal firm have been thoroughly understanding of the process. Our sellers' estate agents (Stratton Creber) have been awesome. Our buyers and sellers have been superbly reasonable and I advise anyone moving house that direct contact with these parties will stop you wanting to smash kittens with hammers. My wife has been an absolute star, managing to stay positive through the whole saga whilst sat at home surrounded by boxes and Cillit Bang.
So, next wednesday we move and a new life of sea-related beard-stroking draws near. By a stroke of luck and deft toboggan manipulation the fat kid may well end up on a hard shoulder filled with lusty, oiled, chunky-loving Playboy bunnies. Playboy bunnies with pie.
Friday, 10 August 2007
Sniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip
I am officially 2 feet of hair lighter today. Reaction has been mixed to say the least. So far my favourite comments are "well, it's not as awful as it could have been", "you look middle aged", "you look like someone's dad", "you look like Don Johnson" (from a bald man) and "you look much younger"(from my new best friend). So either I previously looked 50 and now look a youthful middle-age, or people have hugely different views of follicular age determination.
Actually, that's a lie. My favourite comment so far is "you've had your hair cut!". Which is odd, because I thought that I sat in a chair for an hour last night while toucans massaged my skull. £34 for a soothing treatment from exotic birds seemed like a bargain.
My official reason for having it done is that long hair is a fucking pain in the arse when diving. Getting a hood on takes longer, sorting it out afterwards requires power-brushing that would skin a rhino. But it's also nice to look at it as a break from the past. My flowing girly locks have been with me through school, university, reenactment and work. It has seen my clothes change from snow combats and ripped t-shirt to velvet shirts and new rocks, to a walking marks and spencers advert. It bore witness to the rise and collapse of the dot-com bubble and the stratification of the IT industry into really good ideas that cost an awful lot of money, and really bad ideas that seem to cost more. My hair had out-survived the Yangtze river dolphin. My wife, like a chinese hair-biologist will mourn; my mane wistfully remembered in slowly flicked pictures damp from salty tears. I hope that's where the similarity ends. My hair is in a bag in a drawer somewhere in the house. The removal men are going to be pretty pissed off it they have to transfer 200 kilos of soggy decaying freshwater mammal down to Plymouth.
I'm just glad that my initial fear of my hair being the source of my sarcasm have failed to materialize. With 14 days left in this industry followed by 3-7 years of being surrounded by 18 year olds giggling into their mobile phones whilst proclaiming "WHY MUST YOU JUDGE ME??!", I'm going to need all the vitriol I can muster.
Actually, that's a lie. My favourite comment so far is "you've had your hair cut!". Which is odd, because I thought that I sat in a chair for an hour last night while toucans massaged my skull. £34 for a soothing treatment from exotic birds seemed like a bargain.
My official reason for having it done is that long hair is a fucking pain in the arse when diving. Getting a hood on takes longer, sorting it out afterwards requires power-brushing that would skin a rhino. But it's also nice to look at it as a break from the past. My flowing girly locks have been with me through school, university, reenactment and work. It has seen my clothes change from snow combats and ripped t-shirt to velvet shirts and new rocks, to a walking marks and spencers advert. It bore witness to the rise and collapse of the dot-com bubble and the stratification of the IT industry into really good ideas that cost an awful lot of money, and really bad ideas that seem to cost more. My hair had out-survived the Yangtze river dolphin. My wife, like a chinese hair-biologist will mourn; my mane wistfully remembered in slowly flicked pictures damp from salty tears. I hope that's where the similarity ends. My hair is in a bag in a drawer somewhere in the house. The removal men are going to be pretty pissed off it they have to transfer 200 kilos of soggy decaying freshwater mammal down to Plymouth.
I'm just glad that my initial fear of my hair being the source of my sarcasm have failed to materialize. With 14 days left in this industry followed by 3-7 years of being surrounded by 18 year olds giggling into their mobile phones whilst proclaiming "WHY MUST YOU JUDGE ME??!", I'm going to need all the vitriol I can muster.
Wednesday, 8 August 2007
Facebook Frolicks
Seems that importing this blog into facebook has several issues. It seems that the 250 word intro created on the import doesn't make it obvious it's only part of a post. Obviously using an ellipse would cause the universe to explode. So a click on "View original post" is required. The alternative is notes that are 1000+ word rants, and for that, I'm going to need much bigger post-its.
Monday, 6 August 2007
Honey, have you seen the cat?
Well, the house is now officially a maze of boxes. Horror room 1 (the garage) has been cleared and organised into boxes of "Things I never used" and "Things I use less than that". Spiders the size of minivans have been evicted from their makeshift caves, no doubt to prowl the streets looking for a new lair in which to trap hobbits. I've also found that golf club bags are a great storage device for swords. I must remember to separate the contents again before I step onto the course. Either that or create a new sport of BloodGolf. Holes in one would be infinitely more likely.
I also discovered the delights of freecycle. One ad for a sofa placed and within 72 hours a gollum-type creature with a dodgy heart was trying to load the suite onto a towtruck to deliver it to people he'd never met. Bless the internet. It somehow has the ability to turn the most mundane jobs into epic clusterfucks which characters who seem to be the bastard children of a drunken mistake between Alan Bennett and John Webster. Gollum was kind enough to leave his number in case we needed rescuing in his towtruck or something stored somewhere, or a removal van, or a guide to the treasures of Tenochtitlán, something, anything, just please call me again. You never know. Perhaps I may break down somewhere one night in a storm in the middle of nowhere, after a nuclear holocaust in which the only survivors are me and a broken man with a fetish for vehicles which move things. Maybe then, if I can find a phone amongst the radioactive debris and scare the rats away from it, I will give him a call and ask if I can utilise his expertise. Or I'll just drink the water and wait for sweet, merciful death.
Until such a time, I shall continue packing. Horror room 2 (the kitchen) still needs to be done and I've no doubt a fun filled afternoon of watching my life repeatedly flash before my eyes as I get stuff down from the loft awaits. A trip to the swedish kingdom of flatpack also looms on the horizon to plan and cost a kitchen amonst the Groblaks and the Fandiks. If I can time it with the holocaust, I might even be able to get a parking space.
Tonight, we dine in IKEA.
I also discovered the delights of freecycle. One ad for a sofa placed and within 72 hours a gollum-type creature with a dodgy heart was trying to load the suite onto a towtruck to deliver it to people he'd never met. Bless the internet. It somehow has the ability to turn the most mundane jobs into epic clusterfucks which characters who seem to be the bastard children of a drunken mistake between Alan Bennett and John Webster. Gollum was kind enough to leave his number in case we needed rescuing in his towtruck or something stored somewhere, or a removal van, or a guide to the treasures of Tenochtitlán, something, anything, just please call me again. You never know. Perhaps I may break down somewhere one night in a storm in the middle of nowhere, after a nuclear holocaust in which the only survivors are me and a broken man with a fetish for vehicles which move things. Maybe then, if I can find a phone amongst the radioactive debris and scare the rats away from it, I will give him a call and ask if I can utilise his expertise. Or I'll just drink the water and wait for sweet, merciful death.
Until such a time, I shall continue packing. Horror room 2 (the kitchen) still needs to be done and I've no doubt a fun filled afternoon of watching my life repeatedly flash before my eyes as I get stuff down from the loft awaits. A trip to the swedish kingdom of flatpack also looms on the horizon to plan and cost a kitchen amonst the Groblaks and the Fandiks. If I can time it with the holocaust, I might even be able to get a parking space.
Tonight, we dine in IKEA.
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