i'm not sure you've quite understood...

whats with those people who speak on their bluetooth handsfree kit while holding their phone in their hand?

i don't get it.

i'm quite small in places. and a little bit angry sometimes

i'm a lucky man. i'm not talking about that whole broken thumb thing today, it's faded into insignificance. i'm talking about the fact that i'm lucky because i was born in england in a safe environment, my family haven't really seen any real trouble since my norwegian ancestors invaded england and killed a load of monks because they liked the monastary. monkhouse, monk-house... you see? true story, that.
but anyway,
i am also lucky because i have close friends who have the courage and the resources to travel to troubled places like israel and africa and bring me back stories of hope. those places scare me and trouble me and humble me and give me a feeling of uselessness & insignificance. i'd like to think of myself as a campaigner for truth and global justice but absolutely i know that i haven't done enough.

one of those people has given me a bit of a chance to be a small piece of the puzzle. very small let's be honest, but still at least i can assist in something of value.

that flier above contains a link which you should really follow and read as much as you can, and preferably decide to go to see the production. not soully to witness what may well be a formidable and disturbing piece of theatre, but also in terms of broadening your understanding of the world and empathising with those who have suffered. the literature on the other side of that link will speak words far more compelling and informative than my basic vocabulary could muster but, in short, the events in fallujah represent some of the most discusting violations of human rights in history. i know there have been many, but this is currently causing me some anger. by all accounts (and this play is constructed of qualified and re-qualified verbatim statements from people who were there) the basic course of events were:

the americans invaded fallujah, they murdered every man woman and child they saw and then left with a big smile on their faces and a feeling of self-righteousness, the generals maintaining that all had been carried out in a completely humane way. which is bullshit.

if you have an interest in the world around you, read up on fallujah. these events shouldn't go forgotten, ignored or accepted.

I'm not going to let this slide

I was just the lucky recipient of one of those random acts of kindness that you hear about but hardly ever witness. After a lovely evening with my good friend ned, I tumbled down into the tube system to make my way back homeward.
With a slap of my oyster I passed through the gates and proceeded to struggle with my crutch/limp/thumb/wallet situation, to a point where coins suddenly erupted forth from the coin pouch in my tatty money recepticle. Like a silvery fountain a token group of five pence pieces and a small selection of coppers made their way outwards and rested in a pathetic starburst around me. A silly amount of money to be perfectly
honest. 'that's a pain' thought I did I, and began to sort out my wallet to return it to it's humble pocket dwelling.

Until two people, yep two, saw the silvery starburst, the crutch and the plastercast and decided to busy themselves picking up my meagre finances.

"it's really okay," I said, but they wouldn't desist until every last coin was returned to my threadbare leather pouchlette.

I estimated about 37 pence.

If by some remarkable string of coincidences either of those two people happen to come across this blog, those two kind souls who picked up fivepences for the guy in the blue shirt at 9:30 in charing cross tube station,

thank you.

While the sum of money was insignificant, the gesture wasn't.

i'm thinking optimistically

apparently there are more and more endangered species every day so, phew! disaster averted.

i'm cutting it a bit fine

off i went to whittington hospital for a follow-up check(-up). thought i, "this'll be nice. they'll have a bit of a look, re-dress my knee and tell me i can take the cast off in about two weeks time."

nope.

instead they said, "hey, y'know you've got that broken scaphoid in your hand? well, they take AGES to heal. we're gonna put your hand in plaster now. it'll be in there for five weeks."

cue me, trying desperately to remember the current numbers on that nice red countdown at the top of this web-page. five weeks? will that put me in the siberian wilderness? desperately i tried to do maths, but to no avail. my brain swapped maths for paninis and milkshakes.

turns out it will come off before we fly to moscow. not long before, though. phew.

they gave me a choice of any colour. i chose "awesome-ass black"

i'm paper

"only boring people get bored" - my mum

with the layers of skin removed from my knees, i seem to have lost a few levels of depth. before tuesday my head would be constantly alive with thoughts of The Big Trip to the east, getting a jeep, working, playing, a friend's forthcoming 21st birthday, troubadour's stand-up gig, world poverty, tidying the house, life, love, the universe, injustice, whether i should give up motorcycling, friends, family, that girl, stuff, stuff, stuff. i could up and go out at a moments notice, i could plan what i wanted, go anywhere without checking with anyone... basically i had a multifaceted, unpredictable and pretty free life, limited only by my imagination, will and bank account.

i like to think i'm a guy with a few strings to my bow.

then there was tuesday and sliding along tarmac at a number of miles per hour. it's more frustrating than anything else. i've turned into a one-dimensional being of limited movement. today is better, i'm able to concentrate on things other than the pain in my limbs. yep, that's better. yesterday i tried watching the west wing, but generally my mind's focus remained "ouch."

it's boring, not being able to walk. and still, my focus is largely on the accident and what to do with the wreck that calls itself my motorbike, counting down the minutes to my next painkiller and yes, that recurring ouch.

oh well. i plan on healing pretty quickly. my left knee is still bleeding, but i think it will for a while. any of the medical staff that came to see me at a&e on tuesday sucked air through their teeth and said "wow, you've gone pretty deep there."

tomorrow i'm going to return to a near normal life. it'll be slower for a while, but more fun. probably not much ice-skating or dancing for a while. though i reckon i could do a mean robot-man.

i'm alive, i'm alive, alive and this i know for sure

i like to think that i created a remarkable piece of incidental promenade theatre today. if you'd followed me around today you would have been taken on a pretty exciting thrill-ride of a journey with ups and downs and allsorts.

if today was a film, it would have begun with the cliche 'waking up as the opening credits roll' scene, peaked with an early crescendo and then finishing with a long drawn out ending.

like this:
fade into a man in bed. beside him a futuristic alarm clock quietly whispers radio 4. some news report about the americans and iraq and such. the man rises and makes his way through the shit, shower and shave rituals. he is awake, but only just. the house is otherwise empty. a quiet dawn breaks over a cold, wet and windy day.

cut to a shiny bike skimming through busy streets. it is freshly cleaned and waxed. the engine note sounds like birdsong after the expensive service it had three days hence. the man looks dashing in leathers. he whistles within his helmet.

throughout london the masses make their way to work. today is the day oyster cards got an artistic makeover. a new series of doctor who crouches just beyond the horizon.

the man takes his newly found route. turning right and taking the leafy residential street round the back of islington. it saves 10 minutes on his old route. more time in bed, now he can get up and be at work in 50 minutes. down the leafy street he travels, magestic in his poise on the bike. what sunlight there is glints of the shiny paint and mirrored chrome. then the camera slows to bullet time. frame by frame, the bike slips from beneath the man. a blur of metal and leather, shrinking in height and becoming a speeding pancake, hurling along the tarmac ribbon, challenging einsteinian theory.

moments flash through the eyes of the man. thoughts spin through his spinning head. images turn. the rolling sky, the wet tarmac, the shiny green paint sliding along behing his somersaulting marrionette frame. why haven't i stopped rolling yet? but he does. later the paramedic says 40 metres. the bike did 60.

that pov camera shot looking up at a circle of disbelieving faces. rubber-coated hands feeling for spinal damage, pearlescent finger guaging focus, big-ben ringing in ears, swearing. then the pain. like no other. the man's been heartbroken, but this is what physical, unending, broken, deep, pain feels like. like damage. scream.

edgar wright directs a whirling of blue flashing lights, beep, a speeding flourescant van, beep, contrast lost as gas is inhaled and the pain falls outwards, replaced by a hot air balloon in the man's brain. beep, a wheelchair ride, some long medical words, more drugs, steady thumping, "we think your knee might be broken," radiology, "and your thumb," a woman accidentally trips over the man's ankle sending glass shards up his leg.

waiting.

thump. thump. thump. thump.

waiting.

thump.

the drugs wear off. thump turns to THUMP.

waiting.

generic hospital scenes, dressing the wounds, splinting the breaks. at least his knee isn't broken after all. he struggles to form an approximation of a walk. it's barely a hobble. but it carries him to the underground, then home. a five minute walk takes 45, but at least he's now at home, writing his blog. he could've died today. not an exaggerated 'ooh i could've died,' but

i am lucky to be alive.

all it would've taken was an oncoming car, a kerb, a spine wrapped round a lampost...

i am lucky to be alive.

that's all i can write today. my drug-fuelled grammar is bad. i'm tired and my knees hurt like proffessional torture. i'm not even gonna start on my hand.

i'm now on facebook

i think it might prove to be a disaster with its use of my spare time

i'm working on this:

(click for details)

come if you like

i'm all a-blush-ed

my lovely friend red, co writer of the web-site that i linked to there, sent me a request to be her friend on facebook. so i did because i thought it would be nice of me.

this meant registering as a facebook member, which was okay. i have no problem with that.

however, the registry involved facebook.com scouting my hotmail address book and (because of a bit of not really taking much notice of what i was doing) i have now accidentally sent facebook friend requests to everyone in that address book.

slightly embarrassing. it includes my solicitor, my insurance company, my ex-girlfriend's mum, my boss and a few people i would really rather not have sent it to.

shit.

i'm desperate to be impressed again

ricky gervais. he created david brent and won a load of awards. the office was genius. absolute quality tv that made me laugh and cry. it introduced me to stephen marchant and lucy davies, both legendary in their own hilarious and lovely ways (respectively).

but since then, there's always been something lacking. i liked extras, but it was a bit 'look at all the famous friends i've got.' and i haven't really enjoyed his stand-up. though i do have a ticket to see him at the royal albert hall in october - got a box wi' ma buddies - so hopefully he'll buck his ideas up.

but anyway...

i'm writing about gervais, mainly because i'm a bit annoyed. i'm sitting here watching comic relief '07. recently he's been on with a little clip pretending to go to kenya and then turning it into a ironic sketch about being the writer of the office and bringing on some celebrity pals. so, like what he did for live8, then.

i really want to see him go to africa and/or have a genuine emotional reaction to the things he's supposedly trying to help. i like the guy. i just want to be convinced that he's donating his time & talent because he's engaged with it, not because that's what is expected of people in his position.

or maybe it's just the line between the on and off-screen persona is difficult to cross for some people. i wouldn't blame him for resisting going to the slums of nairobi. if i was given the opportunity i'd be terrified, it looks like a pretty harrowing experience.

just, c'mon gervais. you have so much influence from your status within the popular culture of this country. see if you can use it without just twisting it into a big joke. i reckon it'd help. you don't have to go all 'bono' but, y'know, could be good.

i'm ever hopeful

ah, the frustratingly arousing children's bbc nymphette, fearne cotton. we see her here in an advert banner for the current ideal homes exhibition at earl's court. i wonder if that tagline has anything to do with her recent revelation in GQ magazine; that she always gets her tuppence waxed... setting half the male population of islington wanking like an angry orchestra.*

i hope so, it's all over the london transport system. like stealth carry-on propaganda.

fearne once lifted her top up for me. but only so i could check a microphone. i still think of that day, though. whenever i get a spare moment.

*i would love to take the credit for this simile, but unfortunately it was filthily plagiarised from charlie brooker's article in the guardian. he does describe the delightful fearne cotton as a 'crying boy' though, so i don't feel so bad about stealing his words.

i'm not 1337, i have self-respecting limits

for the gamers out there...

i'm defending france?!

quote of the day needs to go to the ever hilarious and badly conceived g. w. bush, president of the u.s & a:

it doesn't matter what the rest of the world thinks of us [americans], at least we know that we work hard, and at least we're not the french

well done sir, you xenophobic prick. doing your bit for foreign relations i see.
although i have to admit i am surprised and impressed he knew the name of another country that wasn't oil-rich eye-rack.

i'm 106 miles from the norfolk broads, i've got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it's dark & i'm wearing sunglasses...

...hit it!
after deliberation with some important people and my own head i have found an answer to the perplexion of a previous blog.
you see, out of all my options the one that kept whispering sweet nothings into my ear, the one at the top of the list, the one that made me cream my pants at the sheer thought was: (whisper it) a kick-ass jeep.

i like big stuff. i like rugged stuff (this is by no means a reference to 4 blogs ago). i like stuff thats moderately impractical but worth the extra effort for it's absolute coolness.

but

there was always that little niggle, like a tiny rabid puppy dog following me around trying to sniff my crotch... "what about the unnecessary destructive impact on the environment?" it would bark. and "woof." all the good jeeps have big fat engines that pump out toxins and help that big old ozone to carry on with it's hole-y agenda. i'd love a land-rover, but oh the guilt.

'til i found one of these babies. the suzuki sj413. look at it! combining "ain't i cute 'n cuddly?" with "i'm a hardcore dirt-grinder, get out of my way, be-aaaaatch!"

and "growl."

like a really muscley jack russell. without rabies.

it wins. because it has all the things i wanted in a jeep but only a tiny-wee engine; the same size as grandma's hatchback.

i hear you ask: but with only a tiny-wee engine, will it not be rubbash on the off road jaunts you have planned?
i say to you: shat-yo-face, you know nuttin'.

it only weighs 970kgs, you see. not only does it make it e'en more environmentally freundly, but it also means it can do this:

so i am at peace. i'll get a new plaything and it'll be a plaything that can drive through 2 feet of muddy water, climb out, shake off the water and bound off to fetch a stick. i'll wait until i get back from mongolia before i buy one though, or i'll want to take it with me and it's not quite that small.

i'm not really sure where all those dog references came from.

very strangely, completely independantly my sister bootylace has decided to get one too. weird.


i was lying about the cigarettes

i'm not a goonie, i just wanna go home

i'm well informed

apparently here's how the fly thing questioned at the top works:

Flies are so small that they have trouble avoiding atoms while they fly about, that's why their flight patterns are so erratic. As we all know atoms spin.. so, when a fly sees a bit of ceiling that it would like to land on - it simply lands (upright) on an atom which is loitering close to the ceiling and lets the 'spin' of the atom, flip it upside over and onto the ceiling.. simple!

i'm hip, but not hop

i don't like most hip hop. call me a middle-class-cracka if you like but i find it misogynistic, unnecessarily violent and, well, just. plain. bad.
not really music at all, but just shouting noisily over a computer generated beat.

elements/symptoms of hip hop are impressive: improvised off-the-cuff rhyme, human beatbox, occasionally even soulful poetics. but thats pretty rare, most radio play is the here i am with a gun and some prostitutes in my car with my pals, let's all go and have some sort of fight with some other chaps because i saw one of their friends walking along my street last tuesday kind of hip hop.

i just don't get it.

here are the lyrics to shake ya ass by mystikal (sic):

Came here with my dick in my hand
Don't make me leave here with my foot in yo ass
Be cool, and don't worry about how I'm rippin this shit
When I'm flippin when kickin, nigga this just what I do
I'm effervesecent and I'm off that crescent (?)
Nastier than a full grown German Shepherd
Motherfucker keep steppin
They don't fuck with me and they won't
Yall bitches cant catch me and you won't
Tell ya self, bitch ass throw that pussy
I'm proud of my poo nanny, and a dollar for my booty
You think I'm trippin, bitch I ain't trippin
I'm buyin if you got curves for your iceberg
Drinkin here acting like it's gonna do somethin to me
Hope this indecent proposel make you do somethin with me
Fuck a dollar girl pick up fifty
And fuck that coward you need a real nigga
Off top a nigga bout hurtin shit
Bend over hoe show me what you workin with

lovely.

and quite a lot funny really, if you read it out loud

ben folds covers fiddy cent. the stuff of legend

i'm comfortable enough with my sexuality to show you this

... apparently so

i'm sitting in the corner with a silly hat on. point at me and laugh

i just re-read through that last entry and would like to apologise for how badly it was written. its almost as if i took a few steps back and put myself in remedial english class.

i could just delete it and start again, but i feel it could be put to better use. instead i will leave it there as a warning not to write any old toss for the sake of filling a long pause. and i like the video.

sorry again. feel free to ignore it.

i'm a goonie, you're a goonie, we're all the goonies

like picking a fight with the specials in a glaswegian pub:

i like going to gigs. they aren't all good, sometimes the band misfires, i can't seem to get to grips with the atmosphere in the london astoria. i've stood through punk bands with the flu, drum 'n bass with a headache,
bands can warm your cockles on a cd recorded in a studio and shock your nervous system with waves of disappointment when you go to see them live...
but there is a more common event than all of these:
i like live music. music played there and then will only ever happen like that there and then. (unless you go and see girls aloud where it's more likely a carbon copy of itself repeated night after night. my recommendation is to literally go and see girls aloud, but take an ipod with proper music on it.)

the crowd will only be like that for those few hours.
that exact atmosphere will only exist for a short finite time.

i saw the fratellis on sunday, at brixton academy; my favourite of the london venues. a brilliant gig, an excellant band, energetic audience. the sound was great, the lighting too, all topped off with my personal favourite - a cover of a song in a completely different style. this time: a ska-rock version of goldfrapp's ooh la-la.
(incidentally, if you've never heard reel big fish's version of ah-ha's take on me or ben fold's bitches ain't shit originally by 50cent, i thoroughly recommend them.)

i mention the crowd specifically in regards to the 4 teenaged girls stood in front of me who had an infectious joy about being at the gig. completely caught up in themselves they danced silly dances and giggled while a - reasonably hard glam-rock - band kick-drummed the ear-drums of 3000 people. i couldn't help but smile as these stupid dances made their way outwards amongst the people.

oh, to be young again.

sadly, another teenager spent most of the gig next to me getting so drunk he couldn't stand up properly, doing that weird thing where you face away from the band, one finger pointing upward, beer in the other hand, singing off-key to his friends in order to prove he knew all the words.

justice was served when trying to applaud with hands above his head, he doused himself in warm semi-regurgitated beer.

he'll be a heartbreaker when he grows up...

good gig though
"mon the fratellis!"

i'm not the only one

sometimes good things happen.

sometimes they are disguised as bad things.

sometimes it's all worth it in the end.

sometimes i don't write in my blog for a while and there is no real reason.



welcome back to the fold, my scab-a-tax friend.
if you need anything...