until the last king is strangled with the entrails of the last priest

So, yesterday I was bored so I cycled sixteen miles then I cycled sixteen more. The Bristol-Bath cycletrack is almost painfully lovely even on a grey day and it’s definitely the second most fun form of exercise I can think of. However, the thing which used to be a lovely greasy spoon/bacon vendor at Bitton is now a thing that calls itself “the Buffet”, has prices about in line with the Ritz, and seems to think a menu that says they stop doing hot food at 4pm sharp means that they can already have everything turned off at 3:55. Silly cunts. Beside that, everything was lovely.

Driving is starting to feel really natural. Still likely to be a long time before I can take the test, but I’m actually enjoying it. After the lesson, I picked up my pay, wandered down to the milsurp store and picked up two pairs of evil black military boots (ex West German paratroopers) and two pairs of evil black leather military gloves (actually, ex-police, slash resistant). The boots I got for a fiver a pair because they were somewhat crappy – the soles were slightly loose on the pair intended for me, meaning that they will probably break after leaping out of an air transport, landing on the ground, kicking the shit out of some Soviets and walking a few hundred miles. Since the secret evil project they are intended for does not have such strenuous requirements, should be fine. The gloves were also a steal at £8 a pair and should also be good for gardening and knife fights.

CL6 and the AGM tomorrow! I am going to be voting for the lovely Pope because he is lovely, and hope the pretty-much-as-lovely Fish will not consider it a betrayal. Also, I may be able to wrangle some multiplayer TOTAL ANNIHILATION! This game is love. Pure, beautiful love.

we sell what we can, until we cannot

So Dad bailed from driving us to Manchester on Wednesday. Which means that Mum and I have to get the train. Which means I have to cancel my evening shift tomorrow. Which means that I have to get someone to cover for me. Which, eventually, means Jane. Which logically concludes in her fucking mobile being off.

Took in a Scottish tenner (it had a Scottish bloke on it), an Ulster fiver (it had a Belfast on it), a Gibraltar pound (it had a castle on it!), a Manx 20p (it had cars on it), and a Jersey 5p (it had a boat on it). I really am quite impressed at the variety. Makes the place feel positively cosmopolitan.

Entertaining Exchanges of the night:

Random Customer’s Girlfriend: [holding up memory stick] Why do you even have this?
Random Customer Chap: Er…
Myself: You can NEVER have too much portable memory.
Random Customer Chap: *gratefulface*
Myself: Why, I’m carrying 4gb right now and there’s not a USB port in the building!
Random Customer’s Girlfriend: *edges away*
Random Customer Chap: *thumbs up, then likewise*

Myself: No, [your daughter] Daniela is very beautiful, but she’s not my type. She’s too… hardworking. (I was hardly going to say “enthusiastic but half-arsed” to her own father) It’s worrying.
Luigi: Yes, is hardworking. Like your mother? She work hard?
Myself: Well, yes, but I don’t fancy HER either.
Luigi: This is good. This is right.

Damn but I <3 Luigi. I'll likely miss him more than the rest of them put together when I move on.

to try to find enlightenment, or oriental concubines at least

My debit card arrived on Thursday, and so to christen it I got

– 2kg box of parma violets
– Dolphin 15 phone contract, free with Samsung U800 mobile.
– I had also impatiently got Pope to buy me my first MP3 player off Amazon several days before, which meant;
I had three lovely parcels on my doorstep on Friday morning ready to take to Oxford and enjoy.

Myself: Huzzah! I have my glorious new awesomephone, thank the lor’ it came today since my old phone is out of credit!
Oliver: \O/
Myself: the fucking thing keeps randomly restarting and will not work argh argh why is everything in life shit god I hate everything and everyone the sky will split in two and all there will be is insects
Oliver: Perhaps you should complain to Orange?
Myself: How?
Oliver: Telephone them!
Myself: WITH WHAT D:<

feel the JOY of TRANSCODING

underneath the open sky says:
the rejection would destroy me inside and turn me to a down-and-out hobo
underneath the open sky says:
knowing nothing, seeing nothing, hating everything
Imogen says:
it really annoys me when you make fun of me
underneath the open sky says:
I thought you’d like it.
underneath the open sky says:
and, well, I’d apologise but I know that annoys you too, what am I to do?
Imogen says:
dunno, you seem to be in a rather sticky situation
underneath the open sky says:
I shall change the subject and move on swiftly
underneath the open sky says:
cream soda is surprisingly nice
Imogen says:
it is sooo yummy

time she gets the best of us, the jokers and the kings

Sixty-something years ago, my grandfather knew enough about the weather that entire RAF squadrons would take off on his advice. Last night, I didn’t know whether what was hitting me was rain or snow.

In all fairness, I couldn’t really see…

It’s a funny old world where the weather inside the shitty, moulded-concrete Brutalist ice rink is more welcoming than outside. It’s not snow any more, just a constant sleetish hailish torrent that turned the ground to slush and made my trenchcoat twice as heavy. Elsewhere, England is drowning. Given that Australia is burning, I’m not going to complain.

Off skating with COGS really was great fun. Having been an enthusiastic skater/rollerblader back in Islington at the age of 13, I found myself of… middling skill among my gamer friends, not waddling like Fish or falling over at the slightest provocation like Robbo, but not zipping around with perfect confidence like Taylor or Troy either. My ankles hurt, but that’s the point, isn’t it?

During cleanup tonight, three minutes to midnight, Still Alive came on the radio. I had a small nerdgasm right there and then, which lengthened the mopping somewhat.

sit and watch the stars go by

Bristol is, to possibly coin a phrase, snowfucked. Something about cold air from Russia meeting wet air from France directly over the West Country. Whatever. I woke to find my town clad in five inches depth of soft white cold stuff.

So fun.

There were ominous snowmen half as tall again as a man, looming whitely up on the Downs. There were running battles between entire classes of kids off from school. There were lads coming in all morning shift buying piles of chips and dragging them away on sleighs. There was a bloke who, lacking anything more sledgelike, was cruising downhill on a surfboard. (Godawful puns regarding “cool” abound).

So twenty minutes ago I was wandering the snow-caked depths of the night at stupid hours. It’s a brilliant feeling of isolation. Everything is strangely bright, from the streetlights reflecting on snow; everything is black or white, everything utterly silent.

Snow is the strangest form of precipitation, if like me you’re not used to it. Everything is muffled in it; faces, footsteps, sound. Every other flavour of seasonal falling stuff – rain, hail, even rustling autumn leaves – makes a noise when it touches earth. Not snow. It falls silently, touches down on a muted world. To walk alone through a snowy night is to see a world in silent motion. Unnerving, and coldly [hurr] beautiful.

The snow is chucking down now. Tomorrow looks to be a day of sub-zero lulz.

tl;dr SNOW