Watski's World

The Bruno Mars question

2011-11-01T12:16:00.002Z

Inspired by Mikes inability to give away his Bruno Mars Plus 1 – the Bruno Mars question:

"'Cause what you don't understand is that I'd catch a grenade for ya"

Bruno Mars has laid down his commitment to catch a grenade for you in song - well, I’d like to know who ‘you’ is exactly? Is he talking to all of us, or to one person in particular? ‘You’ has to be someone, or everyone. It’s probably in your best interests to find out whether it’s you, or not – just so that you can sleep a little easier at night. Or get cheaper life insurance.

It could even be me. If I was to listen to the song then I’d be well within my rights to think that he was talking to me and vowing a lifetime of grenade security on my behalf. It’s technically a contract. If its one person in particular then he’s literally going to have to be at the side of this person for the rest of their life, on the off chance that a grenade is dispatched in their general direction. There’s no point pledging to catching a grenade if at the precise moment you’re not looking one is launched at the person you’ve committed to catching a grenade for. But then why on Earth would you want to be with someone who has put themselves in a situation where grenades are likely to be thrown at them whilst they go about their everyday business? What have they done to get themselves into this position? There are easier relationships to be had.

Mr Mars is also very specific on the fact that it’s going to be a grenade. How does he know this? It sounds like there is something that he is not telling us. There are, according to the army study guide (I’ve done my research) 6 types of grenade, does his grenade catching obligations cover all 6, or are there loopholes and types of grenades that he wont catch? Would he be able to opt out of catching a particular type of grenade on a technicality? Is there a small print at the end of the song that I’ve not seen? *Catching grenade obligation only applies to grenades thrown between the hours of 7am and 11am and is restricted to illuminating grenades*.

Its admirable how he manages to go about his everyday business with this grenade catching vow hanging round his neck. He’s probably regretting ever saying it. It’s a modern day miracle that he’s managed to have a music career in spite of it, no wonder he’s writing songs about it – its probably all he ever thinks about, the only surprise is that there aren’t more songs about grenades – maybe there are more in the pipeline. How does he incorporate potential grenade catching into his show? It probably means that you increase your likelihood of being in the vicinity of some grenade related activity if you go to a Bruno Mars show. I only hope that the audience are aware of the dangers of the fact that there is possibly a grenade thrower in their midst. What happens if the person he is catching grenades for isn’t at his show – will he have to nip out at regular intervals if there is grenade throwing potential?

How exactly does he incorporate this grenade catching pledge with his commitment to jump in front of a train?

Facts > Opinion

2011-10-05T12:27:00.004+01:00

Every now and again a subject comes along on which everyone has an opinion, regardless of how well they know the subject in question. One thing is for sure; if I’ve seen and heard one opinion on the Amanda Knox story in the last 3 days then I’ve read a million - from countless multiples of 140 characters on Twitter, to diatribes on Facebook, to missives on messageboards, to rants in the office.

The problem is though, that most of these opinions make me want to cover my eyes and ears and jump out of the nearest window. Of course people are entitled to an opinion, but facts always beat opinion. Here’s a rule of thumb that you might want to incorporate into your day to day life: If you are considering formulating an opinion on a particular subject, then it’s worth checking if there’s a fact on it before you start – if there is then simply align your opinion behind that fact, even if the fact doesn’t resemble the opinion you were going to formulate.

The reason for this is very simple: If there is a fact available on the precise topic of your opinion, and that fact is different to the opinion that you have about it, then your opinion is wrong. I’m not even sorry to say it - you are wrong. An opinion isn’t even required if it is different to the fact that is available on the same subject.

If your opinion differs from the fact then you are wasting your time putting together an opinion, you are wasting your time talking to me about it, you are wasting my time in making me listen to your opinion, and you are wasting my time in making me tell you that you are wrong. “In my opinion she is guilty as hell” is a worthless opinion, because the fact at present is that she is not guilty. Whats hell got to be guilty about anyway?

Even if I didnt like what the fact was, and would prefer your opinion as the real fact, it wouldnt alter anything - all that would happen is that we would both be engaged in a even more pointless conversation, because more than one person was wrong.

God knows how I managed to get over 3 paragraphs out of Facts & Opinions, but I can go on a lot, lot longer about it.

I’m only interested in facts, is what I’m trying to say, I think, if you’re unclear on my point. I spend most of my day avoiding getting involved in discussions on current affairs with people, because it usually ends up with me wanting to kill one of us. Arguing with a fact is effectively the same is arguing that 1 + 1 = 27.

If the government really want to save money, they ought to scrap the entire criminal justice system and replace it with people, chosen at random, who declare 'guilty' or 'not guilty' based upon 3 key strands:

a) Whether the defendant looks guilty from 5 photos of the defendant selected at random, what I’m seeing is something similar to the way that they select the numbers on Countdown,

b) The headlines from a selection of newspapers,

c) a 10 minute chat with 3 acquaintances, all of whom have a combined knowledge on the subject that is less than yours.

The most important thing is that they must have no more than a basic understanding of the actual case, but are capable of formulating a deep seated view based upon this very minimal understanding. We could even turn it into prime time TV, with someone like Richard Bacon surprising people at the bus stop or somewhere and asking the big question 'Guilty or Not Guilty?', or even in front of a live studio audience who have to vote on which way the person will cast their judgement.

Maybe the whole thing could get a reality TV makeover – I’ve copywrited Judge Idol, so don’t even think about it. Saturday nights wont be the same again.

The only cases where this wouldn’t apply is in cases of alleged paedophilia or cases where the defendant has a funny name - where the verdict will always default to guilty.

What I’m not saying is that I know more than you – although 99 times out 100 I probably do. I have very little understanding of the case, other than one person was murdered, 3 people were convicted and 2 people were have had their convictions overturned. And unless you’ve spent months and months in the courtroom listening to every strand of prosecution and defence wrangling, it's probably the same understanding as you, which means that you’re just speculating.

Sometimes you have to go with it.

Boiler Issues

2011-02-02T00:07:00.008Z

My boiler has been broken for some weeks now, certainly since before Christmas. As is usual with any plumbing requirements I might have, I give my mate a ring. As is usual with my plumbing mate - he has no fucking clue.

A couple of years ago I had water dripping through my kitchen ceiling - the bath and shower is directly above the leak so it was obvious that was the source - I just didnt know how. I got him out to have a look and after about an hour of umming and ahhing, he couldn't find the problem so left me with it. I rang a plumber from the yellow pages who found the problem within 2 minutes and charged me £70 for coming out and 35p for parts - a fingertip full of silicone to seal around the tap and stop the water from the shower trickling through.

Anyway, my mates esteemed conclusion was that the boiler problem could be one of 3 things - none of which he wanted to commit to because it might not actually be it - and buying parts would cost me. One of the 3 things was a new boiler.

"You might want to get someone out to have a look at it" he said as he packed his toolbox up and left.

"I thought I just fucking did" I shouted after him.

Anyway, having the boiler not working wasnt really a problem because the hot water still worked - magically I assumed, and I borrowed a couple of oil filled heaters from my brother. The house was actually warmer than it was when the heating worked. So this suited my general apathetic, 'not arsed' approach to life right down to the ground.

Lately however, I've been getting a bit bored with the freezing kitchen so I decided to get it sorted. I rang a guy from the Yellow Pages and he was actually very good. Well, when I say good - what I mean is that he was a nice man.

He came round, ummed and ahhed for a bit and narrowed the problem down to one of 2 things. He decided to go with the problem which required the cheapest spare part, and then went away, came back a couple of days later and fitted it. The boiler still didnt work.

Because the other option he'd narrowed it down to meant an expensive spare part, he suggested giving a business who carried out fixed cost repairs a call because they would do it for cheaper than it would cost him to get the part. Sounded like a good idea to me and to his credit he didnt charge me a penny for anything.

I rang someone else up yesterday, who sent someone straight out to have a look at it. He narrowed it down to one thing:

"You need a new gas valve" he said

This wasn't one of the thing that the previous guy had narrowed it down to when he had his 2 goes at it, or one of the things my mate narrowed it down to when he had his 3 goes at it. So lets hope we've finally got it sorted after 6 goes at it.

He's coming back today to fit it. You'll be able to tell if it does work because the polar icecaps will be half their usual size by the end of the day and there'll probably be a cyclone in Australia or something, as its going on maximum power for the full duration.

I saw my mate last night at football:

"Got someone in to sort the boiler, he's had a look at it today and is coming back tomorrow to fit the part..." I said

"Gas valve" my mate replied before I had chance to say what it was.

"Err...yes, how..?" I stammered, shocked.

"Thought it was" said my mate, confidently.

"Then why the fuck didnt you fucking fix it then you tit??"

Dangerously Curious

2011-01-13T13:21:00.005Z

We've all done it haven't we? Yes, you have. Haven't you? Just me then.

A week or so ago, being bored - and dangerously curious, I put my car registration number in webuyanycar.com to see what they would value my car at. This moment marks a change in my life - a few years ago being 'dangerously curious' in front of a laptop would have taken to me to a much more different site than a car valuation one.

Anyway, they came back with an expectedly low amount - any car company who is going to be selling on your car in the future will never give you the true valuation of it, as they have a profit to make. And, I've also discovered that there is a different downside to being 'dangerously curious' than there used to be, as I am now faced with a picture of my car with their value in large figures next to it on one of their adverts, on a lot of websites I now go into. I've seen it that much that I'm half expecting their adverts to be transposed into my dreams now.

Yesterday, I received another email from them entitled 'Great news, your car has increased in valuation'. 'Brilliant' I thought - 'my car has increased in value without me actually doing a single thing' other than being exposed to a zillion adverts. I checked. It was about £300.

Maybe if I leave it another 3 years, they might get a bit closer to what the value of the car actually is.

Car Crash Gym

2011-01-13T12:34:00.004Z

Monday night at the gym was a nightmare. The gym is a 15 minute walk from my house, but it took me that long to park the car, yeah I know I should be walking but it was cold and wet and the last thing I want to do is extend an hour session at the gym - that I don’t want to do in the first place - by another 30 minutes of exercise. That’s the kind of complication that would just make me not bother at all, so basically knackers to that. Although I can officially confirm to all media outlets that I will be journeying by bike from now on (weather/being arsed dependent).

The 2^nd Monday of the year will now forever be known as ‘Car Crash Monday’. The exact moment in time when this years New Years Resolutioners meet last years New Years Resolutioners - who came for 4 weeks but paid for the whole year, and think they’d better at least show the effort - and collide with the regulars who haven’t been since New Year for fear of it being packed, in a perect storm of sweat, lycra and odd smells that you never actually smell anywhere else.

In the week between Christmas and New Year I was actually the only person in the gym at one stage, this either makes me very sad or very dedicated - or a high octane mixture of both. I did allow myself to dream that it was my own private gym occasionally – except that I probably wouldn’t need 12 running machines. On Monday night, I wasnt even the only person in the square foot that I was standing, let alone the only person in the gym.

By the way, if a smell that you smell in the gym all year round is also there when you’re the only one in the gym, does it mean that its you?

Leaflet shit

2011-01-06T16:25:00.001Z

I don’t really read the things that I should: from ‘best before’ labels on dairy products, to letters from the council. I see them, but because they’re not immediately important to me, because they don’t have an immediate impact on my life, because I’m happy enough in my own world - then in my mind, there’s no point concerning my already overworked head with them.

I once answered a knock on the door to be greeted by a man identifying himself as a bailiff. Apparently I hadn’t paid my council tax and he was there to duff me up/sell my functioning internal organs/do whatever it is that bailiffs do.

After paying him, I contacted the council to find out why they hadn’t told me about this. To which I was informed very politely that they had infact sent me lots of letters about it.

“Don’t be so ridiculous” was my response “I’m not an idiot, if I had received them I would obviously have opened something so important and read....ahhhh”

I stopped as I remembered the pile of stuff that I don’t read, hidden away under the coffee table. In that pile I discovered about 10 letters from the council, each getting progressively more insistent, culminating in a letter that essentially ended with a ‘bollocks to you then, see you in court dickhead’ crescendo.

A court appearance that I didn’t attend, because I hadn’t seen the letter telling me to, because it was under the coffee table.

Anyway, one of the other items that I don’t read are Wheelie Bin collection leaflets. It’s far easier for me to peer out of the window on a Monday evening and see what colour bin the people on the street have put out, than it ever will be reading the leaflet and keeping it in a safe place, and then remembering where that safe place is. That sounds like someone elses hell.

Except, over the Christmas period it all gets a bit confused because the day changes from Tuesday to another day, which I will have been informed about in the leaflet, that is somewhere under the coffee table, that I haven’t read.

On Tuesday this week my bin had become so full that I thought that it was better to just stick it out the front of the house, to be sure that I wouldn’t miss the collection day, whenever it was. I had no clue when collection day was, I just knew that I didn’t want to miss it when it was.

10 minutes later, the rest of the street had all wheeled their bins out. The same colour as mine. I imagined that everyone else on the street was thinking how organised I was for knowing when the collection day was. This satisfied me.

Except that no collection lorry turned up the next day. I saw people on the street walk up to their bins, open them up, look confused that it hadn’t been emptied, walk up to someone elses bin, open that up and see that it hadn’t been emptied either. The look on their face then was an ‘I’m really, really confused now/thank God its not just my bin’ hybrid.

You know that look. Yeah you do.

What I’d actually achieved made me very proud. Not only had I’d started my own false Wheelie Bin chain, but I'd exposed everyone else for being as leaflet shit as I was.

Wheel idiot

2011-01-05T15:39:00.002Z

Bumped into my friend Carl in the newsagents. Havent seen him for about 5 years.

"Bloody Hell Watski, how are you - havent seen you for ages" he shouted across the shop. "The last time I saw you, you'd been messing around at football and had smashed your wrist to bits and had operations and nights in hospital"

"Yeah, Carl - I'm never going back there. I cant even think about it without cringing inside - it was a right royal pain in the rectal passage if I'm honest. I dont know how I managed for 8 weeks" I moaned.

"Yeah, must have been a nightmare" said Carl. From his wheelchair.

Return of the Ma(r)ck

2011-01-05T14:48:00.003Z

Well..well...well.

This place hasnt changed one bit. Apart from the fact that I'm a bit older, wiser and generally more lethargic and grumpy than I could ever have been accused of in the past. This, I believe, is a positive thing.

I also used to have lots of virtual friends in this place - virtual people who were much funnier than me - who have probably given up unsuccessfully virtually calling for me and found new, better, funnier virtual friends to hang out with. It was pure virtual altruism on my part, I virtually did it all for you. To virtually make you better virtual people.

I am also, now a technological magician. I spent 20 minutes trying to remember the password for this place - chuntering, complaining, moaning, throwing things - and that was just to myself. I was just about to give up when I summoned everything that I had into one problem solving thought. Yes, I used a different email address to log in. As I speak Wikileaks are headhunting me for some secret mission they have planned, that involves only those with lightning speed of mind and technological prowess.

So here I am, remind me what I'm supposed to do now.

Left behind...

2007-09-21T19:31:00.000+01:00

Returning back from my trip even further up North I relaxed back on the settee and could feel my aching muscles. 135 miles I'd cycled in 3 days. And I was fucked.

Then there was a knock on the front door. I struggled off the settee and thanked my lucky stars that I hadn't cracked open whilst doing it. I opened the door to be greeted by my next door neighbour. Ordinarily she only wanted one of two things: someone to open her bottle of wine when the husband was away (I might explore that one in more detail in my next post...next year), or to hand over a parcel that the postie couldn't be arsed to leave in the shed.

She was carrying neither wine, which is probably good news at it was 1.00 in the afternoon, nor porn, err I mean parcel.

"You haven't shut your car door properly" she said in a sort of ner, ner, ner, ner, ner fashion, before turning on her heel and going back to her own abode.

"Oh right, thanks" I replied, wondering whether it was pure coincidence that I'd been away for 4 days and nights without the car and she'd knocked on my door 5 minutes after I got back, or whether she'd been knocking on my door hourly for 4 days with any one of wine, parcels or bad news.

Anyway I was also thinking that it was odd, as I can pretty much guarantee that I always shut the car door properly. I'm a bit careful like that, but this time she was right - it wasn't shut properly. So I opens it, then shuts it. 'Why couldn't she just have done that, instead of waiting till I get home to tell me?' I thought as I creaked back to the house.

A little later after a shower and a rub down by a Thai masseuse - I dont know if masseuse is male or female, but I mean the female variety if it's male, it's irrelevant anyway as it was a fantasy and not reality - I pick my keys up and head out to the car to go to the shops.

Sitting in the drivers seat I'm immediately aware of the glove compartment open, then aware of my satnav missing, then glance down and notice my envelope of petrol receipts gone, then the colour of the loose change in the ashtray bit is a bit silverless, etc.

It appears that the car had been relieved of the valuable stuff in it by the local valuable stuff relievers. They are very thorough.

When I say I can pretty much guarantee that I always shut the car door properly, I cant always say the same about locking the car. It does it automatically after 30 seconds so I get a bit lazy. How lazy exactly do you have to be to not be arsed to press a button on something that is in your hand?

That's probably for another day.

Anyway, it transpires that when I'd picked the bike up from it's service at the local bike emporium before I went away, the bike rack had prevented the boot from shutting properly, which in turn had prevented the car from locking itself.

The local car door tryers had struck gold when they undertoook their monthly try of car doors, hoping for one to be unlocked.

As I drove to the shops, I changed the cd in the cd player and perused the quandry.

How bad does your taste in music have to be exactly, to have everything in your car stolen except for the cd's?

First steps

2007-06-25T12:27:00.000+01:00

Watski searches under the bed – he wont tell you what it is he’s searching for but it’s definitely not old porn. No way.

His outstretched arm nudges something and he stretches a little, pulling another muscle in his neck whilst doing so. His fingertips pull it towards him to a point where he can grab hold of it.

“What’s this?” he says to himself as he cradles the book like shape in his hands, before blowing the dust and cobwebs off and rubbing his hand across the front to wipe of the residual dust.

‘Watski’s World” stares back at him from the cover.

“Well I never, my old blog” he smiles as he thinks back to the wonderful times he had with his virtual friends. He is smiling but inside he's a little disappointed that it's not the 1996 Christmas Razzle Special with Debbie from Reading dressed up as an elf.

Heart thumping, memories swirling, he goes to open the blog but the key is missing (for key read password – go with me on this one!), he tries a few variations before stumbling across the right one

“Where the hell did I come up with that one?” He curses to himself. He then struggles to think of an analogy to represent google having some sort of influence nowadays but makes a mental note to moan about it at some point in the future because as good as it might be, it’ll never be as good as it was before.

The blog creaks open.

“Now, how does this thing work again?”

For Sale: One overused mind

2006-07-10T12:39:00.000+01:00

I've had a pretty poor year and a bit really, lots of things have conspired to meet up at a particular time and place and kick me up the arse. It started probably about 18 months ago when I decided to leave a job which I hated and meant me driving at least 4 hours a day for the priviledge of attending. I thought I was being proactive at the time, even a bit dangerous, the Watski of old would never have given up a comfortable life in favour of uncertainty. The problem was that I took about 3 months off and became very lazy in the process - my day consisted of nothing, other than titting about on the internet and taking for granted my then girlfriend, CJ.

This came to head precisely a year ago (yesterday) when CJ and I decided to split up. I guess I alluded to this as much on here. To be honest, it killed me. And made me realise that a relationship I never put much effort into actually meant a lot more to me than I thought it did. The following months were filled with a lot of heartbreak, we saw each other occasionally and actually got on better than we had done in the final few months - which made the final cutoff seperation far, far harder to deal with. I play games with my mind, but it always beats me in the end.

It still kills me to this day, probably more with each passing day. CJ was pretty perfect really, beautiful, clever, funny, cute - we had lots in common, but like many people there were bits about each other that we didn't like. The worst part about it is that I was the master of my own downfall in that if I had appreciated and worked on what I had at the time more, then I probably wouldn't be nearly as unhappy as I am at this moment. But my unhappiness now can only be a small part of how unhappy I must have made CJ. If I'd have paid her and our relationship more attention then there is every chance that now we would have been planning the rest of our lives together. It's the knowing that it was all in my hands that is the hardest thing.

We haven't seen or spoken to each other in 10 months, our paths would never cross anyway but I would go as far as saying that CJ is and will remain the biggest regret I will possibly ever have in my life. It's still very difficult to believe that you will never speak again to a person you spent just about every minute with for 2 and half years, for maybe the rest of your life.

Today, I'm not much further on really - I'm probably even further back. The only positive thing is that I'm in a new job, which is ok. I cant seem to give it the effort it deserves though because I'm not at peace with my mind. I wish I could wake up just for one morning and not be brought back to earth with a list of worries and things that aren't right about my life.

I want to wake up happy and looking forward to the day ahead. I only look back, on how things have turned out, looking forward occasionally with fear of how long the day is and how I'm going to get through it on my own, before realising that there are going to be another 6 days just like it. My mind is full of what ifs and regret at missed opportunities. I'm becoming a bad person, I used to put other people first, now I'm just striking out for myself and alienating people left, right and centre. I met a few people and discarded them pretty much straight away, mainly because they weren't CJ, or they were just the right person at the wrong time. And now I'm just in the company of people who are plainly no good for me. I'm a slave to my mind, it continually reminds me how bad things are, tricks me into thinking that the person who is no good for me is actually very good for me - and gets me wondering why they haven't rung in a while.

I sort of gave up writing this blog, mainly as a way of helping me forget, to drawing a line under a bad part of my life and trying to move on. Unfortunately I hadn't. I guess, on the outside people see me as fun and able to cope. Little do they know.

Maybe more tomorrow.

Hanging on the telephone

2005-10-06T18:37:00.000+01:00

"Ring Ring" The house phone sang.

This morning.

At 6am.

Well it didn't sing it like that, but it rang - you know what I mean.

The trouble was that it was 6am. And I was asleep. 'Was' being the operative word.

As is usual with the house phone, I leave it to go onto the answerphone - anyone worth talking to will start leaving a message and if I want to talk to them then I can pick it up and do so.

"Beeeeeep" it said. Meaning that whoever wanted to speak to me had decided better of it and hung up. Either that or it was someone wanting to sell me something.

I rolled over, eager to get back to Britney.

I'd just started to snooze, when:

"Ring, Ring"

The phone rang again. I left it again.

This time the ringing was interrupted by a womans voice on the answerphone:

"Hello, I rang a few minutes ago - I just wanted to let you know I'd got the wrong number".

Oh good. Thanks for that.

Technophobe

2005-09-26T23:05:00.000+01:00

The hurrying onset of new technology only serves to prove how little I know about it in the first place. Take my mobile phone for example, Nokia must have me on some sort of CCTV as scientists must do with monkeys in animal experiments:

"Ah, look at him. It looks like he's getting the hang of this mobile phone. Let's bring another one out, make it hard as hell to work, then make him think he can't go on living without having it"

Finnish bastards.

I have a new mobile phone. There was nothing wrong with the last one, other than the fact it wasn't my new one. And because I desperately need to find the quickest way to the local Asda at any time, this phone comes with sat nav installed on it. Told you I desperately needed it.

The problem is that it's temperamental. I switch it on, it switches itself off. Then I have to go through a combination of things to try and tempt it to work again. The repertoire includes turning it off and turning it on again. Removing the memory card and then putting it back in again. And then a combination of both. Nothing is guaranteed to work, it just sometimes does.

Last week I had to go to Marlow for a meeting.

"Do you want a map sending" they said

'Great! A chance to use my satnav for something useful' I thought to myself. 'Map? Pah'

"No, dont worry - just give me the road and I'll get the sat nav to get me there" I said to the enormously impressed woman on the other end of the phone.

It took me 30 minutes to get it to work. By this time I was well down the M1. I know how to get to Marlow, I just wanted the satnav to get me there, to listen to the dulcit tones - 'keep right' it would say. If only I could get the fucking thing to work.

Eventually it started working:

"take the M42" it says as I get close to the turn off.

'Hmmm', I thought 'that's an odd way to go - maybe it knows something I don't'. So went the suggested way, headlong into a traffic jam which took the best part of an hour to emerge from.

Emerging from the traffic jam the satnav gets me to within 10 minutes of Marlow, then my phone rings - yes, it takes calls too. I inadvertently switch the satnav off when answering the call and it refuses to work when I try and switch it back on.

Already 20 minutes late for my meeting I'm driving aimlessly around Marlow swearing at regular intervals. Suddenly it takes pity on me and works, directs me into my destination which is a place I would never have found even if I'd lived next to it.

After the meeting, the satnav is my best friend as I get it to direct me home.

Before the battery runs out half way there.

They just dont get it.

2005-08-22T11:20:00.000+01:00

Old Mugabe is in trouble again. Bet he's quaking in his boots.

Human rights abuses in Zimbabwe, worsening from an already lower than low point before the decision to remove 700,000 people from their homes, are now at such a level that the British government has decided to act at last.

'Wahey', I hear you cry. 'What will be their punishment for this effective genocide of his own people we constantly are reading about? How will our goverment help these poor people? Please tell us Watski and make it quick'

Will the UN be deployed? Will tougher sanctions be instilled on an already starving population? Will a rogue leader be ousted in a US/UK funded internal revolt to help world peace? Will we go the whole hog and 'booooomb the bastards' Kenny Everett style?

Not quite.

Jack Straw has written a strong letter to the ICC asking for Zimbabwe to be banned from cricket.

That'll show Mugabe. You don't mess with Britain otherwise this is what happens.

No laughing at the back.

Guess who's back - Watski's back

2005-08-21T12:58:00.000+01:00

And so I return. From my all too brief hiatus. Please direct all emails suggesting a longer hiatus to my literary agent.

And I return differently. As a role model, as a guider, as a looker outer and as a holder. My chest is puffed out regularly and there is a skip in my step.

Watski is now officially an Uncle. Oh yes. The lady has well and truly dropped the sprog.

'Uncle Watski' has a nice ring to it. Never did I think I'd hear those words without them being accompanied by 'I am arresting you and confiscating your puppies, lollipops and DVD collection'.

When good machines go bad...

2005-08-01T10:58:00.000+01:00

Needing to draw out a bit of money to maintain my lavish lifestyle (pay some bills) I wandered up to the cash machine, inserted my card and entered the pin number.

"How much would you like to withdraw?" The big green letters asked me.

"Hmmm, well I need about £600." I thought, so I typed that number in.

"Sorry, you can only withdraw up to £400". The big green letters shouted again.

"Well ok, £400 it is" I said as I typed £400 in.

"Sorry, you can only withdraw up to £200." It flashed at me again.

"Oh, I see. Being like that are we? Well I'll have £200 then." I said as I typed £200 in.

"Sorry, incorrect pin. Would you like to try again?" It laughed at me.

I retyped the pin number, more carefully this time, making sure it was the right one.

"Sorry, incorrect pin. Would you like to try again?" It teased

"What and let you tell me it isn't the right one and confiscate my card to round off a good day. Sod that, give it here" I muttered as pressed the 'no I fucking dont want to try again you fucking stupid machine' button - which doesn't actually exist, but should - and retrieved my card out.

I swear I felt it hold onto the card a little longer than it normally does too.

As I walked away cashless I wondered whether the machine ever wanted to give me any money in the first place.

A day in the life...

2005-07-30T13:38:00.000+01:00

Planning to leave at 12.00 for the two and a half hour journey to an interview I had at 3.00, I was cursing my habit of leaving everything to the last minute when at 11.55 I was still putting the finishing touches to the presentation I had to do.

12.00 came and I was ready though. A little bit rushed and a little bit unprepared, but that's par for the course with me and nothing I can't blag my way through.

Where's my bloody car keys?

Losing my car keys isn't normally an issue, I've lost them before but usually trace steps or something and find them within a few minutes.

At 12.15 I was getting a bit twitchy. They were nowhere to be seen, the house was relatively tidy so it didn't need a lot of turning upside down, but they were nowhere to be seen.

A quick call to Young Watski who was luckily in the area secured the loan of his car for the rest of the day. As one minor obstacle was surmounted another one appeared on the horizon in the shape of my suit jacket and the fact that it was looking at me from inside the car that I couldn't get into.

With no time change into my other suit, which would have been a problem anyway as it was at the dry cleaners - the smaller framed Watski Jnr stepped into the breach again.

Rushing down to the interview unprepared, with a tighter, not exactly the same colour jacket, in a car that wasn't mine. I was wondering, not for the first time, and probably not for the last, why I continually put myself in these positions.

And that's not the end of it....

Quandry

2005-07-21T20:00:00.000+01:00

Well you may have noticed the distinct lack of activity around here lately. It's not because I haven't got anything to say, I've got loads of stuff swimming around. It's because I dont know how to or if I should say it.

My life has been pretty much turned upside down in the last 2 weeks and I've thought some pretty deep things which may have been better for me to write out and make sense of rather than think about, but I always intended this blog to be about observations rather than feelings.

Pigs in space....

2005-07-17T13:51:00.000+01:00

The BBC report that

“China is planning to study the effects of outer space on sperm by sending the semen from pedigree pigs into orbit.

Some 40 grams of pig sperm will be taken on board the Shenzhou VI spacecraft for its October launch. ”.

Now. If it's really necessary to test the effects of sperm in space. And it's debatable, but you have to assume that it is. Surely there are easier ways.

A couple of jazz mags in the lavvies would have sufficed surely.

Hey ho

2005-07-14T19:11:00.000+01:00

Sorry for the lack of activity lately. Things are a very shit shade of shit round here at the moment.

I haven't even got the enthusiasm to talk about the downside of the heat being that you have to have the bedroom windows open, which means you get woken up at all hours by the slightest noises outside.

A thought...

2005-07-08T12:27:00.000+01:00

There have been so many indescriminate atrocities over the last few weeks, from assasinations to bombings to assaults and murders outside shops. The world we live in is wicked.

Is the only reason I'm able to write this today not through device or judgement or planning - but merely down the simple luck of never so far being in the wrong place at the wrong time?

Let the train be a pain

2005-07-07T00:32:00.000+01:00

Dear person in charge of the railways.

I had cause to visit our great capital city the other day. Yes, I did have all my innoculations and carried all my valuables in a mugger proof container strapped to the inside of my thigh. I did however forget the gas mask and translation booklet.

My visit was purely business. For an interview. For a company based in Ealing. My driving route from Gods vegetable patch in the Midlands was: M1, A43, M40 and A40 for your information.

The problem was that my interview was at 8.30am. On a Monday morning. No, I am not mad, yes I know it was early, yes I know the traffic would have been a bugger, yes I did try to change the time. Thanks for your concern.

Getting there for this time meant me awaking at 4am, as the journey could have taken anything from 3 hours upwards. This is not taking into account the time difference and any potential hold ups at passport control.

I'm not good in the morning. And 4 am is pribably not even considered the morning.

Which made the brainwave I had whilst taking my shower all the more remarkable.

"Why not try the train?" I thought.

After drying myself I hopped downstairs, carefully checking the windows to ensure that no-one was about to see my near nakedness (I shouldn't have worried really, most of my nieghbours dont get up until after Trisha has finished and then make a bee-line for the town centre to harass people) and checked for the times of trains to London on the interweb. Oh this was a good idea - I could slide on down to London letting the train take the strain. I felt free.

Feel free to use 'let the train take the strain' in any Marketing bumpf that you may produce in the near future that will no doubt end up being posted through my letterbox. If I'm going to read random advertisements for services I will never use that have been placed through my letterbox then I may as well have written them in the first place. I'd hate to think of you paying extortionate costs for copywriters when your customers are blessed with much more inspiration. And come for free. Most of the time.

So I looked on the trainline website - there was a train departing from Grantham at 6.17am or thereabouts getting into Londinnium at 7.30ish. Grantham is about an hour from me so that wasn't a problem. A quick hop, step and tube across the City and I would be in Ealing in good time. It was getting better.

Then I checked availability. Yes, spaces were available on the outbound and inbound services. Which was good as I only needed the one space. This was seeming too good to be true.

My illusions were quickly shattered when I went to check the prices.

The figure seemt to say £78. In fact there was no 'seemt' about it. It did say £78.

'Obviously some mistake' I thought to myself. So I decided to ring the National Rail Enquiries to get the truth.

"Ive just been checking your trains to London" I said to the pleasant man answering the phone.

By referring to this man as 'pleasant' I do hope you realise that I'm letting the side down. My Mother was employed at National Rail Enquiries in Derby shortly before you (probably not you exactly) decided to outsource this service to the moon, and she'd be horror struck to find out that her replacement is actually 'pleasant' and not a murderer.

"There's one leaving from Grantham at 6.17" I continued. Telling him information he already knew.

"Only there seems to be some mistake with the price - it says £78"

"No. that's right Sir. £78. It is peak time"

"Well I'm aware that it is peak time, but surely that's the exact time that you should be encouraging people to abandon more environmentally destructive forms of transport by offering fairer prices. It's going to cost me about £25 to get to London and back in petrol, and I'm prepared to take a £50 gamble on the traffic"

"Yes, I see your point Sir"

"I'm talking to the wrong person about this aren't I?

"Yes Sir. I don't do prices."

So I left the pleasant man in the moon to his pleasant job and got in the car and drove to London. After I'd got ready obviously. And you know what? The roads were clearish and the weather was nice. I was there in plenty of time too.

I know you'll tell me about the cheap day, early riser, egg shaped fred saver ticket, or whatever the password for it is nowadays. But I didn't even know I'd got this interview until the Friday before and I only considered the train on the very morning I was travelling. So not much good. And who books train journeys weeks in advance except old dears going to spend their life savings watching Phantom of the Opera?

So if you'd like to explain the brainwave behind the strategy of charging lots of people lots of money to travel on a full peak time train whislt at the same time charging a few people not as much money for travelling on an equivalent sized but mostly empty off peak train, then I'd be ever so grateful.

In the meantime I'll be putting the £53 I saved into my 'driving to London' fighting fund and not feeling guilty about a thing.

And if ever I see 'let the train take the strain' in any Marketing communication then I'm going to be in contact again.

Yours Faithfully

Mr Watski.

Mixing in the wrong circles

2005-07-04T10:26:00.000+01:00

I've never met that many famous people in my life. Other than probably Arthur Scargill, oh and Neil Kinnock - if he's considered famous now. But other than that it seems that famous people have never wanted to meet Watski, they probably cant afford the security that comes with it.

Shed Seven were my early 20's heroes, I saw them live loads of times and bought everything they ever made, I was a real fan. Then one day in the window of the local HMV I saw a notice saying that they were going to be signing copies of their latest album at some point in the future.

Now, I'm going to tell you a secret here - between me and you, so don't tell anyone: my first name is Mark. As a tribute to me, Shed Seven made a record called 'Mark'. And as the song was written for me about me, I thought it would be a shame to deprive Shed Seven of the chance of meeting their inspiration. I was so cool at the time, I was also going to let Shed Seven quote a line from the song as the 'cd signing'. I was pretty pleased at being so cool.

So I turn up at the signing in my lunch hour in my oversized suit and am disappointed that I'm made to queue behind other people, and that I'm not being ushered to the front whilst girls scream and throw phone numbers at me. I consider telling the security guy that I am actually the Mark, but decide that it's best not to make a fuss and draw attention to myself - and it's probably best to take in the last few minutes of anonymity before being flung into celebritydom.

An hour later I'm at the front of the queue and I've been rehearsing the cool way I'm going to ask Rick Witter (the lead singer) to sign the line; 'Mark my words'.

"Can you sign it 'Mark my words' please Rick?" I said in my rock and rollest way. And stand back waiting for the start of the rest of my life.

"Sure, one of my favourite songs - are you a Mark?" Rick replies

"Yes I am" I reply, so pleased that Rick knows my name and wants to be my best mate.

"I want to swop you for another" Rick added

Now this is another line of the song. I'm so overwhelmed by it all that I'm totally oblivious to the significance of what Rick has just said to me - the fact that Rick is talking to me in the special code that only we know has passed me by. The special code in which he has invited me to be his best mate, to also be part of the band and tour with them has gone unnoticed by a star struck kid in a big suit on his lunch hour.

So instead of accepting his kind offer, I instead acknowledge this invitation with:

"Oh thanks, bye".

If I'd have looked back I'm sure that Rick would have had his head in his hands and shedding a tear.

Or he probably thought I was a right tit.

Wasting away

2005-06-29T14:10:00.000+01:00

CJ appears to have purchased some magic scales.

In addition to telling you your body fat, body mass, H2O levels and horoscope for the next year it also seems to have the added benefit of informing you that you weigh as much as you want to.

On Saturday when she purchased them I weighed 12 stone 6, on the Sunday morning after a heavy night and a Chinese I weighed 12 stone 2, and on Monday I weighed 11 stone 12. I daren't weigh myself again as there may be a chance that I'll be less than I was at birth.

Almost half a stone lost in 3 days. Please send me money and I'll let you into the secrets of the Watski - 'Get pissed and have a take away diet'. There will be a video out soon.

I am now going to take this opportunity to bid farewell to you all as I am on a fast track to wasting away to nothing.

Dr DooWatski

2005-06-24T13:22:00.000+01:00

"We'll just have one last look out in the garden" CJ said to the woman whose house we had almost finished viewing.

As we walked outside the back door I noticed a big black cat sat on the lawn

"Is this your cat?" I shouted.

"Oh yes, that's my lovely Sooty" she said as she peered round the kitchen door.

I resisted the temptation of anything more vulgar and instead just asked her why it was called Sooty.

She smiled as she ducked back into the kitchen, where no doubt she was explaining to me why a black cat was called Sooty courtesy of a few hand signals.

As we approached, lovely Sooty got a bit scared and shot off over the garden fence. It was immediately obvious why; in his wake lovely Sooty had left a bird, a very young bird, which on first inspection looked as if it had had it.

But as it lay on it's back I noticed it's claws twitching, then noticed it breathing sharply, then noticed it blinking. It was still alive.

I then became aware of the biggest commotion going off above me - I looked up and noticed what must have been its Mother squawking for all it was worth from the branch of a tree.

I picked the little bird up, checked it over and, but for a little wound on it's stomach where the cat must have caught it, it looked fine, if a little shocked.

I then wondered how I could get it back up to it's Mother, this thought didn't take too long - it was nigh on impossible, so I looked for a safe place to put it so it could get itself together.

I noticed that the house owner had a bird table at the end of the garden and walked over and placed it on that - it stumbled around on it for a few minutes but looked like it was going to fall off and I didn't want it to become a sitting duck in the cats lair, so picked it back up again.

"Does it want some water?" The house owner then said as she emerged from the house with a little dish of water and a syringe.

Before I could ask the obvious questions about the syringe and why a bird would want a drink of water, the bird took the initiative and decided that a toss up between death by cat or death by human was best pre-empted by a suicide attempt, and as the only viable, close option seemed to be drowning it proceeded to jump straight out of my hand into the dish of water.

Plucking it from the water I asked the woman if she'd got any ladders - I'd spotted a garage, the roof of which was at least closer to it's Mother than the ground was - I thought if I could get it somewhere safe then it's Mother may come down, calm it down and do something Motherly with it.

I climbed the ladders, checked that the roof was fairly flat and put the bird on it - I was glad to see that it was well enough to hop straight over in the direction of the overhanging branches - I was less glad to see the silhouette of lovely Sooty hiding behind the leaves that I'd just freed the bird to hop towards.

Lovely Sooty let out a hiss as the bird crashed through the branches almost into its jaws - the bird jumped back and just stood motionless.

I was dumbstruck, I had rescued the bird, twice, found somewhere safe for it to go then unwittingly served bird sandwich back to the very cat I'd saved it from - I was about to watch the bird get carved up, and could do nothing about it this time.

"This may seem an odd question - but have you got a pole or something that I could prod your cat with?" I asked the house owner the oddest question ever asked by someone viewing a house.

The woman complied and returned with a garden cane - luckily lovely Sooty was still shocked by my generosity and hadn't attacked it's gifthorse, which it no doubt regretted immediately as I prodded it with a cane and knocked it flying off the garage roof down through the branches the otherside. I then heard it run off when it hit the floor.

The bird turned it's head round and looked round - it was probably thinking the same as CJ and the house owner back on the ground.

"Well, I'm still undecided whether that's the luckiest or unluckiest bird alive" I said as I stepped down the ladders, before being ushered far, far away by CJ.

Only a matter of time

2005-06-22T01:38:00.000+01:00

I'm beginning to look at CJ in a slightly different way. Suspiciously, out of the corner of my eye. Looking for the tell tale signs: the black clouds, the broom stick, the cat maybe.

CJ was in New York on 9/11 - she was up one of the towers on the last midnight they ever saw and CJ was also on a beach in Thailand a month before the tsunami.

CJ and I were also in Helmsley on the day it was almost washed away. On Sunday.

We'd been camping for the weekend in Boroughbridge in North Yorkshire, and decided on Sunday afternoon to pack up there and head over to the coast. As we travelled along the A170 towards Scarborough we were constantly being buzzed by loads of smelly bikers. We got to a small village called Helmsley, the gateway to which looked quite nice - I suggested that it might be nice to stop, see what the sites were like with a view to hanging about for a night.

Until we noticed that the place was where the bikers had been headed - it was full of about a million people who shouldn't be wearing leathers, wearing leathers. This gave us the impetus we needed to stay in the car and drive on through.

Luckily for us it seems.

Decisions, decisions..

2005-06-17T11:57:00.000+01:00

I just can't decide. What shall it be?

I could tell you about my eventful trip into town, OR I could write in detail about an entertaining train journey I had the other day. Maybe I could tell you about my next door neighbour or something I've discovered about some people from Scotland. I could even regale you with my owl tale.

Oooh, I really can't decide - what should I do?

Setting the record straight

2005-06-16T08:51:00.000+01:00

The local paper have issued a correction this week to an error they made last week - I'm happy to help them set the record straight:

"We are happy to make it clear that a man named in a court case last week when he admitted assault, posession of an offensive weapon and theft, is only suspected of attacking homosexuals and has not admitted it, as may have been implied by a headline in last weeks paper"

Thank God it was only homosexuals he was attacking instead of arbitrary people - it makes it so much better.

Modern living has yet to make it this far up North it seems.

Things I have learnt this week

2005-06-13T08:36:00.000+01:00

I have learnt that Israeli researchers say they have succeeded in growing a date palm from a 2,000-year-old seed.

The seed was found buried during an excavation of an ancient mountain fortress - so they unburied it, sat around wondering what to do with it for a while before burying it again.

There is no truth in the rumour that upon discovering the seed the lead excavator said:

"seed? bloody seed?, we've spent millions searching for hidden treasure and all you can bring me is a poxy seed" before hurling it in temper into the deepest hole he could find, which was by coincidence the one that he was stood next to.

*******

I have learnt this week courtesy of the BBC's Springwatch programme that cuckoo spit isn't what I thought it was, i.e, the spit of cuckoos. This revelation has left me a little embarrassed. Why did I not realise this? It would have taken a moments thought to realise that birds don't go around trying to goz on people's heads - they aim with a much more toxic ablution than mere spittle. What other stories have my parents forgot to tell me the truth about? Oh, not the tooth fairy - please no.

I have gone through my life thinking - not everyday granted, that would be worrying - that the spit (not spit) found on the grass is that of phlegming motherhood avoiders. But no, cuckoos don't spit apparently - the ex spit is defined: as a frothy secretion found upon plants, exuded by the larvae of certain insects, for concealment.

Insects spit? Oh no.

*******

I have learnt that the prison service is set to end a 50-year-old tradition of distributing free newspapers to prisoners.

Sid Golder, 82, a former prisoner last released in 1971 after serving 15 years for bank robbery, said the few newspapers that found their way into prisons before the service was formally introduced in the 1950s were heavily censored. "Staff would black out any reference to sex in case our passions got aroused," he said.

"References to crime or penal issues, were also cut" he went on to say.

"We went for years thinking that The Sun was a blank A4 page" he should have added. But didn't.

*******

I have learnt that more than 100 cyclists have ridden around London naked in a mass protest against dependency on the oil industry

Riders were protesting at the "destructive effects of car culture" and celebrating "the power and individuality of their bodies".

It was unfortunate that no-one was around to observe this, as confronted with the sight of over 100 hippies riding bikes with their kit off, most of the population of London decided to hop in their cars and drive as far away as possible.

A landmark

2005-06-11T17:48:00.000+01:00

Watski's World is 1 year old today.

In honour of this landmark and to keep up with the famous Watski tradition, I will be writing bugger all worth reading.

I have something to say..

2005-06-10T11:59:00.000+01:00

"Oh is it me?"

"Yes"

"It's my turn?"

"That's right"

"Right, here goes. Ermm, my, ermmm..."

"It's ok, you're among friends here. Take your time."

"Ok, thanks. Ermmm, my name is Watski and I'm an err Aero bubbles balls addict"

*cheers from around the room*

"Well done, well done - you're among friends here"

"Sometimes I have 2 packs a day - I love them"

Things I shoulda said....

2005-06-09T14:24:00.000+01:00

"Hello" I said as I answered the phone. I was annoyed that it was ringing in the first place, which makes me wonder why I should have a phone at all, but I was annoyed as I was just being handed over my bag of chips at the local chipshop and as a result, dropped a few.

"Hello, is that Jen?" said the male voice on the other end. As it plainly wasn't Jen - I hope it was plain - I just hung up. If he couldn't be arsed to press the right keys into his phone then I couldn't be arsed to tell him that I wasn't the woman he was after.

The phone rang again 2 minutes later.

"Hello" I said

"Hello is that Jen?" said the prey.

"No it's not still Jen" I replied.

"Is Jen from Brighton there then, this is Simon from Wiltshire?" he butted in.

"No, there is no Jen here, this is my phone, my name is Watski, not Jen. I don't have a Jen here and am not in, and don't have any plans to be in Brighton" I replied

"Ok, sorry mate" he said and hung up.

Damn, I wanted the last word.

Looking back though I wish I'd had more time, well I had loads of time at the time, but chips are a priority and I don't think he'd have hung on until I finished them. There are so many things I could have said:

"Yes she's here, who's calling? I'm her husband - I've just come in from wrestling alligators. What shall I say it's about?"

"Err, which Jen is it you're after. I've got 3 here, all from Brighton and they're all looking up at me from the jacuzzi"

"Yes, Jen is here but before you can talk to her please submit your credit card number"

"Are you sure you want to talk to Jen? She's a parrot"

"Yes my son, Jen is here - but before you speak to her can I ask whether you are happy? Really happy?"

"I'm sorry, your subscription to ideal partners has expired"

"Yes, but first can I interest you in a special 3 for 2 on Kleenex that we have?"

"I'm sorry, when I was just about to answer then phone Jen said to me: 'if that's Simon from Wiltshire tell him to go fuck himself'"

"Yes love, Jen is here, but are you sure it's Jen you want to talk to - you sound so manly"

Damned chips.

Tragedy in Garden Town

2005-06-08T08:15:00.000+01:00

This is Cyril Slug. And this is the news.

The wildlife of Garden Town are waking up, or going to sleep depending on your nocturnal preferences, facing up to the true horror of yesterdays carnage. The skyline of this beautiful area is now very different from how it was yesterday.

A day that dawned much like any other in this quiet corner of the world was shattered when the 'big red bladed cutting machine' made another seemingly random foray into occupied wildlife territory, slashing indiscriminately at quickly retreating creatures and their protective habitat.

The early warning siren that sounded at 12.25pm yesterday afternoon for 10 minutes, sounded much too late for many creatures to be able to take adequate evasive action. There were unconfirmed reports however suggesting that many animals chose to ignore this sophisticated system, seemingly opting for the 'it wont get me theory'. Well that gamble seems to have seriously backfired.

2, 4, 6, 8 or no legs, it didn't seem to matter what type of animal got in the way of this brutish machine and it's accomplice.

Watski Towers

Some creatures managed to escape to the safety of the edges of the garden thinking they were out of reach of the 'Big red cutting machine', but the relief was to be short lived as the machine locally known as 'The Strimmer' arrived on the scene within minutes and proceeded to hunt them down.

Figures reaching us at East Garden today news put the missing creatures at 26, including 8 snails, 6 frogs, 4 slugs and a family of visiting spiders from next door neighbour ville.

Most of the members of Fiona Frogs family are missing, her son, Harry was last seen heading down Dandelion Way hotly pursued by the red cutting machine, he has not been seen since.

Selwyn Snail, a veteran of many incursions, watched the carnage helplessly from the relative safety of his vantage point in the rocks. He takes up the story:

"well I saw this big red machine go into the garden and start growling. It didn't move for about 10 minutes but you could tell from it's body language that it wasn't going to give in until it has removed every single blade of grass in garden town"

his wife Cynthia added:

"ooh, it was a scary thing wasn't it Selwyn? When it growled you could see that there were still lots of creatures going about their daily business seemingly thinking that it wouldn't happen to them. But it did and it was too late. I tried to shout to them but they couldn't hear"

We will have more on this story once we get it. In other news, Willam the Worm returned to East Garden yesterday after a 4 year journey from the house over the road.

Keep it GardenTV, after the news: 'When slug pellets attack'

Land problem

2005-06-07T13:19:00.000+01:00

Is it reasonable to expect, after leaving the lawn mower on in the middle of the lawn for a period of 10 minutes, that all the wildlife residing in the immediate vicinity is aware of my intention to mow said lawn, and should be taking in the process of taking evasive action if they haven't already done so?

So, therefore, any accidental culling of the any of the aforementioned wildlife population reckless enough to still be residing in the lawn after this 10 minute hiatus, is actually their own fault and shouldn't be on my conscience at all?

Good. Glad we've got that sorted.

I feel like I've got my own little Israeli - Palestinian conflict happening in my own back yard. I'm cast as the bad guy for bulldozing my way through land I see as mine with my big bladed machine and all they want to do is live in the land they've adopted as their own.

Although that's probably trivialising the issue a lot. The frogs wont be happy with that.

The animals know you know

2005-06-06T12:36:00.000+01:00

The animals seem to know something. And they don't appear to like what they know.

Amidst an hours drive across to CJ's house yesterday I was party to:

* 1 wood pigeon flying into the side of a van
* Another bird of some description meeting it's maker
* 2 rabbits committing hari kari by not abiding by the tried and tested rabbit rule of 'standing between the headlights'.
* A squashed fox
* 1 prostrate badger sat at the side of the road,
and a particularly determined squirrel who I observed jumping from the branch of a tree into the path of an oncoming bus.

Is the world coming to an end? Has there been some sign to the animal kingdom that time is not long for us and they're getting their shot in first? Is it some particularly brutal game of Chicken?

Or is it that they've leant that Bill Oddie has started Springwatch again and they can't bear to see his chirpy little face rustling through the undergrowth?

"Oh no, not Bill Oddie - don't let him tell us a joke"
"Where's that road?"

I hate work

2005-06-03T10:58:00.000+01:00

Also replicated here. Which should save you some shit blog reading time on a busy Friday.
_______________________________________________________________

I hate work. Work's shit.

Which is a strange view to have as the reality of my situation is that l'm not doing much of it at the moment - I'm having a sabbatical. So there's not much 'work' to hate as such. But I remember hating work when I did work, so I pretty much expect that I'd still hate it if I still worked.

And other people I talk to who work, hate work, so the trend for hating work doesn't seem to have diminished since the time that I was at work and hated it.

Work shouldn't be allowed. We should actually get paid for not working. Which I'm sure brings it's own problems, but nothing that will stop me pissing about on t'internet I hope.

Being paid for not working would turn the tables on it's head a bit. And put those smug buggers who trill about how they love going to work in a bit of a quandry. How can you love going to work?

Smug fuckers. Let's see how much you love it now that I'm being paid to sit on my arse.

But, alas, 'twill never happen.

So I will continue to hate work. Without working.

I'm going mad...

2005-06-02T14:34:00.000+01:00

I don't know what's the matter with me lately. I'm just angry for some reason. Things are getting to me. And I dont know why my sub-conscious isn't zapping things that it wouldn't usually let penetrate my usual calm exterior.

It's a brooding sort of anger that I can't shake, the kind of anger that wont suffer fools, the kind that wants to pick people up and give them a damn good shake. And I can't switch it off.

Opodo set it off. I blame them. It's their fault. Since their rude interruption into my otherwise normal (to a point) existence I've been on some sort of crusade to expunge shit service in all its incarnations, only now my mind has decided that it's expanding the family business to incorporate the role of a lone moral crusader.

The problem is that there's a downside to being a moral crusader and that is that you get labelled, or end up far deeper in something that would have passed by if you'd just counted to 5 and took deep breaths instead of getting het up about it. That's ok if you can count to 5.

I wanted to do something about the white van driver who pulled out on me this morning and then proceeded to hurl his McDonalds outer out of the window and onto the grass verge of the country lane. I saw his name on the van and the phone number and was going to ring. But then I worked out that it was probably his own business and he would have answered the phone and then what would I have got? Abuse? Which would have made me even angrier, except I could have done nothing about it this time.

I want to do something about the major food manufacturer I had an interview with in late April who told me that I'd hear within 2 to 3 weeks and who have so far, over 4 weeks later resisted all communication attempts by myself. I want to write to their Head Office and tell them what a mess it is, but I dont want to ruin any future career prospects with a employer I'd like to work for ultimately.

I want to do something about the major retailer with whom I had appointment with on a certain day at a certain time. It was an hour and a half in reception convincing myself that she must be in another meeting before realising that she wasn't actually going to turn up. She did email back to apologise and try and set another meeting up, but I've heard nothing now for 2 weeks. See above for similar reason.

I want to tell the recruitment agency guy who rang me yesterday to sort 'a point of order' out, (the point of order being that it was bad form to instruct other agencies to submit my CV for a job that he talked to me about over 6 weeks ago. Bearing in mind it was 6 weeks ago and he hasn't spoken to me since, and also that this agency has previous in letting me down by making me think it was submitting me for a job, which I'd subsequently turned down through other agencies only to find they hadn't submitted me), to piss off. I settled for putting my point across forcefully instead.

The dustbin men refused to take my rubbish yesterday morning for some reason only known to themselves, I saw them look in the bin and leave it. So, watching and ready for a ruck I shot off down the path and asked them why they weren't taking it. He muttered something about wrong type of rubbish before scuttling back to his van under a hail of expeletives from me. I want to write to someone who gives a shit about it. But who will ultimately do nothing.

A bolt on the plumbing of my Mums washing machine wasn't put on properly by the insurance company's plumbers who came out to replace my Mums other washing machine. Amongst other things, these plumbers referred to the previous plumbers as cowboys. This bolt is now loose leaving my Mums kitchen a soggy place. I want to get these exact plumbers back and beat them to death with an old copper pipe.

I want to tell the landlord of the people who rent the house next to CJ that I will personally come around and shove a large stereo system up his backside if he doesn't tell his tenants to refrain from: playing their music loud all day, slamming doors needlessly, screeching when talking would suffice and walking over CJ's garden to get to their house. But CJ tells me I have to be nice to him when he comes round to mow their lawns next.

I want to shake the estate agent selling CJ's house to within an inch of his life for a) not seeing the bleeding obvious and b) not relaying messages to the seller of the house that CJ is interested in as he doesn't think 'it will make much difference'. I want to tell him that I dont give a shit what he thinks as he's being paid by me (CJ) to do a job and to bloody well get it done pronto. Actually I did tell him that and I'm now barred from speaking to him.

I want to tell the driver of the van parked over the end of my drive that the space over my drive isn't actually a parking space and that it is actually a route used by me to manoeuvre my car to and from its place of rest on the drive. But then I think that I'm not going out for a while so he's not doing any harm. But then I think that parking over my drive is a bloody liberty and now I'm putting my shoes on as I type this.

And now I can't get a picture to upload to my blog. Oh it's worked now.

I have more. Believe me.

Please help me. I'm going to rage myself to death before long. And I don't even know what that means.

I've an idea that I don't think has been thought of before..

2005-06-01T10:31:00.000+01:00

So here's the idea then. I think I'm on to something.

There's 15 people all in a house. To allieviate their boredom they are set a task every 2/3 days to fiddle about with. During the 2/3 days the people observing vote for their favourite person. At the end of the task the person with the least votes gets eliminated from the house. This carries on until there is one person left.

Sound familiar?

Rubbish. You're deluded.

In a totally original idea the like of which has never been seen before anywhere, Young Mr Lagomorph and I have set a little website up - well Mr L has done all the hard designy, shiny kind of stuff. I've just been the intellectual one standing in the middle of the room going 'can you put that there', 'err, no it's not right there - can you put it over there instead?'.

15 specially invited bloggers will get access to Mr Lagomorph's pride and joy on the first night, and the website a little later. Every other day or so they will get set a task which will involve them debating various issues, etc. At the same time as the task is set a poll will also go up on the website. The blogger with the least votes at the end of the 2 days will get eliminated and be laughed at for a while.

The blogger left at the end will be crowned the inaugural Big Blogger Champion. You never know, when I sell this to Channel 4 you may get to meet someone famous. I can see someone like, say, Davina MaCall wanting to present this.

Sounds boring? God yeah. But it's summat to do no?

Anyway, as Big Blogger I think I should have an identifiable accent. I'm thinking some kind of soft Geordie. What? It'll never catch on? We'll see. I'm off to perfect my Big Blogger voice anyway. And to try and sell the rights to Guatemala. I reckon it'll be a goer.

Please put your nominations for who you think should be in the house in the comments box. One nomination each please. I will draw them out of a hat at the end of some day in the future, ask the 15 if they would like to take part and get them to introduce themselves by way of a little spiel. Big Blogger 1 will start on Monday of next week.

Please email me with any suggestion for possible tasks for them to discuss.

You decide.

Hey I think I like that as a catchphrase.

Watski recipe.

2005-05-31T11:33:00.000+01:00

Boil a pan full of water.

Take 3 fair sized eggs. Preferably Organic. Definitely free range.

Run some hot water from the tap over them.

Lower the eggs into the boiling water using a spoon.

Add a dash of vinegar.

Leave for 7 minutes.

Butter 4 slices of bread and leave. Choose something nice and soft.

Piss about on t'internet for 6 minutes.

Forget that you're cooking something.

Remember you're cooking something

Run into kitchen.

Kick dog by mistake.

Quickly remove eggs from pan using spoon.

Place in bowl and remove shells.

Swear a little.

Chop eggs using spoon or knife.

Add man sized dollop of salad cream, a little pepper to taste and mix.

Layer eggs onto bread and cut to shape preference.

Eat noisily.

2 hours later - burn hand on gas hob that you inadvertently left on.

Run hand under cold tap.

Switch gas off.

Egg sandwiches. Beautiful. Not just for shit wedding receptions.

Cursed

2005-05-28T00:01:00.000+01:00

I was batonned earlier this week by Rob, which didn't feel much like I thought a baton would feel like. I should be cheeky to police more often.

Anyway:

The total volume of music on my computer: I've just had to buy an external hard drive to accomodate it all - 45GB....and rising.

The last CD I bought was:

The Futureheads - but haven't got round to listening to it yet.

Five songs I listen to a lot or mean a lot to me, in no particular order. I don't really have 5 favourite songs but these are songs that I could listen to forever.

The Beach Boys - God Only Knows. Probably the greatest song ever written, by a man with so much stuff going on his head that we should be grateful for a little bit spilling out for us to listen to.

Moby - Go. Takes me back to the great times I had in the early 90's. It's a shame as I hate Moby, wish someone else would have made it.

The Kinks - Autumn Almanac. So much atmosphere in the song and is blessed with a great line: "This is my street, and I'm never gonna leave it and I'm always gonna stay, if I live to be ninety - nine, cos all the people I meet, seem to come from my street. And I cant get away - because it's calling me."

Shed Seven - Sensitive. Don't know why - just a great song. Can't even find a link to it.

The Doves - Sea Songs. A song to get lost in.

And now I feel bad because I didn't include:
Ian Dury - Hit me with your rhythm stick
Tweet - Boogie Tonight (Seamus Haji remix)
Sheila and B. Devotion - Spacer
Sex Pistols - Pretty Vacant
Billy Bragg - New England
Public Enemy - Shut 'em Down (Pe-et Rock remix)

and now I feel bad because I haven't included anything by The Smiths, The Cure and The Bluetones

I hate questions like this.

Which 5 people are you passing this baton to and why?

I'll curse Robin, Girl, Firsttimer, Mick and GrocerJack. Just cos.

If they're looking.

Equal rights

2005-05-27T11:35:00.000+01:00

The couple who own the local corner shop have gone all equality conscious on us.

Popping in this morning I noticed a new sign in the window amongst all the slimming pill adverts:

'Disabled People'
If you are disabled our staff are specially trained to notice you.

Bet that was a long course. I'd have paid good money to see the role play though.

NB. For some crazy frog relief try this. Colourful language though.

The righteous one..

2005-05-26T11:11:00.000+01:00

The bus sounded his horn at the group of lads standing talking half-on, half-off the road as the driver tried to negotiate a tight bend in the town centre. Their position in the narrow street wasn't helping the situation at all.

One of the lads took umbrage at this public affront to his manliness and duly acknowledged the driver with a hand signal that wasn't too friendly.

The bus driver also took offence at this and stopped, opened the door and confronted them.

I couldn't hear too much of the conversation but the angry, contorted, spitting face of the young lad told me that he wasn't wishing the driver bon voyage.

As I walked past, the driver closed the door and carried on his journey. I heard the lad say

'yeah, that's fucking right - drive on or I'll do ya!'.

I really wanted to say:

'look, what's the problem here? You were standing talking needlessly on the main road through town, a bus driver carrying passengers couldn't get past as you were in the way so he rebuked you gently to alert you of the presence of a multi tonne vehicle heading in your direction and to ask you to step out of the way before you got hurt'

'You seem to have took this request as an affront to your cavemanic pride and thanked the driver for this warning with a volley of abuse that really wasn't warranted'

But I didn't say this. Firstly, because I'm not sure he would have understood the majority of the words I used, and secondly because I didn't fancy getting 'burberry'd' to death with text words by the baseball cap wearing orangutans.

So I shook my head slightly at the youth of today in the condascending way that I seem to have acquired in my 30's, and tutted my way back to the car park, running across the main road as I did so. One car obviously thought I was taking too much of a risk in doing this and hooted me ever so slightly.

I was never in any danger and my sub-conscious must have known this too as I instinctively turned in the direction of the sound.

I was just about to give them the finger when luckily I remembered just how righteous I am nowadays.

A friend indeed....

2005-05-23T11:23:00.000+01:00

If you deigned to spend more than 5 consecutive minutes outside a house in CJ's area then the chances are that you would be joined by a young lad called Paul.

You can normally hear Paul approaching before you see him. Because he's got a kind of hum when he runs. Paul is disabled.

I don't know how he knows you're there - I can't see his house from CJ's, nor CJ's from his. The only explanation would be that he has some sort of thermal imaging in his bedroom. Either that or there's some CCTV/Intercom thing going off with the neighbours.

Washing the car I could hear the distant sound of humming, which gradually got louder and louder, until it stopped with:

"Hello Watski"

"Hello Paul - are you alright? I reckon I've been outside about 8 minutes - you're slacking!"

"I know - what are you doing?"

"I'm washing the car Paul"

"I can see that!"

"Oh right. Why did you ask then?"

"I've had my tea"

Paul always told you what he'd just had to eat. He loved his food.

"Nice. What have you had?"

"It's Friday, it's Eggs and Bacon"

"That sounds like a breakfasty sort of meal to me. I thought it was Fish and Chips on a Friday?"

"Yes, Fish and Chips on Friday"

He generally got it wrong too. He wasn't much good under interrogation - his stories would fall apart. I made a note not to rely on him for an alibi.

"Delicious"

"What you had for your tea?"

"Nothing yet Paul.

"Oooh, you must be hungry. "

"Yes I am now you come to mention it"

"I've had fish and chips. Fish and chips on a Friday"

"That sounds nice"

What are you going to have?"

"I'm not sure yet"

"Don't know? How could you?"

Mortified by this terrible news he aimed a shake of the fist at the kitchen window where CJ was and pointed at me and pointed at my stomach. She waved back. Paul liked to know what he was having for his tea before he had it, and the following days tea, and the day after that, etc.

"Have you been out today?"

"Yes, I went to Nottingham earlier"

"In this old thing?"

"It's older than you Paul"

"Yeah I know. So you don't know what you're having for your tea?"

"No Paul. It's terrible isn't it"

"Yeah it is. Are you hungry?"

"Very"

"It's just not right is it?"

"No Paul, it's shocking. I don't know how I cope"

"No, me neither" he muttered whilst shaking his head

"Are you my friend" he asked, after he'd got over the lack of food problem.

Paul always wanted to know if I was his friend. He wanted to know if everyone was his friend.

"Yes Paul, of course. You know I am. We're best friends aren't we?" I said, expecting some sort of advice that best friends might give about the wiseness of having a girlfriend who didn't provide adequate sustenance.

"No. Christian's my best friend"

"Oh right. I see" I said, mortally wounded.

"Christian lets me ride his bike" explained Paul

"Ah. Easily bought then?"

"What you washing this old rust bucket for?"

"You're not much of a friend Paul. Do you know that?"

But it was too late. Christian had just opened his back door and Paul was already humming his way over there.

"I've had my tea Christian. Eggs and Bacon! What you had?"

It happens to us all.

2005-05-20T11:23:00.000+01:00

I'm gettting old.

Yes I am.

No, seriously I am. I thank you in advance for all the protestations that will undoubtedly overwhelm the comments box but it is to no avail. My mind is made.

For all those young 'uns wondering which age it is that birthdays stop being all about receiving then I can now disclose the secret that all us old 'uns know.

For all those wanting to keep it a surprise; 'please look away now' - in true Saturday night, pre-Match of the Day news style.

"Good heavens. Is that a microwave in the wall
behind me? My eyes aren't what they used to be."

Last month was my 32nd birthday. I know this because the strapline at the top of this page says I'm that old. So I must be. It's the only way I have of remembering it. It wouldn't be up there if I could remember it any other way. But sadder still was the fact that my birthday seems to have passed all my family and friends by. The birthday cards and presents stack, that has been so full of delights in previous years - maybe because I'm such a lovable, likeable fellow - was barren. Almost empty.

Maybe this was because I was away on holiday at the time. I'm unsure. I may accept this as a reason.

Even my present from CJ was a scuba driving trip for her, that I paid for on my credit card.

Oh I'm so old.

And just to rub salt in the wounds three Polish nurses have rented the house next door to CJ. The care home down the road is taking advantage of the recently expanded EU labour market mixed with the girl's desire to live in England, by paying them a pittance for the priviledge.

Years ago I would have tried to take advantage of them too.

Now I just tell them to turn their music down.

I want to be left alone for a while.

Mind games

2005-05-18T15:01:00.000+01:00

"Why don't you come over here? Pick Mummy Duck up on the way and we can have a drive out for something to eat" I text Young Watski on Sunday morning in reply to his own text asking what I was up to that day.

Is it text or texted? I'm still unsure.

"Mummy Duck's gone with Mad Auntie to see some voodoo witch fortune teller thing - she said that she'd be back around 1. I'll give her a ring back then" he replied.

We don't talk anymore - that's so 20th century - nowadays one of us will text 'what you up to?' to the other, followed by 'oh nice' when the other has disclosed their plans. And that's it.

"Well if they're any good, she'll know that you're going to ring and why before she gets back" I replied, pleased with my mental agility whilst earning Orange another easy buck.

"Maybe if I think hard enough I can get her to bring the lawnmower over with her too"

I pressed send but my mind was already debating whether the 'do you reckon you have to cross their palms with silver twice on a Sunday?' reply would have been better instead.

Never mind, the punchline drummer had already *bdum tsh'd* and the adoring audience were building up their rapturous applause.

Somewhere.

Before I sent that one too.

Should I...

2005-05-17T12:39:00.000+01:00

...mind taking in 2 parcels for the guy at No.50 as he's not in?

...be worried that it was over a week ago?

...consider charging him storage?

...be worried about his welfare having not seen him since?

...be worried about the fact that he doesn't appear overly concerned about collecting them?

...be more worried about: a) his welfare having not seen him since or, b) the fact that he doesn't appear overly keen about collecting them?

...therfore contact the authorities?

...google the name of the sender to see the type of product that might be inside?

...wish that I hadn't googled the name of the sender to see the type of product that might be inside?

...keep the boxes for myself?

...deny all knowledge of receiving the parcels?

...pretend it's not my signature on the delivery note?

...get myself measured for an orange boiler suit.

...stop being a nosy bastard?

I'm not that kind of guy..

2005-05-13T12:14:00.000+01:00

Whilst in Thailand I thought it would be good to learn a bit of the lingo, if only to ask someone where the ping pong shows were. I need not have worried, I was pointed to them often enough without asking.

So I picked up the Lonely Planet Thai phrasebook. Over the holiday it proved to be really useful - if it's only use was to show us how not to say something. We'd end up attempting to ask someone for another beer only to be faced with puzzled faces and a lesson in how it should be said. Serves us right for asking the taxi driver.

I nearly choked on my boiled sausage when browsing it on the plane. There is a section on romance, which reads more like 'how to pick up'. This is the exact sequence of phrases - no word of a lie:

Romance

Would you like to do something tomorrow? - Blimey fast mover, I only came in for a packet of chewing gum
Yes I'd love to - Oooh, I think we're in
I'm busy - Knock back, bummer.
What a babe! - shit, sorry - I just meant to think that, not say it.
He/She gets around - is that one person or 2? We are in Thailand.
Would you like a drink? - good thinking
You look like someone I know - don't say....Brad Pitt is it? I get that often. Bob Hoskins? Shit.
You're a fantastic dancer - I wasn't dancing, that's the way I walk
Can I take you home? - *mental note - walk like that more often*
I'm here with my boyfriend/girlfriend - Now you say. I was just practising my dancing walking. You didn't say if that was just the one person or not.
Excuse me, I have to go - Isn't that always the case?
I'd rather not - Rather not what? Go? Oh sorry, I didn't realise my hand was there.
No thank you - time to give up with the suggestions now.
Leave me alone - Ok, Ok, I get the idea.
Piss off - look I dont want any trouble, you invited me here.
I like you very much - Make your mind up.
Can I kiss you? - blimey, must be this fake aftershave. Is your boy/girlfriend watching? There are so many that it could be.
Do you want to come inside for a while? - Let me finish my drink...oh we're not in the pub anymore. How did that happen? Two minutes ago I was dancing, where have all those people gone? I think I'm hallucinating.
Do you want a massage? - well, if you're offering.
Do you have a condom? - what type of massage is this?
Let's use a condom - are you going to be expecting some sort of payment for this?
I wont do it without protection - I think I need some protection, you're a mental.
I want to make love to you - I think that's abundantly clear
Kiss me - crikey
I want you - crikey
Let's go to bed - crikey
Touch me here - Look, I know what to do.
Do you like this? - Depends what it is - is it sharp? Will it hurt? Owwww..
I dont like that - You just told me to touch you there. Make your mind up.
I like that - I'm not doing anything different
I think we should stop now - Already? Aww....
Oh yeah - Oh yeah for you, what about me?
Oh my God - Oh, don't need me now?
That's great - I bet it is but what about me?
Easy tiger - easy yourself, you started it.
Faster - Who? Me?
Harder - Can you keep the noise down?
Slower - I'm just going to shut this door.
It's my first time - yeah righto
It helps to have a sense of humour - what are you saying?
Dont worry, I'll do it myself - I thought you just had.
That was amazing - For you maybe
Can I call you? - I'm not sure I'm into freaks
I love you - I'm sort of getting a few mixed messages from you now.
You're great - Well, it has been said before
I think we're good together - I think you're a bit weird.
Will you marry me - *spits coffee out*
Are you seeing someone else? - easy with all the questions, I only met you 2 pages ago
He/she is just a friend - how long's he been there? Was he watching? It is a 'he' isn't it? You said the he-she was your boy-girlfriend.
You're just using me for sex - Well I wouldn't be getting much use would I?
I never want to see you again - Fine by me.
I don't think it's working out - I know what you mean, do you have the number of a taxi firm?
We'll work it out - about that taxi..
I have to leave tomorrow - Can't say I'm too sorry about that.
I'll keep in touch - Sod that, weirdo.

Sounds like a night in with Girl.

I'm in trouble now.

I'm O-podo sorry about all this...

2005-05-12T00:01:00.000+01:00

You may like to read about this in chronological order. If you do then try: here, here, here, here, here, oh and not forgetting here. Although I suspect that most of you, if not all, are as sick to the back teeth as I am about it. There are more than I realised too.

You can either read on, or take the day off - go on, feel free. I'll see those of you that abstain tomorrow, where hopefully I may have reverted back to more inane ramblings about spiders and shit.

One more for now though,

Trot on:

11th May 2005
Katie Powell
Opodo Limited
PO Box 6589
Leicester
LE1 3ZZ.

Dear Ms Powell

Thank you for your letter dated 29th April. It’s strange that it didn’t arrive at my house until the 10th May. I’m getting used to things happening with Opodo a week after they should have happened. I’m beginning to believe that Opodo is located in its own little time zone where it’s a week later than the rest of the world. Which would actually explain quite a lot.

Anyway, the other strange thing is that the letter also seems to be a page short, or even two. The page(s) that are missing are, I presume, the one(s) where it actually answers the questions that I posed.

Or maybe I didn’t make it clear that they were questions. So I’ll take the liberty of asking them again. For ease of understanding I’ll start them all with ‘Why’, so you can be in no doubt that they are questions and as such, need answering:

1) Why was it that the first time I knew that I wasn’t booked on a flight that Opodo said I was booked on, was when I tried to check in for the flight, at an airport in a foreign country? I know what the airline did – I want to know why YOUR COMPANY didn’t contact me straight away to save me the hassle of travelling all the way to the airport for the flight that your company knew I wasn’t booked on 3 days before.

2) Why is it that your company didn’t arrange for me to be put on another flight, when you realised that I wasn’t booked on the flight that you told me I was booked on, the same 3 days before? Why was it left to me to take time out of my holiday to sort something I’d paid you to do?

3) Why as a result, was I then left to wander around the airline desks at the previously mentioned ‘airport in a foreign country’ on my holiday asking them in my ‘pigeon Thai’ whether they would mind checking whether I happened to be booked on any of their flights that day? When I’d paid Opodo some time prior to do all this for me.

4) Why it is that your internal procedures are so lax that it took until an hour before I boarded a plane on my holiday to sort out the above problem with a further flight on said holiday that was initially highlighted over a week prior, taking this long simply because an operator was ‘off sick’? Being the sole reason, to anyone in possession of a brain, for the entire catalogue of cock ups.

5) Why it is that no-one else could have dealt with the issue that ‘buck-passing’ Amanda left on my answer phone whilst in the air on a Friday, essentially saying that there wasn’t much else that could be done about my flight, because she wasn’t back in work till the following. Monday? Does only one person work at Opodo? Do you close for the weekend?

6) 6) Why have you effectively charged me for the privilege of running around Bangkok airport, wasting almost a day of my holiday in the process, clearing up the remnants of your inability to manage a flight booking? It would have been less hassle to turn up on spec whilst naked.

Shall I answer them for you? Well from the looks of it your internal procedures are shot to pieces. Easy. And I don’t even work there. These are just some examples of this off the top of my head:

* No-one else was able to call me in the absence of an operator being off sick,
* No-one else was able to deal with a cancelled flight because an operator was off for the weekend, and
* No-one was blessed with the initiative to think that I might need to be contacted when it turns out that I wasn’t booked on a flight you told me I was booked on, whilst in a foreign country.

You should be imagining me shouting now.

And I’m sure I could think of more examples, which I’d tell you if I could be certain that I wasn’t wasting my time on a company that takes consumers money in exchange for old rope, before ducking out of the consequences when the questions get a bit too difficult to understand.

So after that you can see why I’d prefer the answers rather than compensation if it’s all the same to you, as the latter would require me to risk going through all this again by using a £50 compensation flight voucher on a company with ‘previous’ when it comes to crap service.

Maybe the missing page(s) didn’t answer my questions at all, maybe instead there was just a paragraph which said something along the lines of: “We’re really sorry Mr Watski, our procedures failed, please forgive us”. That would be nice. I’d be happy with that. But I’d guess that the likelihood of you admitting what we both know happened is even less likely than the likelihood of actually getting some answers.

I’ve read your letter Ms Powell, I’ve read it a couple of times. I have even held it up to the light to see if there are any hidden words. But as many times as I read it, look at it upside down or translate it into Swahili, I still can’t seem to see any answers at all to my letter of the 19th April 2005. Maybe you could point them out to me if they’re there as I’m obviously missing something.

Yes you tell me that the airline ‘did this’ and the airline ‘did that’, as I guess airlines are always doing – but it’s the way that your department handled the aftermath of the airline’s changes that I’m really interested in the detail of, as I guess your CEO would be too if he’s truly consumer focussed. I’m interested because that is the part that has inconvenienced me the most. It can’t be coincidence that you got it wrong on almost EVERY step of the way.

You also say that you understand my frustrations. You haven’t got a clue. Otherwise you’d help me in getting to the bottom of the reasons for your company seriously inconveniencing me on my holiday. I would be willing to meet you to discuss the answers to these questions if you so wish.

I’m not interested in compensation Ms Powell and frankly I’m offended that you think its compensation and not answers that will bring this matter to an end. I am a paying customer after all, lest you forget.

It’s not difficult Ms Powell. In fact it’s quite easy.

Mr Watski

PS. Mr Vincent, I’ve copied you in on this in the hope that your intervention might at least start getting me some answers as to why I was set adrift on the other side of the world. I’m also interested in your observations as to how you would feel if all the above had happened to you and your family. Not that I think for one minute that they would happen to the erstwhile CEO of a travel company, at least not his own travel company anyway.

PPS. Thank you for the contact details of IATA, I had already taken the liberty of contacting them after seeing their logo on your literature – they actually seem to be of less use than your company, which is a remarkable achievement in itself. They should be congratulated. It must have taken years of practice.

I am unsure why you promote the fact to consumers that you are affiliated to the IATA in your livery, when the only people that seem to benefit from being affiliated are the members themselves. From what I can gather the IATA is nothing more than a Travel agents talking shop which gives accreditation out over coffee, but ultimately serves no end benefit to consumers whatsoever.

c.c.
Simon Vincent – CEO Opodo
www.watski.co.uk

Great overheard conversations of our time

2005-05-11T14:39:00.000+01:00

"Have you remembered the Iceberg lettuce" the elderly man said to the lady who may, or may not have been his wife as he joined her and her trolley, just before me in the queue at the local supermarket.

Ok, it was Asda. I'm not afraid of advertising, this is not The BBC after all. Like you weren't aware.

"Oooh that reminds me, I need to take that book on The Titanic back to the library" she replied.

"Oh yes" he commented, whilst pinching the lettuce - unaware that the gentleman in the queue behind him was doing his best to refrain from peeing his person.

New arrival

2005-05-10T12:15:00.000+01:00

We have a new arrival.

May I introduce Missy:

Missy: 'not cute'

She's been with us for a few weeks now, and her main activity within this time has been to attempt to eat me piece by piece, starting with the fingers.

That, and pissing on the rug. Oh and general all round disobedience, which she succeeds in hiding behind her puppy cuteness, either that or getting me to carry the can for her.

She could probably get away with hotwiring the car, taking it for a spin, knocking over a couple of pensioners before torching it in the middle of a nature reserve and the general response would be:

"Aah, she's only a puppy - she's so cute"

"How do you think she feels about being parted from her Mum and Brothers and Sisters?" I asked CJ after the first few days of 6am starts that I seem to have drawn the short straw for "Will she be sad?"

"Oh no, she's probably forgot all about them by now" was the reply.

"What kind of cold hearted beast are we allowing under our roof? No wonder she has no respect for my fingers"

Something capable of such levels of heartless cruelty should not be underestimated.

No matter how cute they look.

Here we g-opodo again

2005-05-07T13:10:00.000+01:00

7th May 2005

Mr Simon Vincent
Chief Executive Officer
Opodo Limited
Waterfront
Hammersmith Embankment
London
W6 9RU

Dear Mr Vincent

I’m writing to you as a last resort, to hopefully resolve the farcical dance I am currently performing with your UK offshoot, who seem to be entirely bereft of any level of customer service worth the name.

I’d take you through the whole situation, but I’m really afraid that my blood pressure may ascend to the point of no return if I go through it with one more person from Opodo. So I’ve attached the correspondence for you to peruse at your leisure.

I appreciate that you may be a busy man but I do urge you to read it, there is no greater barometer of company perception than the views of a sharp end consumer, especially one with a valid complaint. And if that fails to sufficiently inspire you enough to become familiar with my case then perhaps the fact that I have also, as a last resort, exasperatingly sent this letter to British Trading Standards, The Office of Fair Trading, Capital Letters in The Guardian, A Question of Money in The Sunday Times and ATOL might tempt you to at least give it a glance.

The excruciatingly poor level of service I have received is all attached in chronological order for your delectation. All except details of the poor level of service I have received since my last email complaining about the poor level of service. Some people just never seem to get it do they?

The last email I wrote to Katie Powell (my 4th), dated the 19th April, was pretty damning, maybe it was too damning, but you have to understand that I wrote it less than 24 hours after returning from a holiday that Opodo did its best to sabotage with levels of incompetence previously unequalled. I’m only sorry that Roy Castle wasn’t around to adjudicate this World Record contender.

I’d expected some sort of swift resolution following this email, a phone call at least to tell me it was being dealt with, maybe an email back saying that someone was on the case, or even a letter of acknowledgement simply saying that my email had been received.

Nothing!

Still nothing! 3 weeks since I sent the most annoyed letter I have ever written.

So concerned was I that the email had become another victim of the email ether, that I have since called Opodo twice (my 19th and 20th call to them) to find out whether they have received it and if so, whether they are performing the established method of resolving consumer dissatisfaction, i.e, dealing with it.

Between me, you and the numerous other people I have copied this to Mr Vincent – as well as my website www.watski.co.uk, I’m not entirely convinced that this is happening. The person who answered the second call (Friday 30th April) couldn’t have sounded more like it was the first time anyone had looked at it if she tried. She did say that someone was looking at it at that precise moment – maybe it was her. And that was still over a week ago. Maybe they are still looking at it. Who knows what’s happening anymore? I certainly don’t.

I’m hoping you do.

Please tell me you do Mr Vincent. Please tell me that the monkeys have an organ grinder.

I’ve given your company every opportunity to resolve this matter Mr Vincent, I’ve made 20 phone calls, being promised a return call almost every time but receiving 3 at the most. I’ve written 4 emails, receiving 1 reply which might just as well have contained the words ‘So what?’ in capital letters. I’ve even toyed with the idea of giving up, but the truth is that your company simply cannot be allowed to get away with treating consumers the way I have been treated.

Yours, suffering fools-a-plenty

PS. You’ll also be pleased to know that if you enter the words ‘Simon Vincent Opodo email’ into Google, then this letter comes up on the first page of results. You must be so proud.

Vote Watski

2005-05-05T11:03:00.000+01:00

So election day is upon us. Thank god, some might say.

I have to admit that I do get quite interested in it though - coming from a politically savvy family it was difficult not to be affected, especially when the house was decorated red.

"Daddy, why have you dyed the cat red?"

"No reason comrade, now finish reading your Socialist Worker"

As a kid, watching any TV other than news or current affairs style programmes was very difficult when my Dad was in the house. I'd come home from school hoping that he wasn't in so that I could watch kids TV, and then end up arguing with him when I got home to find him in and in his usual 'not budging' mood in his usual place on the settee. I'd go over to the radio when I lost the argument only to find that he'd commandeered that as well to listen to with his other ear.

Even the papers we had back then were information providers like The Guardian and The Observer - I adopted the Japanese way of reading newspapers back to front, the sport was my only respite. The bookshelves were full of Marx and Engels and The Morning Star was a regular arrival through the letter box. Most weeks Dad would also come home with the Socialist Worker - which annoyed my Mum no end, as she was quite attractive.

I always remember the Socialist Worker stands in the town centre, my mad art teacher was manning it more often than not and the front page would always had some derogatory comment about Thatcher and her policies. I remember wondering what would happen when their wish came true, would they just pack up and go home? Would their last headline say: 'What The Bloody Hell Do We Do Now?'.

At an early age Young Watski had somehow managed to convince Dad, through conscious decision or accident that he was a dead loss as far as following in the family tradition was concerned, which seemed to make Dad all the more determined to inititiate me. I distinctly remember one day Dad taking me to one side and advising me to read The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists. Which was always going to be a bit heavy for a 12 year old.

As I got older and was eventually brainwashed by the constant propoganda, Dads politics became clearer to me, as did politics as a whole. I realised that Dad was about as far left wing as it got. Which also means that shouting 'you communist' at him in an argument wasn't as clever as it seemed back then, Dad probably took it as a compliment.

Our family has always been a very staunch Labour voting family as you can probably tell, even before the Tories ripped our local community apart in the mid-eighties both my Mum and Dad were card carrying Labour supporters. I was even made a member so that I could be reeled in when the voting got tight on certain matters. It was made clear to me from eye opening age that voting Conservative would result in my immediate ostracision from the family.

Dad was also quite high profile locally, in addition to being a NUM branch secretary at the local pit he was also a district councillor for many years and a subsequent chair of the council, which meant that the phone would never stop ringing and there would more often than not be some stranger in the house who Dad was filling forms in for.

Now, things have changed drastically. Dad is no longer a member of the 'Labour in Tory clothing' party, as he calls them, and actually stood against the local Labour candidate at the last election for the Ricky Tomlinson endorsed Socialist Labour Party. Which would have been a good idea if the local Labour candidate wasn't a high profile member of the cabinet and didn't have over 50% of the vote - and that's before the fact that the only celebrity you had endorsing your party played a fat, layabout slob on the TV.

In fact Geoff Hoon could probably drive round the streets of our area in an ice cream van shouting: "You're all gay" out of the loud speaker and still be elected with an improved majority. Which is what he does effectively, I guess.

Dad is not standing in this election though and as a result is very traumatised by the whole thing, he's actually got to make a decision who to vote for for the first time. In 1997 he voted Labour, as most people in posession of any form of voluntary motion did, he stood himself in the last election, so this election is the first one he's had to really make a decision about, even though in reality his vote will matter very little.

I can tell he's a bit traumatised by it all as he keeps sending me little political soundbites by text, he's cryptically telling me that he's not voting for Labour and he wants to ensure that I know the reason why. But what I think he really wants me to know is that he's not selling the family silver without having had a good, long, hard, heart to heart with his conscience about it, and that I shouldn't think that he's a bad person by doing so.

His text to me this morning just says:

"I feel like I've betrayed a brother, but it had to be done"

I know how he feels.

Words are one thing, actions are another.

Oh woe is me

2005-04-29T00:52:00.000+01:00

Frustrated of encountering roaringly amusing moments in the life of Watski, then totally forgetting them, I purchased a little note book a few weeks ago in which I planned to write little prompting scribbles, from which I would then be able to refer to and aid me in regaling you good people with countless funny stories and anecdotes.

I appreciate this might be against the rules of blogging and am prepared to take whatever punishment comes my way.

However, this little notebook (or 'notie' as I'd christened it - to myself that is, mentioning 'notie' out loud would have had me labelled as funny farm material amidst those that didn't already think that I was), has gone and lost itself. I haven't lost it, I don't lose things - they lose themselves, of their own accord.

Now I have nothing to write about.

You don't know how unlucky you are.

Ship of fools

2005-04-26T11:39:00.000+01:00

The surrealness of being on a boat in the middle of the Andaman sea being taught the vagaries of scuba diving by a half Thai-half German Arnold Schwarzenegger soundalike wasn't totally lost on me.

"What the bloody hell am I doing here?" I thought to myself as he explained something else very important that I couldn't understand to me and the 2 other certain deathers sat at the side of me.

The thumbs that were up and pointing in my direction and attached to CJ reminded me why I was here.

We were the 'Introduction to Scuba Diving' group, the membership of which seem to single us out to be talked to patronisingly and be scared witless by other more qualified members on board the boat.

Arnie then said another sentence which ended in '...or you'll be in trouble' before shoving forms under each of our noses with tick boxes which absolved anybody other than me for any blame attached to my impending death.

"You all look petrified" said the dive master as he walked over "Don't worry, Arnie has been instructing for years now and has only lost an average of 3 divers a year - he's lost none so far this year though, which is good news" he continued as he looked at the 3 of us, before cracking himself up at how funny he was, slapping some people on the back then walking to the end of the boat and throwing himself off it into the boats propellor.

I made that last bit up, but it wasn't for the want of wishing it to happen.

"Oh and whatever you do, don't forget to equalise your ears" he said as he went off the regale other boat inhabitants of his underwater tales.

Our instructions once in the water were to paddle across to a boat moored about 20 yards away, wait for Arnie to get there, at which time we would use to rope to aid our descent to the bottom. We'd rehearsed all our hand signals on board and now it was time to put it all into practice.

I had a few hand signals of my own for the divemaster which I wasted no time in utilising once I was in the water.

Getting into the water with the kit on was a job in itself, if I didn't jump in then I was going to fall in anyway so I guess I had no choice. Bobbing around in the water, paddling across to the boat that seemed to be getting further away, I was unsure how it was that I was still above the surface. The weight of the kit I was carrying on my back would have been enough to sink the titanic. I could hardly stand up once I'd put it on in the boat.

"Right - start to descend" Arnie shouted as we all reached the boat. This was easier than it sounds for someone with no buoyancy control, who was clinging for dear life with one hand on the mooring rope and the other on his nose popping his ears for all he was worth.

One of the most uncomfortable half hours of my life followed. I managed to descend to the bottom eventually, but being the middle person of 3 clinging to the rope meant that I had someones flippers kicking me in the head all the time, whilst kicking somebody else in the head with my flippers - all at the same time as trying to control my buoyancy, keep my mask clean, remembering to breathe and popping my ears.

Bobbing back on the surface again waiting for the boat to come around and pick us up Arnie asked us how far down we thought we had gone.

"About 8 or 9 metres?" I reckoned.

Arnie nearly drowned laughing.

"So how deep then?" I asked. Wanting to add the swear words my mind was telling me to use to the end.

"3 and a half, maybe 4" he replied.

And I thought to myself:

'3 and half/4 metres? That's what? 12, maybe 12 and a half feet. Hang on, that's about the depth of the deep end of the local swimming baths. The local swimming baths where I used to swim to the bottom of the deep end in my pyjamas to pick up rubber bricks throughout my schooldays without so much as a second thought.'

"You silly fucker, why didn't you say we were only going that deep?" I shouted.

But he was already climbing on the boat, sharing my stupidity with the divemaster.

Don't mess with the sea.

2005-04-25T16:09:00.000+01:00

You see, I’ve never understood the attraction of scuba diving. I’ve always been of the opinion that there is no pleasure that being under the water can give me that would make up for the displeasure that I would get by being stung or bitten by one of it’s usual inhabitants, that or popping an eardrum. OK, I bet it’s nice, peaceful and scenic but I’d rather just stay out of it and have my usual daily burning by the sun if it’s all the same. Sunburn I know how to handle.

This view was emphasised in poetic fashion when I was awoken from my daily frazzling appointment on the beach by the big red thing in the sky by the undignified ‘yelp’ of a man. A man in the sea. A man in the sea yelping. This didn’t look good.

On closer inspection it appeared that the man in the sea from which the ‘yelp’ emanated was the man who occupied one of the two frazzling beds beside CJ and I, the other one was occupied by his partner. Who was now looking on rather concerned.

I’d worked out through process of deduction that he was of Eastern European origin. My deducting process being that he didn’t have blonde hair so he wasn’t Scandinavian, he wasn’t being overtly loud for no reason so he wasn’t American, he wasn’t playing cricket and being loud so he wasn’t Australian, but he did have tight Speedo’s on so in the absence of any other countries in the world he was therefore probably Eastern European, possibly Russian. Which bothered me no end, especially now as I couldn’t work out what was happening.

He was also a bit of a fidget, I’d observed him earlier in the day spending a good 30 minutes clearing the surrounding area of bits of tree, weed and bottles washed in by the tide. This was frowned on somewhat by Old Mother Sea who had obviously not taken to kindly to someone clearing up her own back yard and had paid him back sea style:

"Next time sonny leave the clearing up to me. Have a sting of that, get out of my sea and don’t fanny around with my rubbish again" I could swear I heard the waves say.

He did walk out of the sea, which was harder than it sounds due to the current, holding his right arm straight. And made his way up to the food cart proprietors behind us who made lots of oohing and aahing noises, which obviously meant: ‘get your stuff together, you’re going somewhere where the nosy bastard on the bed next to you doesn’t know where, or why’, and with that they did. Went. Without telling me what was happening. Bastards. I hoped his bloody Russian arm fell off.

But this had deeper, more far reaching consequences than just some Russian guys arm. Earlier in the day, we had booked a couple of days scuba diving trip. It was a trip for CJ masquerading as my birthday present. CJ is an expert diver. I am not. We were going into the sea that had just bitten that man.

And now I’d had seen what was waiting for me in the sea. I wasn’t too sure anymore.

We opodo-ise for the interruption in normal services....

2005-04-21T19:02:00.000+01:00

In the absence of any time to write anything of any worth, I thought you might like to see the next installment of the Great Opodo problem.

Since returning from holiday I had a letter from Katie Powell from Opodo, making excuses for why it wasn't sorted. This is my response.

Get a cup of tea before you start, it's a long 'un. But worth it.

Dear Katie

Thank you for your letter dated 15th April. As much as I would like to forget all about this incident, subsequent problems and your arrogant-esque letter which tries and fails to justify your actions has made me even more inclined to write back to further update you on the situation and also to correct some of your assertions.

First of all the update.

We'll pick the story up on the evening of Thursday 31st March. But not before a timelined version of previous events.

Thursday 24th March - answer machine message left from Opodo to myself alerting me to the fact that my flight on the 4th April from Bangkok to Phuket had been changed.
Thursday 24th March - return phonecall from myself to Opodo. No success, promised a call back. No call received.
Friday 25th March - return phonecall from myself to Opodo. No success, promised a call back. No call received.
Saturday 26th March - 2 return phonecalls from myself to Opodo. Told that nobody could help me till the following Tuesday, someone would call back then.
Tuesday 29th March - No call received. Phonecall made to Opodo in absence of one from them. No help, promised a phonecall when resolved.
Wednesday 30th March - No call from Opodo. 3 emails of complaint written to Opodo. No response.
Thursday 31st March (24hours before holiday departure) - phonecall received at 10.21am from Opodo at the same time as I was on hold to them. Success. Phew. An alternative outbound flight had been sourced within 5 minutes of the original one. A confirmation email was promised.

And that's where we left it. One week after the initial contact, lots of inefficiency inbetween and one day before we were to depart on our holiday - it was sorted, after 6 phonecalls from me (at the cost of £3.77 to myself). Or so we thought.

So, now I'd like to respond to some of your assertions in your letter.

"From our records I can see that you returned our call on March 26th 2005..."

The 26th March was actually the 4th time I had returned your call. Fortunately my phonebill has arrived since I have returned. I have evidence.

"...(lots of excuses).... which is why 31st March was the first date that we could make contact with you"

Seriously? You expect me to take this as a reason. Did you write this on April Fools Day? 7 full days after the initial contact, less than 24 hours before I was due to depart the country on the first leg of my trip was the first time that anybody in Opodo could talk to me about it? If this is your idea of customer service then you seriously need to review your procedures.

Now back to the story.

At 17.19pm on Thursday 31st March. 7 hours after I was told a confirmation email was on its way, I still had not received it. So again I called Opodo (7th time). I was told that there had been some problems with the email generation and it would be sent soon. It was. About 30 minutes later. The footnote at the bottom said: "Created at 17.30pm". I'm sure there is some novel explanation for 17.30 being the time it was created and not 10.30 which was the time of the original phonecall.

I was in the process of printing it out when I noticed that the times of the return flight had been altered. And I knew nothing at all about it.

Another call to Opodo (18.14pm - 8th time). The GDS team were otherwise engaged and someone would call me back straight away. Ha. I'd heard that one before.

Another 2 phonecalls to Opodo (18.48pm - 9th and 10th time). I spent 16 minutes talking to a lady who wasn't sure why it had happened but assured me that Opodo had lots of foolproof systems in place which made sure that errors like this would have been picked up before it became an issue. Impressed as I was by her youthful naivety I couldn't help but comment on why it was that if there were lots of foolproof systems in Opodo, that I was the only fool picking anything up. What would happen if this wasn't seen as an error by the system as it was actually right? She didn't think it was.

At this time I was also impressed to hear the excuse 'the airline are looking to customers to help them out after the tsunami'. We later found out that Phuket airlines had planned some time before to downgrade their services to the one 17.25pm a day from the 1st April due to the low demand arising from the end of a season, nothing to do with the Tsunami. This was information direct from their Bangkok desk. Disgusting doesn't even begin to describe it.

To cut a long conversation short, she too was unable to do anything about it. Which wasn’t entirely surprising. She did say that someone came into the office at 8am the following morning and would be working on my case immediately. Oh good. That was reassuring.

So. We had a situation where it took a week to get back to me about an outbound flight which had changed, only for the return flight to then be changed. And for no-one to tell me about it. All about 15 hours before we were due to depart. How confident would you feel on a scale of 1-10 of me getting a phonecall, and getting it sorted? I wasn't sure why the return flight had to be touched at all. But I'm sure you'll have some travel agency type flannel for it.

So the following morning I depart for Heathrow, wanting to be full of the holiday spirit but having the 'impending doom' monkey on my back. 8am came and went, so did 9am and so did 10am. I could wait no more. 10.15am I rang Opodo, and again at 10.19am. I rang Opodo 8 times between 10.15am and 10.58am in all. For interest, the total cost of all 18 phonecalls to Opodo was £15.90.

Eventually we got to a stage where the original return flight was re-instated. Not before Lisa apologised for not communicating the change - so it was the real plan - the foolproof system wouldn't have picked it up after all. I checked the details about 4 times with Lisa: our original outbound flight had changed by 5 minutes and our original return flight was the same. 'Yes' she said. I asked for email confirmation, which I checked at the airport - but I didn't receive any. And not before time. The flight was then called.

Landing at Bangkok airport, I switched on my phone. It beeped and told me that I had a new voicemail message. My stomach dropped. I listened. I had 2 infact. The first one was my Mum bless her, wishing us a nice holiday. The second one was Amanda from Opodo, our next heroine in the great Opodo sham. Only Amanda didn't turn out to be a heroine after all. If there isn't a role as Chief excuse maker at Opodo, which I find hard to believe, then may I suggest you create one immediately and put Amanda into the role.

The message lasted about 5 minutes and cost £6.50 to access.

To be honest, I couldn't really tell you what Amanda had said as I'd lost the will to live after about 4 minutes. But it contained such well worn favourite phrases as 'not our fault' and 'doing all we can'. I was even supposed to be impressed by her obtaining someone's mobile phone number in Phuket and ringing them when they weren't expecting it.

The general gist was that apparently the airline had changed their mind after I'd had it confirmed, and that it was now 4.30pm British time on Friday afternoon, that Amanda wouldn't be back in till Monday morning to help us by which time we'd be in the air from Bangkok to Phuket. "You're on your own buddy" in other words. Which was a novel interpretation of ‘doing all we can’. So not only was the pre-holiday build up taken away from me, it was also happening whilst I was away.

But the problem here was that in all her bluster Amanda hadn't actually told me which flight had been changed, and also to which times - so I listened again for some clues. She insinuated that it was the return one and I felt it must be as that was the only one we were having the problems with now and also she said that I couldn't be helped by Opodo until Monday morning and by that time I would be in the air. So I assumed that flight was OK and it must be the return flight which was the problem. We decided to wait until we got to the airport on Monday to try and sort that one out rather than try and play 'give us a clue' with the Thai airline phone operators.

The thing here is that in the 8 full days since this started, not once was I offered a solution, all I was given was excuse after excuse. If at the first contact I'd have been told:

"Sorry Mr Watski, your flight has been cancelled by the airline - we've only got space on this one leaving at 5.25pm. So you can either take this one or cancel - we'll refund your money and you can try your luck elsewhere"

I may have mumbled and grumbled about it a little bit, but at least I would have known my options, where I stood and most importantly would have had time to do something about it. But at this time Opodo had bumbled and fannied around for so long not returning phonecalls that the options were now severely restricted. I was actually so angry I sat by the pool in Bangkok on the first day of my holiday writing this letter, not knowing whether I had a flight or not on the second leg of it.

So anyway. We get to the airport on Monday morning. We actually got there late for our flight (10.50am for a flight due to depart at 10.45am) due to a combination of things. Which was a stroke of luck as it turns out as the 10.45am flight Lisa told us 4 times we were on was also the flight we weren't booked on. We asked Thai airways whether we were actually down to be on any flight at all that day with them. 'No' was the reply. Apparently we'd been cancelled off the flight on Friday 1st April and not rescheduled on any others.

We then went to the Phuket airways desk to ask them if we were down to be on any of their flights that day.

Can you imagine being in an airport, in a foreign country, walking around the airlines asking them if they'd mind checking if we were booked to fly with them at all that day as we weren't sure anymore. Is there anything more soul destroying? If I were them I would have also have given me the pitying looks they were giving me. The perverse thing was that we were paying Opodo to be our agent, whilst doing ALL the work ourselves. That's some scam you've got going there. No wonder you don’t need anyone there to return phonecalls.

Apparently we were down to be on the 17.25pm Phuket airlines flight. Which was about 6 hours away, and also the same flight which I'd told Opodo all those days ago that it wasn't convenient. Funny that. Did Opodo actually do anything at all in the previous week and a half except take our money and put two fingers up to us? You’ll have to remind me what it was if you did anything.

Luckily a lovely lady from Phuket airlines took pity on us and managed to negotiate us onto a Thai air flight which flew an hour or so later - at their own expense of course. Now that's customer service. It took you 10 days to bumble around and get to nowhere, yet it took a Thai lady speaking hardly any English to sort it out in about 20 minutes. The Thais could teach you lot a thing or two.

I can almost see your reply now which will heavily feature blaming the airline and everybody else, and give some believeable reason why absolutely not one single person at all from Opodo was capable of getting back to me within a week. But the airline aren't to blame, as you say in your letter: airlines need to make changes to their original flight programme. All Phuket airlines did was alter their schedule. It was your mismanagement of the consequences that has cocked this up for everyone except yourselves. And you're getting paid for it. It is plain to anybody with eyes in their head that if you had sorted it out right at the outset - the 24th March, then the airlines and us would have had options and wouldn't have been squeezed into the corner we were squeezed into.

To answer your final question: Yes we had a great holiday thank you. But it was very much in spite of you rather than because of you.

So what I want you to do is:

1: Give me the real reason why my second leg flight wasn’t initially sorted out until 10 minutes before my first leg flight was called, when you knew of the situation 8 days before. Include reasons for the failure of any one person at all within Opodo to ring me once.

2: Apologise that you messed up. Apologise for all the delays in sorting it out. Apologise for your incompetence impacting on the enjoyment of my holiday. Apologise that if it wasn't for me then you lot would still be buzzing round like wingless flies. And no caveats either - don't patronise me or demean yourself by trying to justify anything.

3: Furnish me with the address of your ombudsman. I intend to complain to the body you're affiliated to. If you haven't already been thrown out.

4: Furnish me with the name and email address of the top bod within Opodo. You know the guy that makes all the decisions? His/her boss. So I can alert them to how incompetent you all are.

5: Refund me the cost of the flights. You don't deserve the money. I actually feel sick that your company actually made some profit from it. You've not done one thing to justify earning it.

6: Refund me the cost of the 18 phonecalls to you and 1 voicemail access in Thailand (£15.90+£6.50= £22.40). I have copies of the bill if you would like them. I would bill you for the cost of the other times I accessed my voicemail in Thailand to try and understand what Amanda was saying if I could but that is masked in other business.

7: Donate the whole lot to the Red Cross Tsunami aid appeal.

Nothing else will suffice. As you can see, I’m still extremely angry about all this.

I had to laugh when I saw the Opodo strapline: "Opodo - travel your way". Is it because you have to travel your way because Opodo aren't going to do anything for you.

Small world

2005-04-19T15:11:00.000+01:00

So anyway...

You go on holiday half way across the world.

On one of the 17 days you are away you decide to go scuba diving.

You go with one of the countless trips that are available to one of the countless diving sites around Phuket.

You are divided up on your boat of 18 divers into groups of 3.

You get put in a group with a couple from Wakefield who are on their honeymoon.

You get on well with them.

You decide to meet them later on for a drink.

You get talking.

You find out a bit about each other.

You find out that you used to sit next to her best mate at work.

You also find out that he used to go out with CJ's sister at university for a year.

Welcome back

2005-04-18T10:24:00.000+01:00

Land back in England 6.30pm Sunday night - raining and cold.

Drive home - get stuck in traffic.

Arrive home at 10.30pm - thankful to go to bed after 24 hours awake.

Wake up 4am bolt upright - Thai breakfast time.

Wake up again at 7.30 pm and go for a shower - still raining.

Go to car - still raining, and now cold too.

Try to start car - battery flat.

Remembers convesation with CJ 5 minutes prior when we both left the house at the same time:

"Oh I've forgot my house keys, never mind - you'll be back before me"

Looks down at attire - still wearing shorts, t-shirt and flip flops.

Ring RAC - an hour and 15 minutes before they can get to me.

Consider saying:

'An hour and 15 minutes? I've got a blog to write you know - my audience need me. I've been away for 2 weeks. What's the chances of getting prioritised above lone women and women stranded with children? They get all the good deals anyway'

Realise audience probably give less of a shit than RAC.

Decide not to.

"Yes that's fine" I say instead.

See notepad and pen in car. Decide to write life story. An hour and 15 minutes should cover it.

Almost complete the word: "Bollocks" before the pen runs out.

Never mind. It's probably finished anyway.

Oh Lord - is this all you have in store for me?

Perfect Paris

2005-04-13T13:15:00.000+01:00

"Ze bread iz 4 Euroz pleaz monsiuer"

I didn’t actually ask for bread but much is the limits of my French that our culinary delights in Paris this weekend consisted of "Pain au Chocolate", Croissants and Orange Juice. I knew GCSE French would come in handy someday. If only they had a table tennis table for me to say that I like "playing on" ("je joue" for the French illiterates) then I would have been made. That really is the limits of my French.

I find that you can get a long way in other non-English speaking countries (and in life generally) by muttering, pointing, shrugging and just smiling inanely at people - if nothing else they think your crazy and you usually get what you want quickly without the pointless conversations that it seems French people like to indulge in when they food shop.

So this weekend myself and my girlfriend (who for the purposes of this blog we will call CM) spent three nights in Paris. I love Paris. It was CM's first visit to the glorious city and I was keen to get her initial impression. I remember my first time in Paris; I was inspired by the culture, the cuisine, the weather, the cosmopolitan feel to every little backroad bar and restaurant. Her first comment consisted of, "everyone looks like they do in the Tricolore books!". To those that don’t know, Tricolore is a textbook that accompanied French Lessons in English schools during the late 80's-early-90s! She hit the nail right on the head with that one.

The Tricalore workbook features sections dedicated to different situations you might find yourself in, in France; Shopping, Eating Out, Playing Sport, etc - these sections featured black and white photos of (very badly dressed) French people in that particular situation. The books at our school were probably about 10 years old, and these photos would almost certainly be accompanied by biro scribblings, courtesy of a rebelious 13 year old kid, of extra-ordinarily large penises for the boys and breasts for the lady (not ones to leave out the female the kids at our school!) - although some of the girls in the book did look like boys so it was hard to tell. If you were lucky, then you might get a big biro speech bubble of them telling each other what they wanted to do. For some reason, that wasn’t translated into French.

je joue au tennis de table

Anyway, we had an awesome time and did all of the perennial tourist sights; Eiffel Tower, Louvre, Champs Elysee, Arc de Triumphe, ate some magnificent food, drank some great wine, bought a beret, we somehow managed to insult numerous French people, and we then flew home.

So our flight home is at 8:35am French Time, which is 7:35 UK time = getting up frickin early. CM did the normal thing of setting her alarm about 3 hours before she needs to be up so she can press snooze 12,000 times. We now have to check, double and triple check everything before leaving as we've both got an annoying habit of losing and forgetting things. You would have thought that as we were only going for a three night break, that there wouldn’t be a great deal to lose or forget. Think again.

Things we forgot/lost:

- Entire make-up bag
- Wallet with all credit cards
- *My Black jumper
- Address or any contact information of hotel
- 20EURO note (which also happened to double up as money for our taxi to the airport)
- New jumper from Zara on Champs Elysee
- Adapter plug
- Mobile Phone Charger

*Not actually lost. This was left on the chair in the restaurant by CM, on purpose I think. Her plot was foiled after the French waiter ran after us clutching it in his hands.

If the results of your calculations are anything like mine, then you'd have worked out that we averaged two lost/forgotten items per day. Not a great average considering that we will soon be adding a baby to our list of responsibilities. We did however, immediately start work on re-addressing the balance:

Things we borrowed/stole:

- One Hotel Towel for our second toilet at home

- The entire contents of the mini-bar; replacing the spring water with tap water, the box of peanuts with hotel soap (same weight) and the toblerone carefully opened and the emply box simply turned the other way round back into the fridge.

- Two Further (and later, ruined) Hotel Towels to be used as a cushion to stop the dripping tapping noise outside the window. This later turned into a splatting noise so the towels life was taken in vain.

- One Coke Can from the minibar. Although not actually drank, the coke can provided the perfect door-stop for the lift doors, thus preventing the lift (which was conveniently positioned outside our room) from moving up and down the noisy shaft between the hours of 11pm and 9am (our sleeping time). We then had major guilt feelings of little old lady with big suitcase who’s room was on the top floor and immediately removed it, and later drank the coke.

All in all it was a great break, and I'd thoroughly recommend Paris to anyone. If you go and you just happen to be staying in a hotel just off the Champs Elysee in room 525 then I suggest checking your mini-bar, towel stash and remote control batteries (as if we would!) before checking in.

mmmmini bar

Happy Birthday

2005-04-12T17:42:00.000+01:00

Watskis birthday today!

Many happy returns

You have to kiss a few frogs......

2005-04-12T09:17:00.000+01:00

So, Watski has asked me to put something on his blog, mind you, I wasn’t sure, he did ask me ages ago then it went quiet so I thought he must have thought better of it!

Our last conversation went something like this..
Watski’s mum “Have a good holiday, make sure you use a high sun factor cream, love you”.
Watski’s reply, “ I will if I get this flight sorted out before I die……….

So what do I talk about, do you really want to hear the ramblings of a fifty something….very early fifties I hasten to add!
I feel like the teenager who has been left in charge of her parent’s house on the phone to her friends……”Whew, I never thought he’d go, when I can find the drink do you want to come over for a party, we can play the music really loud, and don’t forget the fags but if you’ve got anything else…..! Then we can go in the garden and frighten all the frogs away.
Or we can have a cosy evening and talk about things you don’t like to in front of your parents…..like SEX.

I’ve decided to join an online dating agency as all my friends are married so no longer want to go out on the pull! Well they probably do, but it would be very hard to explain to their spouse if they arrived home with a body in tow.
“Oh instead of the two for one drinks the pub had another brilliant offer, spend £20 and get to take this gorgeous specimen home for the night!”

Watski Jnr said I ought not to put my real age as I look about 10 years younger than I am (I put this down to my mum’s marvellous genes, she’s 70 and doesn’t look a day over 50) and if I didn’t I’d get replies from boring sad old men in their late 50’s and 60’s looking for a housemaid to look after them till they pop their clogs!

But I didn’t listen, and guess what?

Yep, all the old men have replied in their droves.

Now don’t get me wrong, I can hardly be ageist at my age, but what happens to men when they reach their 50’s? Since my husband and I went our separate ways I’ve had dates, most of them being with men a lot younger than me, and I’ve enjoyed their company, their vibrancy, their ambition, their zest for life…and then I’ve been out with a couple of men my age, one a policeman and one a company director. You’d think I’d have loads of interesting conversations with them but no, all the talk was of when they can finally finish work and retire.

And what happens to men’s appearance as they get older? Why do they not look after themselves? I look with horror as I see photo after photo of Robin Cook look-alikes. Perhaps these men are really lovely and it’s perhaps shallow of me not to look past the initial photo, but come on, there’s got to be some kind of physical attraction.
I can’t be the only woman who will look at a photo of, say Brad Pitt and then one of Mickey Rourke and choose Brad, am I?

So anyway I went on a date last week.

With a 41 year old.

I had seen his photo and he looked very nice, and he’d seen mine and he’d contacted me and we’d emailed each other.
And as he walked in the pub I thought yes, he looks ok, had a nice beige top on, blue jeans and then as my eyes travelled down…

RED TRAINERS!!!

The search continues…….

im sure youre a good laugh really Robin...

Voices in the night...

2005-04-04T08:45:00.000+01:00

I stumbled out of my bed this morning and, after leaving my pc on through the night, found this transcript on my instant messenger. It looks as though someone had been trying to contact me in the night......

Watski says:
sat in bangkok airport

Watski says:
late for flight (my fault)

Watski says:
missed it

Watski says:
which is a stroke of luck

Watski says:
as it turns out that the flight that we'd missed

Watski says:
is also the flight that Opodo

Watski says:
didnt fucking book us on

Watski says:
so we missed a flight that we weren't even on in the first place

Watski says:
fuckers

Watski says:
we managed to get on a flight though - a couple of hours later

Watski says:
and even got the airline to do it free of charge

Watski says:
Opodo are going to get it rammed right up their arse

Watski says:
it would have been less hassle turning up at the airport booked on spec

Watski says:
going now

Just when you think it's all over....

2005-03-31T17:44:00.000+01:00

Well, when I say sorted, what I actually meant to say was, err, kind of sorted.

Letter no. 3:

Dear Sir/Madam

I thought it was all sorted. I hoped it was all sorted. You hoped it was all sorted. I should have known better.

You may think this is fun. But I don't want to keep sending you these emails as much as you dont want to keep receiving them.

This morning, as you well know, I eventually spoke to the elusive Lisa and managed to get a verbal confirmation of my flight change. I asked for, and was told that I'd be sent an email confirmation of all the changes - so that I could print it out as proof in case any misunderstanding arose.

Well you can't be too careful with companies with a track record of incompetence can you?

Bearing in mind what has happened so far this week, 7 hours after being told I'd be sent a confirmation and a matter of minutes before switching my PC off for the final time before departing on my trip, would you care to hazard a guess as to whether I had received the confirmation or not received the confirmation?

Of course I hadn't received it. I wouldn't be wasting both of our times telling you about it if I had have received it would I?

So I rang again. And was given a few excuses. None of which I wasted time absorbing into my mind.

Then hey presto, an email suddenly appeared.

It's really not good enough is it?

Is there any chance you could find it within yourselves to furnish me with a reply telling me why my service has so far been shocking.

Yours close to tears

Watski

Success

2005-03-31T11:04:00.000+01:00

Well you'll be glad to know that the situation is now sorted. You can extinguish all candles.

As much as I was enjoying this email 'duel' with Opodo it wasn't actually getting me anywhere and getting anything sorted - especially as the duel was frustratingly all one way due to their inability to respond.

So I decided to bite the bullet and ring them again, something I was previously determined not to do.

I got as far as being on hold when I got another incoming call.

I answered.

It was Lisa. You know, Lisa. You do - you know her. The one who started all this. If ever you speak to Opodo in the future, please do me a favour and ask to speak to Lisa.

Apparently she'd been off sick yesterday, which I thought I'd copyrighted as my excuse for not calling people back - must check that. Obviously Lisa is the only person who works at Opodo - which would fit.

To cut a very boring conversation very short - it was as easy just being booked on another flight 5 minutes earlier, which apparently the airline had suggested themselves only last week.

Why it took a week to pass this message on is anyones guess.

I'm still waiting for an email confirmation of this conversation and arrangements, which judging by previous form, should be here around the time I get back. And I still haven't heard from their customer service at all yet. So they'll be on my hit list - which is not where you'd want to be after a morning of The Smiths on i-tunes.

But the sum total of all that is that I am off - for a few weeks only. Dont be too sad, I'll be back soon. I don't want flowers or anything on the route to Heathrow, please.

In the meantime Jake will be babysitting my blog, along with Young Watski and my Mother, if they can be bothered to write anything.

Jake's a bit boring and can waffle about rubbish a bit, so you shouldn't notice too much difference - it should, in fact be seamless.

There are a couple of rules to abide by when reading Jake:

1) Don't believe anything he says
2) Don't believe anything he does
3) Don't believe anything he says he does
4) Don't believe anything he says he's done

That should pretty much keep you in good stead.

Just make sure he keeps you entertained in the style to which you are accustomed.

Hard I know.

Goodbye - or as they say in Thailand: "You want to see ping pong show Sir?"

Letter to Opodo

2005-03-30T17:41:00.000+01:00

Dear Sir/Madam

In February I booked flights from Heathrow to Bangkok International Airport and back, also booking connecting flights to Phuket and back at around the same time - all to take place within the dates 1st April 2005 to 17th April 2005.

Last Thursday afternoon (24th March) I was contacted by a lady from Opodo called Lisa who left a message on my answerphone informing me that my flight from Bangkok to Phuket, at 10.50am on the 4th April had been cancelled and could I ring back to discuss whether a change to 1700 would be good, or alternatively a change to another airline.

That change is not good, convenient or anything. Apart from a pain. But then it could be dealt with.

I called back straight away on Thursday afternoon, the person I spoke to couldn't get hold of someone in Lisa's department and promised that I would be called back later that day.

The following day, Good Friday arrived. I, seemingly along with the rest of the Great Britain population, departed on a weekend break - with the vast majority of them seemingly going my way too. I decided to take my holiday details with me so that I could be informed about any specifics if contacted by Opodo. I rang again on the way there in the afternoon, and got the seemingly standard response.

"I can't get through to the GDS? team, someone will call you back today"

'Does this team exist' I wondered to myself.

Easter Saturday arrived and whilst taking a leisurely, if rainy walk around Holt in Norfolk I thought I'd break off to ring Opodo again. After being cut off (I'm sure it was a mistake), I rang back and again, no-one from GDS was available to talk to me, and even if they could, the airline would be closed till Tuesday so could not confirm any changes till then apparently. Nice job if you can get it. I wondered who was flying the planes. Not my problem.

"You'll forgive me if I don't place much faith in the fact that I'll be getting a phone call back from you do you? I've been told that before. You do promise it will happen don't you?" I said to the person on the end who promised lots, but delivered very little. Can you detect a theme? It turns out he had no intention of arranging a call back.

Tuesday arrived. During this period of time thousands of years ago Jesus Christ was crucified, stuck behind a rock, then arose from the dead before tucking into a load of Easter eggs - if you believe that kind of thing. A bit of an inconvenience I'm sure you'd agree, but in the present day Opodo can't seem to find sufficient motivation to call a customer back, when they promised. I reckon Jesus ought to come and work at your place for a weekend - he'd certainly shake things up a bit there.

I rang again on Tuesday afternoon, exasperatedly explained to the poor person on the other end what had happened, and what was going to happen, i.e, that we were going to get this sorted there and then. Amazingly this secret password got me through to the mythical GDS team (do only angry customers get through?) who crushed my enthusiasm immediately by saying that he could do nothing till 12 midday the following day (today), which was when Lisa came in and that he would call me back at 1pm at the latest once he had spoken to her.

Tell me. Is there a buck passing course that you good people at Opodo have to go on? I bet the people on the GDS team all passed with top marks - you must be very proud.

He also said he was doing all manner of impressive sounding things like putting notes on my account that only he and the airline could see. But ultimately they all proved futile and 'all talk' as the time is now 4pm and I still have had no phone call. I'd put money on me not getting one until I actually ring too.

Today is Wednesday, it is the afternoon. I leave my home at 6am on Friday morning (38 hours from now) to depart on a holiday, on which I'm not sure whether I actually have a connecting flight or not - even though I booked one. The worrying thing is that I don't think the good people at Opodo can tell me whether I have or not either, or at least are wondering whether they can be bothered to tell me.

I have people picking me at Phuket airport at the time the original flight is due to land. I can't tell them anything. They're going to be very disappointed when I'm not there, not as disappointed as me though - but I guess they'll shrug their shoulders and smile, as seems to be the Thai way of dealing with problems.

I'm not Thai though. And I won't be feeling like smiling - I can assure you of that.

I'd love to hear your excuses - but frankly I can't be arsed. And I don't want to hear some out of breath operator call me back within minutes of you receiving this email and pull all sorts of reasons and lies out of thin air about how they've been trying to sort it out for the last week - when the real reason is that it's taken me to complain before someone can actually be bothered to get something done.

You should be ashamed of your service. If you could be bothered.

Sort it out. Now.

Update - Thursday morning: I have now sent the following letter on to them.

Dear Sir/Madam

You may recall that I sent you this letter yesterday at around 4.30pm.

I'd just like to remind you that it is in fact a letter of complaint and complaints traditionally require a some sort of action before the complainant dies of old age.

Should I expect too see some solution today, or am I better transferring that hope onto something more achievable, like world peace for instance?

Yours Faithfully

Watski

Adventures in the rain

2005-03-30T01:13:00.000+01:00

Well, JonnyB certainly laid the red carpet out for us this weekend didn't he? I was beginning to wonder what I'd done or said wrong for him to be inspired to run to the top of Norfolks highest peak Kate Bush style and re programme his weather machine dials to: 'piss it down' and 'all weekend' as soon as he heard we were coming his way.

Setting off in bright sunshine from the normally gloomy midlands on Friday, CJ and I were looking forward to a nice weekend of camping in Norfolk with maybe a bit of walking, and maybe some bike riding. Ooooh how nice it would be. Heh, more fool us - we had no idea as to the welcome awaiting us. No sooner were we putting the finishing touches to the tent last thing on Friday afternoon then the first spots of rained appeared like magic from the sky and accompanied us the last few steps of the way.

"What you doing?" The spots of rain appeared to be saying to me

"Looks like he's putting the tent up - shall we hang around for a while?" The rest of the rain came and said.

"Who are you talking to?" CJ said.

I may be daft, but I'm not daft enough to tell her that I'm talking to rain. Now that would be daft.

"Err, the rain" I replied. Lying was futile - I would only have been found out anyway, and lying and talking to the rain aren't good.

I didn't hear what she said next. And didn't want to ask. I don't think I would have liked it. Or even understood it.

Anyway... Raining for a while? Try all bloody weekend. And when it wasn't raining - which happened conveniently to be in the middle of the night, the heavier drips would then fall from the tree we had pitched under, onto the tent to make an even louder sound than the rain itself.

To rain or not to rain - that is the question.

Luckily CJ's parents had a caravan, which was dry, and where we squatted for most of the non sleeping hours. But when kicking out time came, it was almost like putting 2 cats out for the night, at which point we'd mooch and mutter our way along to a cold tent to have our sleep continually interrupted by rain, drips and cold floors.

Not content with that little endurance test, Norfolk had another surprise in store just for me in the form of cold showers in the male shower cubicles. Much to the amusement of CJ, whose own shower cubicles came equipped with steaming hot water. It was like being back at school again, doing the cold shower hop.

Sunday evening, after a throughly miserable weekend where the rain did not stop for one minute, we decided to cut our losses, pack up and head back home.

Norfolk. Bugger off!!

Adventures in the sun

2005-03-25T00:13:00.000Z

Insired by Mike's 'Gay, gayer, gayest' competition, I thought I'd tell of you the time when, I, err, read on and you'll get the idea.

You have to understand that I really have had to think whether it's wise sharing this story with you.

Many years ago Young Watski, Jake - who coincidentally, along with my Mother will be blog sitting when I go on hols soon, and a guy called Pete went with me on our yearly lads holiday, this time to Magaluf. Real quality places you know.

God, I really am going to get killed for telling you this.

We were on holiday for a week, of which we'd only been there a few days. In this time we'd made friends with most of the rooms above, below and next to us. The ones in the room next to us were 4 young girls from Peterborough on their first girls holiday. They latched onto us from the beginning and we took them out with us for the first few night to make sure they were safe.

Our rooms were about 7 or 8 floors up but used to nip over the gap between each others balcony to borrow things, beer mainly. It was a cosy arrangement and they did the same back.

It was really hot and the middays especially used to get very hot, having a couple of 'Brits abroad' with us we used to nip back to the room about this time to get out of the heat and invariably ended up playing cards for shots. Which we used to fix to make sure Jake lost, and who as a consequence would get very drunk, which made it easier to fix and so on. Don't worry Jake - I wont put the photos on. For a small price.

This particular midday, the girls had gone off somewhere so Young Watski nipped over the balcony to find some alcohol as we'd run out. He came back, not armed with a litre of Majorcas finest liver remover, but with a video camera.

He came up with the idea that we should film something on the camera, sneak it back in their room and not say anything about it, so they'd find it when they got back.

Hmmmm, what to do. We threw around a few ideas but none of them were that good.

"Wy don't we do a spoof gay porn?" Young Watski said. This was actually the worst idea of the lot. And typical of him.

But amazingly we did. Pete assumed the role of cameraman, he was also the narrator. The script was that he was pretending to be the girls next door neighbours (funny that) and doing a tour of our apartment on their camera to introduce ourselves.

He started off on the balcony and walked through the door into the bedroom:

"And here we have Watski, Young Watski, Pete and Jake's apartment, let's have a little look inside"

And in he walked to the bedroom to be greeted by a Young Watski, who apart from a sock over his nether regions, was totally naked, pretending to be whipping a similarly naked Jake with a belt.

Shocked by the sight he then looked up with the camera to the wardrobe where there was a little gap between the doors where you could just see me, and see that I was pretending to knock one out over this sight, this was emphasised by the 'tap, tap, tap' knocking sound on the wardrobe door..

Whilst this was happening Young Watski had secretly taken over the camera and Pete had run around the other way into the main room via the balcony and was writhing almost naked on the floor in the midst of a couple of packs of porno playing cards that we used, just in time for Young Watski to walk in, carrying on the tour of the apartment with the camera.

Our work was done. It brought a new meaning to the phrase 'and I'm spent'.

Video camera safely replaced we said no more about it during the rest of the holiday, apart from a few giggles. We've actually very rarely discussed it at all since then to be honest. How do you?

The following week, when back at home, we couldn't help but think of this video and the impact of it.

We thought about the girls who'd be telling their parents what agreat time they had, and about these great Mansfield lads they'd met who looked after them. Before they gathered round as a big family to watch the girls video memories of a great first holiday away.

Only for the sights of Magaluf to be interrupted by the aforementioned great Mansfield lads not quite as they remembered them.

Right, have a good Easter. I'm off up JonnyB's way for a few days. No misbehaving.

Danger at the Bottom of the Garden.

2005-03-24T22:24:00.000Z

I dont like gardening, im not very good at it. Maybe i dont like it because im not very good at it. Gardening is a very British thing, but also very slow, and pretty unrewarding. It seems to be lot of work just to get it back to the postion it was in before Mother Nature stuck her nose in. Pruning, preening, potting, etc.

Maybe i dont like gardening because it seems like nothing much happens. Im not a plan ahead type of person, i want my things now and that includes the plants that ive just put in the garden and the seeds ive just sown. If im considering spending a few hours in the garden then the least the plants could do would be to not wait till next Spring till they show me the fruits of my labour. Ive lost interest by time the blooming comes around.

Or maybe i dont like it because everything changes from the way i left it? If im doing the garden then i want it to stay like that. Exactly like that. I dont want to be messing around with it every week. I can get quite motivated every now and again, but a garden is a whole summertime commitment - my motivation wanes around May.

Im good at mowing the lawn, thats my job. I can do that. And strimming. I have to call my Mum for anything else, she picks the plants for me, she picks the pots, she tells me where i should put them, she comes to give them mouth to mouth resuscitation every few weeks. A typical phone conversation with my mother goes along the lines of:

Watski: "Hello"
Watski Mum: "Hello Duck"
Watski: "How are you?"
Watski Mum: "Have you been watering those plants?"
Watksi: *Damn - the plants*. "Errr, yes?"
Watski Mum: "You havent have you? They'll all be dead!"

Actually, before all this happens, right back when the garden emerges from its winter hibernation, she says to me 'why dont you have the garden paved over? it'll make it much easier for you to manage'. A good idea in theory and probably in practice but Im not a great fan of this idea as much as i dont like gardening, a garden is meant to be green and have things growing in it.

Not growing through it as any paving on my land would have. And nothing says 'crap gardener lives here, i kill all plants within days' more than paving or gravelling where garden should be. I dont want the rest of the street having their suspicions that im a crap gardener confirmed. Although having black grass probably did that trick for me anyway.

How do people become good at gardening? Was Gardening a GCSE option that i didnt pick? Or maybe it was a sub-category within Geography. I dont have a perfect lawn, Ive got a kind of patchwork lawn. Its a bit yellow and dead in places, and a bit green elsewhere. There's also the sign of a few weeds coming through, and its a bit uneven and a bit bare in places. It looks nicer than youre imagining it though.

But i dont know the first place to start to begin getting a nicer lawn. I did a bit of the old weed and feed, but ive now got dark patches on my lawn, and there are a lot more dead patches now than there were before. Ive chucked a box of grass seed on it which the birds enjoyed thoroughly, but it doesnt seem to be catching very well. I need a garden SOS, or perhaps just an old man. Why do old men know everything about gardening. Do they get given a 'great gardener' tablet on their 65th birthday?

Theres a bigger problem facing me in my garden though. Frogs. And Toads. They are a right pain. Not because they do anything they shouldnt do, just because theyre there. I dont like Frogs or Toads, and its not a mild irritation. I really dont like them. Ive graduated from where i was a few years ago where i would run in the house and lock the door if i saw a Frog in the garden, to just not going in the bit of garden that a Frog was spotted. It can be a bit unsettling though because they tend to pop up when you least expect them. I dont know where they come from, i havent got anything moist for them in my garden. No pond or anything. And none of my neighbours have, or their neighbours. So the Frogs are just targetting me. They know i dont like them and theyre enjoying it.

Every time i mow my lawn you can guarantee that a Frog (we'll refer to Frogs and Toads as Frogs from now on) will jump out and hop around for a bit in mock terror with its mates falling about laughing in the background. I dont know why it bothers hopping off, because if i felt inclined to chase after it i could easily catch it. Thats if i were a Frog predator. But im not a Frog predator, Im the opposite of a Frog predator - I tend to be going the other direction to a Frog when i see one, but ten times as fast. It might as well stay where it is, its going to be just as far away from me as if it had hopped off in its own chosen direction.

Theyre just dozy creatures though. It can see im mowing the lawn so why does it head off to the outer edges of the lawn where im going to be using the strimmer soon?. 'We're going to come into contact mate if you stay there, and both of us dont want that trauma again do we? Especially as im holding a rapidly rotating bit of wire inches from your froggy face. It could be messy for both of us if you do some hopping now.' Why dont they just hop off onto the patio, wait a few minutes till ive done, then hop back onto the garden to finish off whatever it was doing. They could arrange for the entire Frog population of my garden to wait patiently on the edge of the patio while i do the lawn if they wanted. We'd all be much happier. Better still, go and live somewhere else.

Youd have thought that the sound of a lawn mower starting up would make all the creatures in the garden think 'hello, that sounds like the lawn mower, id better make myself scarce if he's going to be doing the garden'. You can imagine the conversation between 2 spiders:

Spider 1: "Mmmm, nice flies"
Spider 2: "Did you hear something then?"
Spider 1: "No, its just you"
Spider 2: "Ssssh, there it is again"
Spider 1: "What is it?"
Spider 2: "Could have sworn i heard the mower then"
Spider 1: "It is the mower. Quick, RUNNNNNNNNN"

But no, they wait till the mower is almost on top of them before making their mad dash for freedom. Frogs, spiders, beetles, the whole garden mafia. All of them sat in the garden thinking 'oh, he's doing the lawn. He wont come over here though'. Of course im going to be coming over there and doing that bit, im not doing a garden mohican for your sake. Run off now before i get over there.

Take last night for example, nice night to mow the lawn. It needs doing so i get the mower from the shed. I dont even complete one row of the garden before a frog jumps out. Id been in the garden less than 20 seconds before coming face to face with the wee beastie. This cheeky little bugger though decides he's not going to hop the other way from which im moving, no, not this Froggie. Chuck Norris here decides he's going to hop towards the mower in some sort of suicide frog routine thats obviously been weeks in the planning. After bouncing off the mower and inadvertently showing me his belly he quickly re-assesses his strategy and decides he likes the thrill of being pursued better. Unbeknown to Chuck, im not pursuing him, its just that his route of escape happens to be exactly the same route as im taking the mower.

If he'd just done a couple of hops sideways then he'd have saved himself about 30 hops up and down the garden at the front of the mower being terrified witless. Maybe he enjoyed it, or it was the frog version of Chicken. Maybe he needed the exercise, and all the garden frogs were sat watching fattie being chased by the human.

Maybe some Frog is sat in his garden den now with the rest of the teenage Frogs supping beer and being sworn in after passing the Frog gang lawn mower inititation task:

Frog gang leader: "Here it comes, jump in front.......NOW!"
Prospective Frog gang member: "I cant, i cant...."
Frog gang leader: "What do you mean you cant? We're here now. Dont worry, we've all done it. Some of us now even do it for fun"
Prospective Frog gang member: "What about the human?"
Frog gang leader: "Dont worry about him, he'll run a mile"
Prospective Frog gang member: "Will he?"
Frog gang leader: "Yes. Now, do you want to join the gang?"
Prospective Frog gang member: "Yes"
Frog gang leader: "Well, jump in front of the lawn mower then"
Prospective Frog gang member: "Gulp......wahaaaay"

So anyway, the Frog eventually realises im not chasing him and hops off to hide in the edge of the lawn affectionately known as Strimmerland. And i go off and finish the garden off in relative peace, casting a glance in his direction every now and again to make sure that Chuck isnt planning to surprise me again.

He doesnt need to surprise me, he's hired one of his Toady mates to lurk in the rocks at the other end of the garden and hop out as i get near. Id been double teamed. Luckily this Frog isnt on the Mower flight path, but Frogs have a habit of panicking and thrusting themselves into the path of an oncoming mower in a moment of amphibian madness. Luckily this one held it together a little better and we watched each other until neither of us were threats to the other anymore.

Finishing the garden i was relieved to note that there were no more Frogs, although sometimes seeing a frog is better than the thought that one might pop out at any moment, im particularly conscious of that thought. They were probably there, but out of my eyeline, watching me. I was also relieved that i didnt have to go back and do anymore of it that id missed, i find myself missing lots of grass as im too busy watching out for Frogs. And the patterns tend to go in nice zig-zags.

I then did the postage stamp sized plot with the nice line in black grass at the front of the house before packing everything away and watering the plants. Yes Mum i did. Then i started to put the bin out. I moved the bin and something moved beneath it. Yes, the final part of the Frog chorus was waiting for me just when i thought i was safe. He didnt do anything other than shuffle from underneath the bin to underneath the shed. He didnt move quickly at all, he was making sure i knew he was there, and that there was nothing i could do about it and i think he quite enjoyed the power.

Maybe theyre just having fun with me, they know i dont like them and that i dont like them in my garden so theyre just making sure i know theyre all about. The garden must be seen as some sort of Frog save haven, frogs contact other frogs to let them know of this great place to live where the owner doesnt bother them. Ive probably made a rod for my own back now. They'll be taking over soon. Now theyre probably planning what they will do for their next trick when lawn mowing time comes round again.

A decision to make

2005-03-22T13:26:00.000Z

One of the advantages of an extended sabbatical is that you can let elements of your personal hygiene slip. Not odour, although it is a temptation to adopt the hermit life and sit in my pit all day (Cue the Hermit association haranguing me). I'm talking more about the facial hair side of business.

I'm not actively growing a beard, but similarly I'm not in a hurry to shave my weeks worth of growth off. For hurry read can't be arsed.

And whatsmore, I'm kind of proud of it now it's progressed from the prickly feel of the early days to a much more softer texture. And I'm now able to rub my chin in a thinkers way giving myself an added air of authrority. But that's purely coincidental and not affecting my judgement in any way.

The only problem is that CJ isn't a fan. She mumbles and grumbles about it.

So I'm left with a decision:

The beard or the girlfriend - one of them has to go.

Drawing it to a close..

2005-03-18T00:51:00.000Z

Right, this is where I end the New York trip blogs.

'Yayyyy', I hear you all say. 'Thank the Lord for that, talk about flogging a dead horse'.

Ungrateful sods, in the name of blogging I sacrificed time and effort for you and went away to New York for 4 days so that I could come back with something interesting and inspirational to talk about. I didn't have to do it.

No I didn't find anything, you're right.

I think I've managed to get enough mileage out of it now and bore you lot rigid in the process since I got back, so I think it's only fair now that I wrap this up in history wrapping paper, pack it away in the archives and look elsewhere for inspiration next week. I'm not going to follow the Unlucky lead and flog the hell out of a weekend away.

Anyway, before it goes just a few other things that I noticed whilst I was there:

In the aforementioned deli and on previous trips I'd garnered a penchant for Hazelnut coffee, which I ordered when we went in for our usual breakfast on the Saturday morning.

"Sorry Sir, we don't do flavoured coffee at the weekends"my favourite assistant answered

"Why? The machine's there though isn't it?"i said as I pointed at the contraption from which the coffee was extracted the previous 2 days.

"Yes, but we dont switch it on at the weekends"

You'll be disappointed to know that I was too jet lagged, and too polite to make too bog a deal out of it.

Why would a hotel put just 3 pillows on a double bed? What kind of people do they think we are? Is it a ruse to get couples to fall out? Our hotel did, which resulted in CJ and I drawing lots each night for the extra pillow - which CJ won. All of them.

I had to resort to fluffing mine out with towels and blankets to get it to the required height. The maids didn't take the hint either, faithfully replacing the towels into the bathroom and the blankets in the wardrobe each day as though we'd casually mislaid them, leaving just the 3 pillows. Bollocks to the tip.

And I found that the American accent is exceedingly difficult to understand, a conversation just seems to be populated with loads of grunts and winks. It's a club they all seem to be in - ordering a sandwich seems to be something along the lines of "eyyy, greee, buteee, ferrr, duuu, mo" and that's it. And the other person knows what they mean. I've had an easier time understanding cantonese. I've never had to ask people to repeat themselves so many times. It got embarassing.

So that's it - I was going to tell you about how I noticed that Americans seem to have an aversion to sitting next to people they don't know in cafes. They'd rather stand than take a spare place at an almost empty table. I was also going to tell you that the sirens sound effeminate, a sort of 'wirp, wirrrp, wooooo', but I've run out of time.

Normal service is resumed soon. Well as normal as it's ever been.

Stabbed in the back

2005-03-16T15:59:00.000Z

"Err, a medium black coffee please" I asked when at the counter of the local deli in New York

"Any milk?" the heavily accented Chinese girl behind the counter said.

"Err, no thanks"

"How would you like it?"

"The coffee? Black please"

"No, how would you like it?"

"Err, normal please, just a normal black coffee, no milk"

"Normal? No - how would you like it?"

"Just normal?"

Suddenly a gruffly voiced woman entered the conversation

"Reeegular" she said in that really cool hard bitten New York cop style. Why does the English accent just seem so nerdy, so uncool when in a conversation with an American? I was almost ashamed to talk for fear of being laughed at.

"Ah regular" the woman behind the counter said before returning with my hard earned coffee

"Thank you" I said to the assistant and to my helper before walking away

"You'd have thought they'd learn the language before they come here wouldn't you?" said my back-stabbing gruffly voiced saviour when she thought I wasn't in hearing distance. Or maybe she didn't care whether I was or not.

'Well the cheeky git' I thought, 'I am using the proper language, it's not my fault you lot have bastardised it beyond all recognition after we gave it you to look after all those years ago'.

I was just about to turn round and go and tell her this when:

"Come on" CJ said as she linked her arm in mine whilst reading my mind.

Resist the fear...

2005-03-15T10:54:00.000Z

*are you tired and sad? Find it difficult to get through the day?...* The advert on the TV said as I lay on the hotel bed waiting for CJ to get ready.

"Well, if she takes much longer getting ready then I could see my way to being like that" I said. To the TV. Oh God, I'm going mad. Is that a sign too? I half expected the next line to be: *Do you find yourself talking to the TV?*

"Did you say something" said CJ as she popped her head round the bathroom door.

"No, nothing. It was just the TV" I lied. I'm not admitting talking to the TV, and I'm especially not admitting talking to the TV about CJ to CJ.

*...then you could be clinically depressed* it resumed.

I wondered about it for a split second, yes I get tired. Hmmmmm....

*Ring blah, blah to talk to one of our professionally trained counsellors* it finished.

*Do you worry about the cost of funerals?* the next advert begun before I'd had time to dianose myself.

"Well I didn't until I found out I'm clinically depressed, and now the thought of funeral costs has sent me spiralling" I whispered.

*Do you want to burden your family with the cost of laying you to rest?* It ended.

Oh no, first depression, now funerals. My life is a mess.

*Did you know that a person in America is seriously asaulted every second? (waiver: I think that's what they said)* There seemt to be a theme coming through these adverts. It's a wonder Americans step out of their doors every day.

"Ready!" CJ announced.

"Shall we stay in? I'm not sure I want to go out anymore"

Welcome to America

2005-03-11T12:15:00.000Z

"This way Ma'am" a lady with a surgically enhanced frown growled at CJ as she pointed her to the yellow line which meant she was next in line for the immigration booth.

"Over here Sir" I was beckoned the other way to my yellow line by another too officially dressed employee.

5 more minutes passed as the immigration officers stared out the increasingly sweatier travellers in front of us.

I knew from a previous visit to JFK that the security was tight here, but also knew that it wasn't a hassle and was very, very efficient if anything. In fact then, we were in Manhattan about an hour after touching down.

But this time it was just so slow. We were queuing for ages.

After being given our visa waiver forms on the flight, the Captain told us that we had to ensure they were correctly filled out as any mistakes would result in us being sent to the back of the passport queue school style to fill them out correctly. This would be a long delay apparently and probably be accompanied by some rubber glove action no doubt, just for being a fool.

I wasn't particularly worried as my new mate Mike would undoubtedly smooth any mis-understandings out for me though but I still studied my form for a while before filling it in. I then filled CJ's in and shoved under her nose for her to sign as she was too pre-occupied by her shift on 'Mike watch'.

Back to the queue and I was aware of CJ trying to attract my attention - she pointed to her form and pulled her 'you've filled it in wrong, you dope' face. I get this face a lot, it also doubles up as her 'you idiot' face and her 'you really can't be trusted to do anything face' too, amongst others.

She then said something to her guard who nodded, my hope was that in her hue she wasn't suggesting that I was carrying any illegal substances in certain orifaces. But the guard just gave her a pen with which she scribbled something on the form before returning to her place on the yellow line.

I then inspected mine again and I had indeed missed a bit off, how did I manage that? Ah, it must have been when Mike got up to go to the toilet. 3 minutes 55 seconds he was in there that time. What was he doing?

I sweated a little.

"Should I have filled this bit in too?" I turned and said to my line guardian.

"A Firm..." he replied.

And that was it. I held on for the rest but none was forthcoming.

'A firm what?' I was thinking.

Was he pondering his next word? Had he stopped on purpose as some form of psychological trick designed to get me to reveal where the stash of stolen diamonds I was carrying was?

Was he commenting on something firm about my person? I had been working out. Well I hadn't but hey, who cares as long as someone notices?

'Well thank you very much' I almost said.

Hurry up man and finish the sentence before I get summoned by the officer to be stared at. I also thought about saying.

God I hope these people haven't discovered how to read minds yet, I thought about thinking.

Then I realised I was in America.

And he was saying 'yes, you do need to fill it in'.

When worlds collide

2005-03-10T17:18:00.000Z

I remember as a young schoolboy about 15 years ago (it's true) getting up in the early hours so that I could listen to the Frank Bruno - Mike Tyson fight on the radio. I imagine that I wasn't alone. I'm not a massive boxing fan but there's something kind of special, even romantic about listening to distant sports events on a crackling radio. Around that time Tyson was one of the biggest superstars in the world.

Back to the present day and I'm stood waiting for CJ outside a shop in Heathrow when a large black man with a distinctive tattoo around his left eye comes out of the shop. For a split second he caught my eye, then he was gone.

In that split second the schoolboy and the mega star were in the same world. I could tell Mike felt the gravity of the situation too, and that he wanted to be my friend - why else would he arrange for BA to give us an upgrade which allowed us to sit about 10 rows back from him on the flight so that I could stare burn marks into the back of his seat and watch his every move.

Mike arranged it didn't he?

I know he did.

Things that are....

2005-03-08T15:02:00.000Z

...noisy.

Well I'm back from the 'City that never sleeps'. Thanks for all the comments on the 'fucktards' thread. Great word by the way. I'll have to use that sometime.

I can only presume that the person who christened New York as the 'City that never sleeps' actually meant to call it the 'City that can't sleep', as it's full of jetlagged Europeans twiddling their thumbs at 4am. But I guess that version wouldn't look as good in the guide books.

And if by some miracle you are lucky enough to be able to sleep at 4am then it wont be long before you're woken by bloody taxi drivers beeping their horns at all hours. Either this is the norm or I went the weekend of the New York taxi drivers sponsored beepathon.

It seems that the first instinct of all NY (see, I'm down with the lingo) taxi drivers, regardless of whatever obstruction may be confronting them is to go straight for the horn, rather than the usual brake, gear, indicator, etc of more civilised societies. No wonder the place is backed up all the time.

Fucktards.

I jumped so many times I nearly had to fit myself with rear view mirrors so I could see them creeping up on me.

The only solution that I can see is to make all potential New York taxi drivers sit in a room for 24 hours and have the sound of beeping horns played to them on repeat.

Or maybe we should just take them out. One by one. Here, I started already.

Must go now.

Need..

Sleep..

Things that are...

2005-03-03T11:20:00.000Z

...frustrating.

"So are you looking to relocate?" The guy from the recruitment agency asked as he was trying to get an idea of my circumstances.

"Definitely not" I replied.

Hey I know Mansfield's a bit of a dump, and that you'd expect that I'd take any opportunity to get out. But it's my dump. And I like it.

"Ok - not... looking... to... relocate.." he slowly said as I imagined him writing it down.

"I may have a few things of interest, I'll just make a few phonecalls and may give you a call back later"

"Ok, fine" I replied, not expecting much. If past experience of recruitment agencies was anything to go by then I wouldn't be talking to him anytime soon.

An hour later the phone rang again...

"Hello Watski, yeah right I've just been on the phone to blah, blah, and they would love to talk to you - but you'd have to relocate to Scarborough for the job"

"That's great but I told you that I'm not looking to relocate"

"Ok yeah, I knew you'd say that but I just thought I'd ask anyway"

Plankton.

I'm off to the good old US of A for a few days. So no trashing the place while I'm away.

Things that are......

2005-03-02T14:38:00.000Z

....a bit hard to explain.

I'm a little bit worried, wondering whether I'm beginning to get a reputation.

For some reason I always seem to be in my bedroom getting dressed or undressed when the woman over the road is either coming out of her house, or going back into it.

No matter what time of day or night I choose, she's there - or I'm there, if you're her, furtively glancing upwards. The first few times could be explained as coincidence, but it's getting more regular.

It's only a matter of time before her Bluto type husband come marching over to squash me.

Things that are ace...

2005-02-28T14:37:00.000Z

....number 1 in a series of..., err 1 probably.

Unashamedly inspired by Channel 4's seemingly never ending Sunday night Top 100 of anything that is remotely shite series, comes Watski's series of 'Things that...'

Following on from Fridays 'Things that aren't what they used to be....' is todays installment: 'Things that are ace...'

No. 1. When your boss takes you into an office and says that you can leave when you want to with the added bonus of getting paid up until the end of April.

Totally unprepared for this bombshell I heard myself talking too much in response. It was nothing like the 'thanks for the experience' rubbish that I'm also capable of spouting, it was more like 'oh, well I was planning on doing this and planning on doing th...' before I realised what I was saying and stopped myself in my tracks.

"What are you doing?" I asked myself "What's the idea volunteering to carry on work when you're being offered time off? Crikey, save that heroic rubbish for the CV and the interviews and get out of here, quickly. And don't speak again."

There's already been one spanner thrown into my prospective life of leisure though - no sooner had I ran from the building than an agency, who had obviously been watching this development, rang to organise an interview for me tomorrow...in London. I'll have to get the gas mask out of the loft now.

That'll probably be the end of 'Things that are ace...' for the moment as things that are ace dont tend to happen with enough regularity for me to be able to write about one tomorrow.

Things that aren't what they used to be...

2005-02-25T16:38:00.000Z

..Number 1 in a series of...., err 1 probably:

Snow.

How rubbish is snow nowadays? If snow today were a man it would be described as a bit effeminate. I remember the days that snow came, stuck around for ages, bothered everyone, hospitalised a few old people, then got icy, stayed around a bit more, got a bit boring, then melted, then snowed again. Over about a 3 week period.

Now, no sooner has it fallen then it's melted, and if by any chance it does hang around for any length of time it's the slushy type that just gets in the way.

No sledging, no nothing.

I don't even know if I like sledging anymore as it's been so long since I got the sledge out of the shed that I don't even own the shed that my sledge is in now.....and my head's beginning to hurt just thinking about what that means.

It's bound to be a blessing mind as I'd probably get laughed off the slopes by the young kids and their trendy, must have sledges with sponsored logos, text talk and other stuff that I don't get, so regularly tut at.

I might parcel a bit up and send it back to the authorities and demand a refund on my council tax. I blame Thatcher. And globalisation has a lot to answer for.

Bloody rubbish snow.

Gone to the dogs...

2005-02-21T11:45:00.000Z

It's been difficult to avoid any mention of the fox hunting furore over the last few days, since the law came into effect on Friday.

And more so if you planned to visit Melton Mowbray on Saturday to run a few errands as I did. Does anyone run errands any more, or is it just me transported back to the time of Topper, Dandy and The Beano?

Earlier subscribers will have noticed my view on all this in previous posts.

As if being caught up in the midst of the world record wax jacket wearing attempt wasn't enough, it's also been plastered all over the news this weekend - they've even had news helicopters following dogs and horses across fields.

That's not news. Beckham and his new offspring: now that's news!

I thought we'd done with all this. I thought this tiresome debate was all over. I thought common sense and democracy had prevailed. But no - it seems not. The landed gentry and their hired inbred oafs who have been used to getting their own way in this country for the last few centuries are back - and this time they've got, err, err, Wellies and red trousers?.

But watching it on TV news has given me other insights into it - firstly the very characteristically named Lord Farqhuar was interviewed. Seriously now, I thought people with names like this had been beaten over the head and run out of the country by Cromwell and his mates. A more compelling case for abolishing the House of Lords you could not find.

They couldn't have picked a person whose name is more indicative of the type of people that follow this ancient tradition, i.e, ancient traditionalists. They surely only interviewed him for the benefit of the parents of council estate scallies in Merseyside to point and stare at on Saturday evening TV and thank their lucky stars that their kids are out joyriding.

Secondly, it showed a hunt in action. Or more specifically, it showed a couple of hired hands with a couple of shovels digging 3 feet into the ground where a fox had taken cover after outwitting a couple of score of huntsmen on horses and a pack of rabid dogs.

It seemed at first that this fox had 'won' this round of the sporting contest.

'Dash and blast that rascal' you could almost hear Lord Farqhuar say as he lit another cigar with a £50 note.

Think again.

Old Foxy didn't bargain on Ug and Pug. With their shovels. And a pistol.

They dug down to where the heroic fox had taken cover, and shot it in the head. A more humane way of killing vermin, this may be argued.

But if this barbarism were a sport, as many of these cavemen suggest, then a typically sporting reaction to the setback of being outwitted by the clever fox would surely be to shrug ones shoulders, put the situation down to good old British bad luck, pay respect to the deserving old adversary who has surely deserved a second chance, and go off home and flog a servant or two, before returning the following day for Round 2.

But no, after being dragged from its bolt hole and shot, the fox is then held above head height whilst the hounds yap themselves into a frenzy before 2 more amazing things happen.

Before I go into them I must say that I've actually got to the point where nothing about this sorry saga surprises me anymore, but the more I do see the more I just don't think that these people are actually from this planet.

Back to old foxy who is then thrown to the dogs to be ripped apart, not because he's still showing signs of life - not that he would after a bullet to the head and not because he's actually going to be eaten by them. It's purely for the benefit of him being ripped apart.

But whilst this happens, and I am honestly not making this up, a man who I believe to be the Master of the Hunt arrives and plays a little weird tune on his bugle whilst walking around the edge of this ripping frenzy - it's all he can do to resist performing a little court jester jig.

I'm sure any camera cutting away to the hunt followers would show them writhing on the ground in perverse sexual ecstasy, whipped into a trance by the mesmerising bugle. It was before the watershed though - maybe the unedited version was on later.

Absolutely mind numbing. And remember - we are led to believe that we are witnessing a sport. No wonder they react to it being filmed.

On the subject of being filmed - the pathetic, blithering, pacifistic, limp wristed anti-hunt sabateurs don't escape either. Have you ever seen a more wimpish selection of human beings?

You know the people who were picked last for all the playground sports teams? Well they all became hunt sabateurs. Blunt secateurs would be a more apt description, only less useful.

Dressed in army fatigues and black balaclavas. For gods sake, show your face. If you believe in something then have the courage of your convictions and stand shoulder to shoulder and look your enemy straight in the eye.

"No, I'm a pacifist" came the cry after one of them was 'offered out' by one of the web footed oafs.

Sod pacifism, give him a smack round the head with the first thing that comes to hand.

You'll feel a lot better for it I can tell you.

And eat some meat too.

One in, one out....

2005-02-17T14:26:00.000Z

The man opposite me had just received the phone call he had been waiting weeks for: the one that lets him know that his wife had just experienced whatever it is that women experience that lets them know that child is en route.

Within minutes the girl next to me had received the phone call that she hadn't been waiting for: the one that informs them that an elderly relative has passed away.

Ain't it funny the way the world works?

Poker-hunters

2005-02-15T14:01:00.000Z

Bored of the old, conventional ways to waste money I've been on, what would seem to the untrained eye, a continual journey: searching for new and imaginative ways to lose one's cash.

As if I needed any new avenues to enable that to happen. I've got plenty of those running concurrently. I'm a serial money waster, the quicker the better it would seem. Usually down to laziness and being a sucker for a craze.

But anyway, I think I've hit upon something new: I've stumbled across internet poker.

For those unfamiliar with the finer details of poker: It's like being ambushed on a poorly lit sideroad whilst carrying the whole days takings.

The aim of the game seems to me to be dealt some cards then give everyone else your money. I think that's how it's played anyway - it's definitely how me and my new friends play it.

I get the feeling that there must have been some advert on the site before I got there that said something like:

***FREE MONEY ALERT - FREE MONEY ALERT***.

***THE FAMOUS WATSKI WILL BE HERE LATER TODAY - DON'T FORGET TO BE THERE WHEN HE IS. ONCE IN A LIFETIME OPPORTUNITY TO CASH IN***

Why can't the aim of the game to be to lose money as fast as you can?

Oh I'd be great at that then.

Brit of a mistake

2005-02-11T09:13:00.000Z

I didn't watch the Brits. As much as I wanted to.

I am banned from going within 30 yards of any member of Girls Aloud, after that episode in HMV and the subsequent police warning, and being in front of a television when they happen to be on counts.

But I did notice whilst searching for pictures that Sir Bob had been chosen this year for the 'outstanding contribution for music' award.

It's an award that sounds good on the CV but the gloss will get taken off it slightly when he realises that Tom Jones and the Spice Girls were given the same award in years gone by and that they'd rather give it to Elton John twice before thinking of him.

A few weeks ago Sir Bob said that he was tired of being 'Mr Bloody Africa'. Well I have to say to you Sir Bob, if you are reading these inspirational pages - and it's understandable if you are, that if it wasn't for Bloody Africa then the only thing you'd be remembered for would be that weird trio thing with Paula Yates and Michaal Hutchence and songs about bananas, so thank god those Ethiopians came along when they did eh?.

The only outstanding contribution I can think of that the Boomtown Rats and Sir Bob have made to music in the last 25 years is that they haven't made any.

Definitely worthy of acknowledgement. Well done Sir Bob. Truly deserved.

Un-authorised

2005-02-10T13:53:00.000Z

The mood had changed. The atmos was definitely less friendly than it had been a minute prior. It was now distinctly edgy.

With bank card held circumspectly between thumb and forefinger the previously friendly petrol assistant lady changed her viewing perspective, instead of looking through her glasses at me she had now bowed her head slightly and was looking over her glasses with eyebrows slightly raised.

I couldn't help but wonder whether she actually needed to wear glasses - I hadn't changed where I stood, she hadn't either. So why did she look over the glasses to get a good view of me when previously the glasses had done the job? I could save her a few bob by pointing this out....... if I cared.

I decided not to.

I was being held up enough as it was.

"I'm going to have to get authorisation" she had just said. Which is why I had time to ponder her viewing dilemma and possible solution.

"Ok no problem"

"The till has told me that I need to get authorisation"

"Yes ok, no problem"

I hadn't heard the till speak to anyone, but decided not to press her on this. Anyone who can hear tills talking is frankly capable of anything

"It may take a while"

"Ok"

"I'll have to ring the boss to find out how I go about it"

"Yes"

"I've not done one of these before"

"Right"

I had the distinct feeling she was trying to tell me something.

"Look, shall I pay with something else? To save us all the trouble. Would that help?" I ventured, feeling as though I was trying to bribe some corrupt foreign official.

I could almost hear the whole building exhale a big sigh of relief.

"Well, that would be good if you could. It would save you some time"

A lot with the sounds of it.

Peas in a pod

2005-02-09T13:47:00.000Z

Belated congratulations to Ellen MacArthur (I'm sure this was the accolade she had waited for). If Tim Henman was a woman I think he'd look a lot like Ellen MacArthur, except he'd not be so good at winning stuff.

You know, I feel MacArthur and myself have a lot in common.

For a start we're both explorers. Of a sorts.

I don't expect everyone to understand what it is like to be of exploring stock, the draw of danger and foreign lands. It's in the blood.

Similar to her own travels, I too have to perform my own feat of personal endurance on a daily basis when navigating my way up and down the M1 to get to work. The difference is that I do it all on my own, not with the help of a team of experts - well I say on my own, I do have the help of 5live travel reports every half hour. It's not easy though.

But just because I don't have to avoid whales and stuff and put a few sails up and down doesn't make it any less of an achievement. Does it?

Maybe I should give B&Q a ring for a sponsored car or something. A drill might suffice.

And I also don't live too far from Cromford, where she was raised. I've been there, it's a shite hole, no wonder she went to the ends of the earth to get away, and happened to break a few records in the process. It's a wonder all Cromford's residents aren't in boats at the worlds end, up mountains or in space. It's no Mansfield.

Apparently she listened to Dido for the whole trip - to give her motivation. Good thinking. If I were stuck in a confined space listening to Dido then it would definitely give me the motivation to get to wherever I was going faster.

I'm only surprised it didn't give her the motivation to throw herself overboard and be done with it.

One of her sponsors, BT, have taken advertisements out in some of todays papers, boasting that they kept her in touch with the world.

Great for her. They can keep contact with a small boat as it circumnavigates the globe but can't pinpoint within 8 hours when an engineer will visit my house.

Not that good are they?

Round the bend

2005-02-08T16:25:00.000Z

I'm not religious and I don't believe in fate or psychics. Fortune tellers, palm readers and their like are all a bag of wind.

I'm very much of the opinion that life is here, now and all around you - there's nothing else, so get on with it.

That's all very well.

This cynical side to me doesn't fit well at all with my superstitious tendencies.

I don't mean the ladder or black cats kind of thing. That would be normal - or as much as walking into the path of oncoming traffic to avoid walking under a ladder is. I mean stupid superstitions - you know, the kind of things you would laugh at if reading on the internet about some Northern weirdo doing them.

As most football playing blokes have, I've been through stages in my life where I would wear lucky pants when playing or watching football.

Being me - I just took it further.

When playing football I would put my kit on in a particular order before walking out of the changing room putting my shirt on. I then went through a stage where I considered it unlucky to touch the football before the match had started - I'd be away in a corner of the pitch on my own warming up with various team mates firing balls at me in an attempt to get me to touch them, or a least trick me into kicking it back.

Many of my team mates said they couldn't tell the difference after the game had started though.

The most disturbing part of this sorry episode is when I then went through a stage, that I call my nutter stage, where I tried wherever possible to use the last but 1 cubicle from the right whenever going to the toilet.

God knows why.

What did I think was going to happen if I didn't do all these things? That the clouds would part and I would be struck by lightning?

Am I weird?

Something to hide

2005-02-04T14:00:00.000Z

Taking into account the absence of an operating trolley in the vicinity it wasn't immediately obvious why the bloke in the car next to me also stuck in the morning traffic was wearing surgical gloves, although I couldn't see into his car where there may or may not have been one. Maybe Hasbro have started making travel operating tables, in which case may I take this opportunity to apologise to him for any slanderous thoughts.

I've thought about it and still have no idea what he was doing, or had just done. Or even what he was going to do. I was just glad that the traffic started moving again.

I decided not to stop at the services.

If you read about a strange murder in the Sheffield area, then I know just the man.

Oooops I did it again...

2005-02-02T15:06:00.000Z

Well, for the second time in less than a year I have resigned from my job with nowhere to go to. It's getting to be a bit of a habit.

The first time it happened I just got fed up and left - and everything turned out ok. Now I know not to be scared of it - the problem is that you become invincible when armed with this immunity and think nothing of doing it again.

Looks like I'll be going through this again over the next 12 weeks.

Sound of the crowd

2005-01-31T11:13:00.000Z

"Buuuuuurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrp!!!!!!!"

The sound stopped the conversation in it's tracks.

I'd answered the phone a couple of minutes earlier to be greeted with a recruitment agency who had 'just the perfect opportunity for me'.

He was just in the process of selling to me the benefits of using his agency when this sound brought a reality to the picture he was trying to paint.

It definitely wasn't me, I'd have been proud of it, wanting a round of applause or something. It was one of those really deep belly ones. I used to play football with a guy who could be heard for miles making this sound.

The sound definitely wasn't him too, although it did come from his end of the phone.

It threw him off guard, he started stuttering and spluttering and the sure, smooth orator of seconds before had turned into a verbal mess. He was very embarassed.

"I'm really ermm sorry about that Watski" he stuttered, and tried to continue as before. He couldn't.

Clearly riled, I could sense the need to say something building up in him.

"Just bear with me a minute" he eventually said, and put me on hold.

I had the mental image of him wringing someones neck before washing his hands, splashing his face with water, adjusting his tie, taking a deep breath and returning to the call a minute or so later.

"Sorry about that" he said, a minute or so later.

Almost immediately I heard the sound of an ambulance pass by at his end.

I'm sure it was just coincidence.

Black and White

2005-01-28T15:53:00.000Z

The Football Association have binned thousands of DVD's celebrating the best 50 English players since the war after protestations that no black players were included.

They've finally gone mad.

Maybe there haven't been that many good black players since the war.

The only black players I can think of that could possibly be included are Paul Ince, Viv Andersen, John Barnes, Sol Campbell, Rio Ferdinand, Ashley Cole, Ian Wright and probably John Barnes. And the only player there that I could make a case for inclusion would have been John Barnes... and that's because he was the least rubbish. Maybe 5 or 10 more years for Ferdinand and Campbell.

It's like complaining of no white players being included in the Greatest West Indian cricketers of all time dvd.

They've now remade the dvd and included several black players. Surely that's worse.

The whole place is barmy.

Everyone's gone mad.

Except me.

Sorry for the football post.

A sign

2005-01-27T13:37:00.000Z

You know you need to start eating more healthily when you get recognised by the owners of the local Chinese restaurant whilst shopping in Asda.

'Oh thats the woman from the Chinese I thought to myself' as I walked round.

"Harro" she said to me.

I was in a dilemma. I wasn't sure whether her knowing me was a good or bad thing - if I was one of the faceless masses that frequented her establishment then fair enough, but she recognised me, which meant that I went in there far too much. It was a sign.

While I was thinking this my stomach was telling my mind to stop being soft and to think about the possibility of free prawn crackers.

"Hello, errr, hello..." I said, feeling sad that I didn't know what her name was, other than the woman from the Chinese.

If I was to rank all the Chinese people in order of how often I see them, she would be the first, her husband who pops his head around the kitchen door every now and again would be second, their daughter who is sometimes on the counter would be third. And my Grandma would be 4th.

Her face then dropped as her eyes moved from me to the things in the trolley. If faces could tell a story hers would have said: 'what does he need all this food for - surely he gets all his food from us, he shouldn't need to be in here at all'.

It must have been a dagger to her heart to know that I'm being unfaithful.

Hanging on the telephone

2005-01-26T14:32:00.000Z

It's an experience that I so far haven't been subjected to, until yesterday. I didn't know how lucky I was.

"Hello, how may I help you?" came the heavily accented Indian voice after I rang my credit card company to pay an installment on my card.

Outsourced eh? I thought to myself.

"Err, I'd like to pay an installment on my credit card please" I shouted slowly, naturally falling into obnoxious Brit abroad mode. I must buy some Union Jack pants I thought.

"Can I have your credit card number please Sir?"

I gave it, slowly.

"Can I have your credit card number please Sir?"

I was just about to say that I'd just given it to her when I stopped and decided to just do as she asked, from the heavily accented voice I could tell that I needed to make sure I did as much of the talking as possible. I knew what she had said so I should stick with that whenever it happens.

I gave it again, slower. And louder. She had obviously got it this time as she then asked me for my credit card limit.

"I can't quite remember the exact number but it's around £xxx" I answered.

My guess obviously wasn't the exact number on her screen, I could tell this by the long silence and the 'errs'. I broke the silence:

"It's as good as you're going to get, I don't have my statement in front of me so I don't know it exactly. It's there or thereabouts. I can fire random numbers at you until I fluke it if you want, but that's as good as you're going to get"

I had visions of them putting me on hold and flicking through their English dictionaries for 'fluke', and then I contemplated throwing into the conversation as many regional or slang words that I could.

This must have done the trick as she 'erred' for another 20 or so seconds before asking my date of birth, the first 2 letters of my mothers maiden name, my postcode, my address, my home phone number and then my work phone number.

I was stuck here again as I've had the card a few years and changed jobs at least 4 times in this period, all with differing phone numbers.

"I'm sorry, the work phone number I have at the moment wont be the one on your system and I can't remember the other ones I've had"

Silence again.

"Are there going to be many more questions?" I asked. I was close to submitting and giving in.

'It's not her fault though' I thought, she's just doing her job - it's the companies who outsource these services that are at fault.

"I'm sorry Mr Watski, I'm afraid we can't help you today" came the voice eventually.

My sympathy vanished in a micro second.

"Look. All I want to do is pay some money off my credit card - how difficult can that be? I'm not going until it happens, either you make it happen or let me speak to someone who can. I don't know the answer to all these questions you're asking me"

"Oh, you want to pay some money Sir, certainly" she said

Then followed another period of silence

"Can I have your credit card limit please?"

They reason they outsource these places is because it's too far away to go round and bang their heads on the desk.

Leader of the pack

2005-01-24T16:43:00.000Z

I was cleaning out the car at the back of the house on Saturday morning when I noticed young neighbour opposite wheeling his little bike around the corner. When I say little I mean sort of minute. It was tiny. He was almost bent double pushing it. I had to stop myself from laughing when I imagined his knees must be over his head when he rode it.

I was pleased though because it meant that I could use one of the 2 questions I ask bikers when forced against my will into conversation with them.

"How fast have you been on that?"

"Oh about 45 miles an hour" he replied

He was obviously lying. The bike was tiny - almost a joke bike. I did think it was remote control for a minute. It can't go that fast surely.

"Really? Whereabouts do you go on it?"

That was it, I was done with my questions, I had no more - the conversation was destined to end soon. I really should use them more sparingly. I use these two questions because they are something that people know a little about - speed and places, anything else involving bikes and I'm lost. You could spray paint what I know about motorbikes on the inside of a crash helmet - these questions are my comfort blanket.

"Over there on the farmers fields"

This fitted in with the buzzing noise I had heard throughout the morning. Maybe he was telling the truth.

I then realised I had an opportune moment to re-introduce the only other question I know. The long banned 3rd one.

"Have you ever fallen off it?"

It was a question I asked before until the time that I got into a conversation I couldn't get out of with a biker who talked non-stop for 30 minutes about amputation, bolts, loss of life and various other nasty things before ending up crying into his beer. You just can't get out of a conversation like that easily.

Surely I was in safe territory to re-introduce this question though - he was only about 13, how emotional could he get? He hasn't lived enough to have scars - he's probably never even heard of The Smiths. He seemed to have all his limbs - and if by some fluke he did have sad and nasty stories I could just push him over and run away. It was a perfect opportunity.

"Oh yeah, loads of times" he said,

I was impressed, he didn't look upset about falling from bikes either so I threw caution to the wind.

"Have you? Does it hurt?"

"Nah" he said, then proceeded to give me a lesson on the fact that because the bike is so small and low that there is no impact when you fall because you just roll. It was sometimes more fun than riding it.

"Cool" I said.

And I was. I was down with the biking kids.

Let down by the police

2005-01-20T13:39:00.000Z

I was driving home last night minding my own business - it may even have been that I was singing along to the radio now that I'm a karaoke superstar, well you've got to keep your eye in haven't you? - when out of a side street shot a lad on a bike, he was going so fast down the hill and round the corner that he almost lost control. Had he lost control he would have veered straight into my path - either still on the bike or on his arse. I made to swerve although he'd righted himself before I got to him. Note to self: try harder to maim cyclists in future.

As he did his best to imply that it was my fault with his sign language I noticed that he didn't have any lights on his bike and it made him extremely difficult to see in the gloom. I would have struggled if I really wanted to hit him. Not that having lights on his bike would have saved him from my tyres going over him - unless they were clever life saving, car defying bike lights.

But it reminded me of the time I had a run in with the law over no lights on my bike. I seem to have some history with them.

I was riding home on my trusty BMX from my friends house - I would have been about 14 at the time. It was a bit dark, and cold I remember as I whizzed down the hill getting speed up for the up slope. A police car passed me, quickly stopped and signalled for me to stop - I was lucky that he'd obviously fought all the serious crime that he needed to that day and had time to give me the time of day.

He got out of the car and gave me a lecture on not having lights on my bike, he then knelt down to what I thought was inspect it. He wasn't inspecting.

He felt around the tyre and got hold of the tyre valve

"What's this?" he said in the way that parents ask you questions when they know what the answer is. I was less sarcastic and had no cyncism at all in me at the time and was definitely fully respectful of the nations 3rd favourite emergency service, I might have a few more choice replies given the same situation now, although I don't think I'd fit on my BMX anymore even if I did know where it was.

"The tyre valve" I replied.

"What would happen if I did this?" he said as he put his fingernail in the valve and proceeded to let all the air down in my front tyre

"Don't let me catch you without lights on your bike again" he said as he got back into his car and drove off leaving me to push the bike the rest of the way home.

The worlds gone mad.

2005-01-18T11:59:00.000Z

CJ's sister - Little CJ is 14 years old, and a very old 14 years old at that.

She went to her school's fancy dress disco with her friends on Friday night. In training for later life they were all spending ages upstairs getting ready, giggling and playing loud music.

Eventually they came clumping down the stairs - for their fancy dress they had all dressed up as...... school girls.

I'm still trying to get my head around it.

Double Take

2005-01-17T11:47:00.000Z

"Can't we just stay in and get a DVD and a takeaway. I'm really tired"

By the silence I could sense that this wasn't the reply CJ wanted to her suggestion of going out. She'd had her nails done, and as a consequence wanted to do what all girls do when endowed with something new: go out and show it off.

I say nails 'done' - apparently having nails done means having about 100 layers of nail varnish applied to each nail until they're hard enough to use as DIY tools.

"Ooooh you're really boring you are. We never go out" I was right, my suggestion hadn't met with her approval.

"We do, we went out last Saturday night, the Saturday night before that, the one before that and all over Christmas. We go out all the time" I retorted. We did too.

"Yes but we never go out just me and you"

This bit was fairly true, we generally go out with friends. I like having people about. I'm a sociable kinda guy. Having people around sort of makes a night out. But I was beginning to feel guilty and had to respond.

"Ok, get yourself ready and come over here. I'll book a table somewhere and we'll go out" I gave in. Beaten. It was either give in now or give in later, either way I was going to give in.

So she did and we did.

"Why do we never go out, you're getting really boring you are" Came the familiar cry of the hard done to woman. I thought I was having flashbacks.

It was the couple on the next table to us. Then followed the very same conversation that CJ and I had had an hour prior.

It must have been the night for it.

Daddy Cool

2005-01-15T00:01:00.000Z

Young Watski is going to be a Dad. He works. Which is good news. This bombshell means that I am going to be an Uncle, which also means that I'm going to have to get my act together and become all sensible and conscientious and adopt a socially responsible string to my bow. It also means that my Mummy Duck is going to be a Grandma and my Dad will be a Grandad. I'm sure you know the basics of the family structure so I'll save us all the trouble and stop there.

Him being a father is perhaps the scariest thing to contemplate since....well, since the contemplating that went off around the time that my Dad became a Dad for the first time in 1973 - I'm pretty glad I wasn't around when that happened. Oh hang on.

So as a consequence, Young Watski has done something that all of us would be driven to do having been given this news. He's started his own blog: First timers. Why don't you pop over, have a look and tell him that I sent you.

But don't forget to come back here.

Temptation

2005-01-14T09:59:00.000Z

"Would you like a nice chocolate biscuit" my boss said to me, offering me a choice of the full tin.

"Your use of the word 'nice' would imply that there are chocolate biscuits around that aren't nice. I don't believe I've ever come across that problem" I replied.

"Only I forgot I had them in my desk, they're from Christmas" She said, ignoring me and turning to the other people in my area.

"You don't understand the implications of me having one of those chocolate biscuits do you?" I said "Having one of those chocolate biscuits will bring my healthy eating regime crashing down around my ears and would thereby deny me the opportunity of looking down my nose at everyone and pontificating about how unhealthy you all are. And I can't allow that to happen"

She'd already walked away by this time. I was going to have one too.

Idiot alert

2005-01-12T13:13:00.000Z

Running through the car park at work at 8.59am this morning I was relieved that I was going to be just about on time for our 9.00 team meeting rather than the 10 or 20 minutes late that it could have been.

Why, no matter what time you set off do you always need another 10 minutes? I do anyway.

I waited for the gap in the revolving door (I wasn't getting caught out by that again no matter how late I was) and ran up the stairs 2 steps at a time, I fumbled for my access card, threw my things down at my desk, picked my samples up from the fridge and ran back down stairs to the meeting room.

It was our regular monthly team meeting, the first part of which is a competitor review where we bring samples of other suppliers products in and talk about them. I was pleased because a) I'd actually done it for the first time in months and b) I'd picked some decent stuff up.

The meeting door was closed as I walked down the corridor, I opened it and walked through. The room was full of around 15-20 people all sat down chatting to each other.

Total silence fell as I sat down and fumbled around in my carrier bag on the floor. I pulled the samples out, plonked them on the table and started talking about them, looking round the room and catching people's eyes as I was talking.

A minute or so later I was rudely stopped in my tracks:

"Watski, that's all err very nice, but, err your meeting has been cancelled - this is the budget meeting"

As I was being told this the reality hit me that there were only a few members of my team in the meeting but that there were also a lot of people who aren't in my team that were sat around the table. I'd only seen the people I'd expected to be there when I was talking.

Then proceeded the longest 30 seconds of my life as I sheepishly put my things together and shuffled out of the room, looking forward to being the object of office amusement for the foreseeable future.

The things people search for #2

2005-01-12T11:03:00.000Z

After the revelation yesterday that people are visiting this site seeking assistance for Bonjela based problems comes a new, weird installment in the 'things people search for' series.

I really don't know what to say to the person landing at this site after searching for the heartbreaking subject of: 'husbands a transvestite'.

Except to apologise for seemingly being the only source of assistance for this type of issue on the interweb.

I can't believe it either.