Fake xmas is a go!

Jane and Wez braved the snow the ice and terrible terrible british rail sandwiches to join the Welsh side of the family for fake xmas and new year.

Fake xmas is a Taylor famliy tradition that we like to uphold. We have xmas with our new families variously in Georgia, Kent and Rhyl and then at some point we all head for St Asaph for festive cheer, turkey and a tradtional game of Mah Jong.

This year was no exception with a lovely piece of turkey, three different stuffings, leeks and all the trimmings! We played a few gamres of UNO where I got the rules mixed up and then MAh jong with plenty of beer/wine/nog.

Today is New years eve where we're meeting all our friends and family for more drinks. I think JAnuary should be delcared as 'detox month!'

vickys pint.

Xmas time... Mistletoe and something or other.

Yay!

Broken up for xmas which is a joy as there now a whole 4 days between me and the next time I have to wear a tie! Woo!

In other news Rage against the Machine are the xmas number one single instead of Xfactors what's face singing 'The Zzzzzzzzz.....' Thank God. When did Karaoke become the cultural lodestone that we're all meant to worship?

Sorry, not making much sense at the moment. the brain hasn't been clear for days and I've got a temper shorter than an essex girls christmas skirt at the moment. Not the best way to be writing really . If I tried writing anything at the moment it would just end up being a whole page with the single word

KNOBJOCKEY!

Repeated all the way down it.

I have done a butt load of research for writing and structure but without actually getting much written. It would be worth getting something on the page but it would need totally tearing down and starting again once I felt better.

Had the works do last week which was ace seeing everyone out of the office and meeting up with some friends that have moved on to bigger and better things.

Xmas day tomorrow! Woot! Its my favourite time to see the family and friends. And nog of course! Lets not forget the Nog!

Cheers!

Llandudno in the morning.

'Ghost Em' in cinemas this Jan.

what was that about red sky in the morning?

Grabbing onto memories

A long time ago, what seems like many lifetimes ago there was a club in Rhyl. It was the only place that didn't play the usual chart tunes and bland antiseptic dance music. The carpets were sticky and the beer was quite frankly horrible but the people and the music made it fabulous. It was friendly in a town where friendly didn't count for anything.

The legends around the doorman were that he'd been one of Ali's sparring partners when he come over to the UK for one fight or another. He was certainly old enough but he was built solid and had a shock of white hair, mustaches and a pipe firmly and continuously clamped between his teeth. He very rarely said anything but it was always worth listening when he did. It always amused me this dichotomy of this gentleman in full black tie and dinner jacket surround by scruffy grunge kids moping around the dance floor.

What The Bistro, for that was its name, represented to me was something more than a club, it was the environment where I thought I fitted. Everyone in there was a misfit of one sort or another so I felt right at home. I'd been to dance clubs before but I rapidly found I had nothing in common with most of the people in there, who were there to get drunk, get dancing and get laid or any combination of those three. I've always been a bit strange but that didn't sound like a good time to me and if I was going to have to listen to obscenely loud music I felt it should at least be something I'd like to hear at home.

The bistro played rock grunge, indie, alternative basically anything that you wouldn't hear at a regular club, I remember they had to ban 'smell like teen spirit' because the moshing ** was making the chandelier below swing precariously.

(** moshing:- jumping up and down and into each other with careless abandon trying not to fall over. Surprisingly fun. murder on the ankles though!)

In a way every indie club I went to after that was a echo of The Bistro be it London, Liverpool or Atlanta, that smell of sticky carpets and indie kids always gave me a certain thrill.

And it closed sometime after I left for parts unknown and there was no where for any of us to be anymore.

Theres a reunion planned and I'm in two mind whether to go or not. One part of me wants to drink foul lager and bounce around like a fool for an evening like I used to. The other half of me wants to let the memories stay as they are. We'll have to see when the night comes if I'm still a teenager at heart or pessimistic old sod.

Boston Park.

There's a park in the middle of Harvard University which is surrounded on all sides by coffee shops and book sellers. The park itself has benches and a layer of cigarette butts so deep in places walking through the fag ends and discarded filters is like wading through tar soaked snow. I don't think they've been collected since the time John Adams was there. I swear I saw a little clay pipe at the bottom of one pile.

We stopped for a coffee and a sit down having walked through most of upper Boston on our way here.

In the park under a tree was a guy who couldn't have been more than twenty, on his own, singing and playing guitar. Normally buskers will play something instantly recognisable and catchy to get peoples attention. I think that's why they're so reviled, they only play what they think you'd like to hear so they play the most inoffensive dreck and by not offending anyone they usually alienate everyone.

I didn't identify this tune at first but it wasn't unpleasant, so I sat, sipping my coffee, listening to his strumming. It was only after I got past his strong Bostonian accent that I realised what he was singing this beautiful song that he had written about how painful his breakup with a particular girl was. He was singing a personal song about how he himself felt. I could see him pause occasionally and take a small stub of pencil and mark up a legal pad he had next to him.

I don't think it would have mattered if there had been ten people in that park or a thousand. He wasn't there to entertain others. He would still have been singing that song on his own in an attic if he had to. Because he HAD to sing it. Because it was the only way he could process the emotions he was dealing with. And that what I love about good art. Good artists will do what they do not for the pleasure of others or for praise, adoration and cash but because if they had no fans, no crowds, no public, they'd still be doing it anyway.

Somehow I don't think Damien Hirst or Tracy Emin would still be artists if they'd had no success. They'd be turning out copies of quaint Landscapes so fast it would make your head spin.

Real art is passion. Real art is a gnawing desperate need to vent these feelings by singing, writing, painting, or whatever before those very emotions burn you out from the inside.

andy is happy

my wife is very talented

I like driving in my car...

...except when I can't.

After a moderately hard day at work the only thing I wanted to do was sink into the couch and lose myself in the rather excellent Ravenor collection of novels by Dan Abnett. (Available at all good book shops and also some rather dubious ones.) Or maybe watch some of the superb True Blood, Generation Kill or Dollhouse TV shows which are finally airing on terrestrial channels. But no, the shopping had to be done and I was just the man to do it. Or rather I was the only man that was going to do it. I reckoned to get to the shops, buy the essentials, get back, put them away and be on the couch with a book and something single and malty would take about half an hour. Not a large amount of time from my evening off.

So upon entering my car which has sat in the car park without complaint since Saturday, I tried starting it only to hear the noise that all car owners dread. That crunchy, whiny sound non-starting engine sounds that translates from car-speak to English as "This is going to be expensive". So after a couple more attempts (I'm nothing if not persistent) I did what every bloke with no mechanical expertise at all does. Called my breakdown service.

Unfortunately I'd forgot that as a cost-saving measure I'd neglected to tick the box that says HOME START. Ah. The lady was most apologetic and explained that I'd need to be further than a quarter mile away from my house in order to get the breakdown service that I was paying for. For them to come out as things stood would cost a squillion quid before they could even look at the problem. I politely declined the offer and instead decided to jump start the car from our second motor hoping to at least have enough power to get it to the Motor shop where I presumed they would have a battery tester and a new battery to sell me. It was then I discovered EXACTLY what they mean by 'Power' Steering. With no power to the car and it being about the same size and weight as your average Sherman tank, manoeuvring my car was no mean feat. I was certainly glad I didn't have to push it much further than 10 meters or so to the waiting maw of the donor car.

One quick jump later and we were away to our local brand of our national chain of car type stores (Not named here for possible legal implications). I approached the Helpdesk and to my relief it was manned by a gentleman in the prime of his middle ages rather than a scrawny YTS geek who's all neck and no nouse. This gentleman oozed calm experience from every pore. I explained the situation and he nodded sagely.

"It certainly sounds like the battery is failing we'll just test it first. Albert?"

Albert appeared from behind the desk the epitome of adolescent ineptitude with the spots and greasy smell to match. My heart sank as he lollopped his way over to my waiting car and after prodding ineffectually under the bonnet proclaimed that "The machine says you'll need a new battery."

I selected my battery and he started the installation procedure getting as far as removing the old battery and connecting the negative terminal before saying "Urm..."

"Urm...?" I said, the model of politeness.

"Urm.. I've never seen this type of connection before."

He was right, on carefully checking the old battery it appeared a specialised widget has been attached to the positive terminal which the shop did not stock. He struggled with the widget on the old battery for a minute or two before pronouncing it 'hopeless' and it was decided to refit the old battery, jump start the car again and drive it to my local garage for them to ponder over it in the morning.

It was at this point that Albert broke the negative terminal.

He was tightening the clamp and obviously went one twist too far. The whole thing broke away in his hands leaving me with a non-functional non-fitting battery and a functional non-fitting one.

Having dismissed Albert I redialled my breakdown service trying to keep the note of irony out of my voice as I explained I was now further than a quarter mile away from my house and so would like someone to come and look at the car.

It was an hour later that the Breakdown service arrived and as he emerged from his van I breathed a sigh of relief.

The Breakdown man had a beard you could trust. This was a beard that explained in calming dulcet tones that it had seen it all before, nothing could ever ruffle, surprise or vex this man or his beard. In a flash he had the widget removed from the broken battery and attached to the shiny new one and my car was running as fine as ever before.

A nod a wink and he was away to his next job leaving only a working car and a credit card receipt as proof he had ever been there.

So much for a night off, hunh?

Nick Griffin Haiku

Nick Griffin smiles like Eagle,
But has black heart of snake.
Much like mythological namesake

Why would I want to live anywhere else?

Geocaching with friends.

chocolate heaven.

'za?

thats how WE roll

awwww

the 'parry' half

Goodbyes and Hellos

The weekend before last (29th August) WE headed down to the beautiful town of Hungerford for my Uncle Wilfs funeral.

When I was growing up he'd already retired and he was a regular visitor to see his sister (my Gran) and the assorted great nieces and nephews they'd accumulated up here in wales.

I remember his relaxed attitude and friendliness and the video camera that he'd permanently have attached to his hand. I can't actually think of him without the enormous black machine resting on his shoulder. This was of course before mini DV cams and palmcorders this thing was about the size of a moderately well equipped ford fiesta. But, I have to say, we have a record of what we were all like at that point in our lives. Although I could have done without having to recite "Cecil is a caterpillar" every time the family now get together.

However we headed down on the Friday night and spent the weekend with Wilfreds daughter Judy and her husband Chris who are two of the most lovely welcoming friendly people I think I've ever met. The funeral itself was a full church service but the wake was great. Everyone talking and laughing, remembering Wilf and then meeting the next generation, my nephews and nieces. Or nephews once removed or something like that.

The picture about two or three entries below titled "You'll never see what I believe till its sunny in England" is of the fields at the back of Chris and Judys house which leads down the picturesque canal above which leads to the beautiful village centre. It really is one of the most beautiful places I've ever been and ALL the people I met on the walk looked me straight in the eye and said 'Good Morning' instead of the studied obliviousness that I'm used to in Rhyl. It was an eye opening change.

beating the bounds 2009

You'll never see what I believe till it's sunny in England...

Dublin Saturday

A late start today, which is no surprise considering the mayhem and fun we had last night.

We walked out about 9:30 into the burning bright sunlight of a dublin summers day. I swear this city doesn't know how to cope with anything other than dismal grey rain. Its beatuiful in the sunshine though. We walked for a bit grabbing a coffee from a random bakery and headed to a church where they exhibit the mummies held in the crypt.

Bizarre I know. It gets bizzarer. So the crypt keeper turns up and hes an odd blend of Irish-showman and RADA reject. His emphasis is totally off and he speaks like every word he says is total revalation to his audience.

I suppose he has to make sure the tourists for whom English is a second third or fourth language don't miss every point. His description of being hung drawn and quartered will stay will me for a long time though.

Everywhere in the crypt there are clear signs saying "These are sacred remains. Please do not take photos" however at the 'climax' of the tour you are given the oppourtunity to touch the mummified remains of an eight hundred year old corpse.

This dicotamy surprised me.

You're not allowed to take a photo which is generally a non-invasive proceedure, but you are allowed to stroke the hand of an actual corpse beacause it's considered lucky?

Are we still in the eighteenth century? because it bloody feels like it sometimes.

ANYWAY... we moved on from the dry crpyts into the still burning sunshine and walked across to the Jamesons factory wherefor 13.50 you too can be harded like cattle around the various brewing distilling and maturing processes that go into making, what is at best, a reasonable whiskey. Note for all you pedants out there, Scottish whisky is spelt without the e, Irish Whiskey is spelt with the e and Welsh Whisky is best avoided.

By this time, having skipped breakfast, it was a quarter past lunch so we headed to one of the only Brew-pubs in Dublin, The Porterhouse. I've been to their sister pub in Covent Garden in London but this was my chance to see the original.

It would have been rude not to sample their homebrew beers with lunch so we all got a different pint and tried them all out with our ample lunch orders.

Fod and beer are expensive in Dublin but only because the pound has fallen heavily against the Euro recently. So you'd expect to pay about 5 quid a pint and 10-15 Euros for a meal. Which is by no means outrageous for a weekend break but if you were here for a singificant time I think it could become prohibitily expensive.

From there we walked through town to McDaid's which was both a morgue and a Chapel before becoming a pub. It was nice but nothing special considering its unusal heritage althought the loos were up three flights of narrow winding stairs and they did have the cricket on.

We walked on after the obligatory pint of the black stuff to St Stephens green which was swarming with people and not the haven from the busy madness of Dublin that the guidebooks had promised. We didn't stay for long.

We walked back to the hotel via the Stags head which we had scouted the previous night and found an extra room at the back which technically would count as the snug. Very comfy and good good beer. Back at the Hotel we had our customary siesta and then headed out into temple bar on a saturday night on a summers eve.

The place was rammed. We had heard that it would be busy but not on this scale. The pubs were literally oveflowing with loud rawcous people when we were mpore in the mood for pints and chat.

We headed away from temple bar and found ourselves in a pub called the long stone which had an enmous sheltered outdoor area (almost empty) and a massive oaken fireplace carved in the shape of a bearded viking type God. V.Good.

Then we headed to what is probably my new favourite pub in Dublin, Mulligans.

It has low ceilings, locals and what is the best pint of guiness I've ever had.

Through carefulll and dilligent tasting we four of us , no strangers to sampling the alchol have come to this conclusion. The guinness DOES taste different in Dublin, but not in all the pubs. Let me explain; In the UK I find guinness has a metallic aftertaste buried deep amgonst the base notes that it simply does not have in most of the pubs over here. McDaids, mentioned above, serves a very UK style pint whereas Mulligans serves something so smooth and creamy and rich its almost a differnt drink.

So I solidly recommend trying many diffent pubs in Ireland , You'll be spolit for choice, before discovering whether you don't really enjoy guinness in Dublin.

In mulligans behind the bar, just down from their Irish Whiskey shelf was a collection of round metal containers which were about an inch and a half across. It turns out this was snuff. Well, we HAD to buy some, i've never seen snuff for sale behind a bar in my life so we had to try some.

Cue much hilarity as the four of us spill some on the table trying to get the darn thing open and take a little pinch each and shove it up one nostill like Kerry Katona at a christening.

Its like inhale vics vapour rub and tickles the inside of our nostils all the way up. When Caroline let out and enourmous sneeze the barmans face was a picture.

From tehir we moved on Finding 'davey Byrnes' too poncy and 'Kehoes' rammed to the rafters we went into 'The Hairy Lemon' (No, I haven't get a clue) And had a reasonable pint before heading home. All in all a very statisfctory day.

Dublin Friday:

How do you know you're on a boat to Ireland? Because there's two nuns talking to a man with a pint of stout.

That's not a joke, two tables away from us on the not-so-gently rocking superferry from Holyhead to Dublin (christened the Vomit Rocket) the man and the two Brides of Christ were having what can only be described as an indepth heated discussion. Whether it was about saving the mans immortal soul or if Ireland can retain the Six Nations Grand slam they won last year with the front three they've got, only God knows but it is a sign that you're approaching the country where they take most things a little less seriously than the rest of us and some things a hell of a lot more seriously.

We were up early for the ferry, as were the rest of the passengers surrounding us. It was weird, like all the waiting around you'd associate with a domestic/international flight without the cathartic moment of release that is take off and landing. It was all a bit sedate until we hit the middle of the channel and the boat did its best bucking bronco impression.

We 'landed' on time and then it was only a suspiciously cheerful border guard and a half hour train journey to the centre of town.

The train station at Dun Loarie (CHK) is like train stations used to be in mainland Britain. Dirty, overcrowded and confusing. Why would they need signs up showing people which service is departing from which platform? If you don't know you're probably scum, sorry, a tourist.

However it has to be said I've yet to meet a genuine Dub all the bar staff so far seem to be from estonia. So EVERYONE is a tourist.

Anyways once checked into our blessedly quiet hotel we ventured out towards the guinness museum type thing. A walk broken up rather pleasantly by soup and a sandwich lunch and our first pint of the black stuff.

I know that the Guinness, scientifically speaking is no different to that which you can order in Holyhead or Hoxton but for some reason, probably psycological, to me it tastes a lot better. Much richer and yet much more easily drinkable.

Refreshed and well fed we headed up to the Guinness Store House to find it a teeming hotbed of twatty touroids all intent on capturing a geniue piece of 'Oriland for themselves. Of the five automatic tickets booths one was working. I say was because, in a move that will shock no-one, I managed to break the only remaining working one; "But I would like the four already broken machines to be taken into account, your honour!"

Deciding digression was the better part of valour , we merrily disappeared not before stopping at the tat shop to get some much needed Guinness branded supplies.

We stopped at the Brazen Head, allegedly the oldest pub in Ireland for a second pint and found it not quite as heavenly as the first. But I was prepared to forgive this as the third was quite admerable.

Then it was the slow walk back through the tourists to the hotel for a quick hour nap before heading back out to one of my favourite Irish pubs even if it is a tourist trap. The Oliver St. John Gogarty. Crazy name, crazy place! Well not really, the guinness is good the people are warm and friendly. We were greeted from the stage " Ah, the Welsh! The celts that couldn't swim!"
They were playing the traditional Irish Music hich is great when you are actually here surrounded by the music and the noise and such, but back home on CD it just doesn't feel the same.

Suitabtly refreshed we headed out to The Stags Head (Exsiquite Victorian Features) and The Long Hall (Not so long as they'd have you belive. The Hanover in Liverpool is a long bar this is more a medium bar. These felt more for the locals than the tourist places we'd been previously.

I have noticed a different dynamic when theres a group of four rather than two. When I came here before we couldn't go more than a pint without getting into a conversation with somebody. With the four of us we seem a more contained unit and so the craic has been fun but not on the same scale as last time. Admittedly last time my liver was five years younger, we stayed out till 2 in the morning, I had hair and ladies would swoon at five hundred paces at my friend (Good looking Bass player whos also a crackingly nice guy. Damn him. :) )

After that we stopped for a late night snack (About 10pm) Em got a burger and I had a fallaffal which was delicious I think! Then it wasa time to roll into the hotel for a well earned rest.

Caroline makes friends with the locals.

"Wheres my Effing jetpack?"

That's a cry I hear a lot from people these days. As I get older and optimism for the future turns into wearying acceptance of the present followed by morbid dread of ANYTHING changing, I have heard people talking about how this isn't the future we were promised.

By now, nearly a decade into the 21st century surely, we should be zooming around in jet cars, eating protein pills and spending our holidays on the moon? The world of Buck Rogers is only four hundred years away, which is not a huge length of time for us to have a nuclear war, recover from it and then try and defeat the aliens intent on invading earth whilst wearing too tight spandex.

But I say the future is here and it's not the futures' fault we can't live up to it's promise. We have the ability to communicate with anyone, anywhere in the planet nestled in our pocket. And what do we choose to use it for? Updating the entire world with our current status in 140 characters or less. The whole world is listening and there are a plethora of beautiful languages to use each with a array of emotions of expressions which they can elegantly convey and what do we choose? Text-speak.

"LOL 4GOT BOUT THT! C U L8TER!!!!!!!!!"

(By the way, is it just me, or is text speak worryingly close the the 'Newspeak' doubletalk in George Orwells 1984? Double plus good!)

Is it any wonder that Gods abandoned us? In the old days he used to appear to moses in a burning bush now he'd have to have a website, line of merchandising and eight million followers on Twitter.



THE BIG CHEESE: Quite angry about everything. Which part of 'Thou shalt not kill' did you misunderstand? Thinking about sending another flood.












The future is all around us. From the Colombian free-range fair-trade roasted hazelnut coffee you're sipping to the Chinese sweat shop produced Spongebob Squarepants pajamas you're currently lounging in. Your wardrobe and beverage have traversed more of the globe than you have.

I'm told we get the future we deserve, but I think the future got the raw deal here.

This, is how we roll.

Notice:

The new Doritos flavour is 'AWESOME'. That is all.

Football, bloody football.

It's the beginning of the football season today, soccer to our American Friends, and The premiership is now the most watched and richest football league in the world. Great. Another 260 days of bloody soccer, unable to join in any conversation with starts with the words; "Did you see the football at the weekend?"

I don't know, I just find it very hard to care passionately about a game I love to play when its populated with overpaid winging crybabies.

It's also the strangest thing I find that the fans are so besotted with the idea of 'their' team that they don't acknowledge that most of their players couldn't even find the town they're playing for on a map.

I could understand it if the players were mostly local or even from the same country! But when you look at your Chelsea's and your Liverpool's and you can hardly pronounce half of the names of the back of the overpriced shirts you have to ask 'how involved with the club I love are they?'

I have a good friend that has been a Manchester City fan all his life. Season ticket, away games the whole lot. He always used to deride their local rivals Manchester United for their spending sprees and lack of local talent. Well now his beloved city have an Arab owner and are buying up pricey players like a fat man at an ice bun sale. He did the only honourable thing and stopped supporting city.

He now put his whole-hearted support behind Rhyl football club which is I suppose as grass roots as it gets. Half of the players use the local gym I go to and all live or come from this area.

Now I'm not a football fan, I used to enjoy it more because my friends in Liverpool were passionate about it but now, having moved on from that circle I just fail to see the point to be honest with you. It doesn't move me the way a line break or a sweeping back line does in Rugby. It doesn't seem physical enough to roll around on the floor in agony to play on the sympathies of the ref.

But those are just my own opinions which I fully accept I am in the minority. It is weird though whenever you meet a new bloke and you explain you're not really into football they look at you like you've got two heads.

Big pimping- the return!

Weekend

Started the weekend in fine style with poker, Mexican food and beer at Caroline and Robs. It took a round or two to get back into the idea of the game and then it was all about the big blind raising holding and ultimately, in my case, losing. I didn't win but I didn't bow out first either which I feel is important.

No money exchanged hands but we all had a great laugh and some lovely chili.

Then the next morning we headed out and walked from Our house in Rhyl to the Train station in Colwyn Bay along the coast. There's a proper coastal path running all the way from Prestatyn to Llandudno but our route was a respectable 11-ish miles which I think will do for a first time out!

Sunday we went to a medieval festival in Bodelwyddan castle which was ace. the best thing were the different groups of archers they had doing longbow exhibitions. everyone was really approachable and it was great to have a bit of a chat with everyone.

Highly satisfactory.

Breakfast!

Llion likes poker.

Bunker

In the basement beneath where I work there is a nuclear bunker.

It feels odd even typing this, as the nuclear threat has moved on from total global catastrophe to localised single explosion worries. North Korea, Iran etc we are all told that these are where the new nuclear threat comes from not the great Russian bear.

But back when men were real men and they had bushy moustaches and briar pipes, the Nuclear Holocaust was viewed as almost inevitable and we had to make plans for it. The wine cellars in the old mansion house where I work were re-enforced and had a binding coating over the interior surface to hold the brickwork together from any concussive force.

You open a door that looks almost identical to any other in the office and this leads to a narrow set of stairs which ends in a foot thick blast door. This immense portal swings easily open thanks to a counterweight mechanism but you still can't help noticing the enormous steel bolts and latches which would hold out the unwanted plebs once the bombs had started to fall.

This little corner of North Wales certainly wouldn't be on any ones primary nuclear strike lists and it's doubtful we would have made the secondary or tertiary lists either unless the Russians really considered Conwys Mussel farming as vital to the UKs Economy. So we be hit much by the radiation which would be spreading out from places like Liverpool and Manchester to the east and probably from RAF Valley on Anglesey to the west.

So the number of dying but not yet dead would be massive they would be on the outside of the door banging and wailing to be let in and you'd be stuck inside afraid to open the door for what they or the radiation would do to you.

Past the first door there is a small shower area, I imagine to wash off radiation suits rather than actual skin, and then there is a second slightly larger door. This gateway to the inner sanctum, like all the doors down there is outlined with fluorescent tape so when the lights go off you can see the after images of the doorways for a great deal of time. Of course the glowing fades after a day or so with no new light to recharge it so its not a long term solution for when the power goes off. Once into the bunker proper you can see the three large water tanks that can be filled and then sealed from the mains supply in a mater of minutes and the air filtration system that pumps and filters clean air in and old air out. These things are expensive though so there's no backups so you'd better pray that this one has been well maintained.

Then there's a series of rooms about the size of a small three bedroom flat, hardly the sort of place where you'd want to spend the rest of your years waiting the twenty odd years it would take the radiation to die down. I don't imagine the diet of dehydrated meals and vitamin pills would do much for you either.

Weekend of fun.

Friday was much fun, the boys came around and it was time for a Chinese takeaway and movie (Watchmen). Great food and the film was interesting rather than good. Its based very closely on the book to the point where if you haven't read the book I don't think you've got much of a hope of following what's going on. You'll just have to look at the pretty pictures and it certainly is very well shot. Although THAT scene in the Airship was a little too realistic for comfortable viewing with family members.

Saturday was all about Chris and Dave's BBQ (The mother and father in law)they hold a BBQ in the summer and a new years eve party every year. This one was especially important as it was a goodbye BBQ for Vicky who's off halfway around the world to new Zealand for 9 months. Coals were lit, beers were consumed, steaks were cooked and consumed with relish. It was great to see everyone, including my nephews and niece. Jake, the youngest, has grown up so much since I last saw him, hes certainly a runner, scurrying around everywhere. He also likes waltzing around the garden with his uncle which was so cute. Broody? Me? Never! ;)

Sunday has been spent paying for Saturday night. Someone handed me a drink called a Jager-bomb which I later found out is a shot of jagermeister in an energy drink. Yes, I should really have stuck to the beer.

David Cameron and his sweary sweary mouth

One news story that may have slipped your attention with all the important news that the BBC are covering today including a cat that rides the bus, (no really, seriously thanks for that BBC;) is David Cameron Saying the word "Twat" live on a radio interview.

Now the standard response to any swearing on media in the UK is a blanket ban followed by hastily cobbled together apology and then a disappearance to let the public forget about you before reemerging stronger and better than ever.

Cameron apologised in a terrific manner. "If I've caused any offence I obviously regret that," Muttering almost inaudibly afterwards "I regret all right, I regret you ever being born you moaning, emotionally stunted excuses for human beings."

Although I've no idea why people are so surprised, Mr Cameron was a member of the Bullingdon club at Oxford University which is about as close as U.K.'ll get to a fraternity at Oxford. Their focus is on having fantastically elaborate meals, getting trollyed, causing huge amounts of damage and then paying for it straight away, in cash. They'll also de-bag anyone that objects to their boorish behaviour, waiters, innocent bystanders, whoever.

Their most famous formal dinner ended with them smashing almost all the glass of the lights and four hundred and sixty eight windows in Peckwater Quad of Christ Church. As you can tell, anyone that would fit in this kind of company probably has an extensive vocabulary of swear words. 'Twat' is one of the least offensive words he could use.

He's trying to pull the old con, playing the underdog, honest man against the system routine. Swearing casually makes him seem like he's just one of the guys trying to do his best against a crazy world gone wrong.

It's the classic Bush Junior trick. He coasted into the Texas Governorship and into the most powerful job in the world pretending he was the underdog, the simple farmer, one of us. Like he didn't go to the best schools and Yale, like Daddy's money didn't buy him everything he wanted and out of the national guard and out of the cells from being drunk and disorderly at a football game.

So Cameron becomes a little more human and we slip ever closer to another Conservative government.

The worst meal I ever had.

In Fort Worth, Texas is a somewhere I can only describe as Hells Cantina. It described itself as a fine dining resturant. I had issues with all three of those words. Resturant brings to mind a fine italian or a little french bistro, a place run for the love of food, where the ingredients are painstakingly selected and cooked with the greatest of care. Fine dining indicates that this is the creme del la creme, the place where the other resturanturs in the area would gather and consume with awe, the dishes of a true culinary genius.

This was not such a place.

It was arranged much like a school cafeteria, replete with the over bearing tang of industrial strength disenfectant. The meals where served with all the care of a binman shedding a load of over-ripe nappies.

The gaucamole was a shade of green not seen since the great snot flu epedemic of 1956 and the nachos managed the almost unbeliveable feat of being both soft and rubbery at the same time.

The main course was a choice of Lumpy something in either brown or white sauce. When pressed upon the direct heritiage of the mystery item lurking in the depths of the trays, the Server sighed deeply and went to consult some higher being on the Fine Food dining ladder. He returned with the razor sharp insight;

'Marsha says it's meat."

Passing on the meat of mystery I moved straight onto the desert which turned out to be a pie constructed of a savoury crust and a sweet filling so nausaatingly sickly that your only choice was to wash each mouthful down with mug after mug of strong black coffee.

It was one of the worst meals of my life, the only thing that made it bearable was that my companion, who had after all, chosen the place, was equally appalled by the food. We laughed our way through the three courses left a mathmatically calculated tip down to the last cent (They hate it when you do that) and emerged blinking into the strong afternoon sun.

In fact if I hadn't kept a business card I put the whole thing down to some random halucination brought on by the Louisanna hotsauce I'd consumed the other night. If you ever find yourself in Fort Worth, Texas needing to wage biological warfare on some poor unsuspecting sod, take them to Furrs Fine Dining. It'll be a meal you'll never forget.

Denbigh Castle Walls

Birthdays, computers and other fluff

Hiya!

No, don't get so shocked you have to hide behind the sofa, it isme and I'm posting WORDS.

This is due in part to my purchasing of a dinky little laptop (I think the kids now days call them notebooks) which makes it much easier for me to sit on the couch with my morning Coffee and do this. Before, if I wanted to sit on the comfy couch and type I would have had to have moved the good ole iMac or evolved arms that were about 20 feet long (And would probably have been incapable of drinking the coffee.)

SO, housekeeping, I'm very well although the first reported cases of Swine Flu have hit our respective offices and social networks. I hope that those that don't have it don't get it and those that have it recover soon. Is anyone else wondering if this is part of the UK's Twelve plagues?

And so it was written that the angel of the lord did visit the corrupt and wanton land of Great Britain and after visiting the plagues of Mad cow disease, MPs expenses, Economic Ressession, and the TV show Katie and Peter stateside (some confusion over the word Jordan) he Quoted thusly "Screw it, lets go old school." and gave them all the spluttering porcine flu.

Works is going well, got a contract until the end of march which is good to have a bit of security. The new boss starts next week or the week after, I haven't met him yet but I'm sure hes suitably boss-like. I hope he realises that we've got a system that works at the moment and it may need tinkering with but it doesn't need tearing down and starting all over again.

Ems starting a new job in Denbigh which she's really excited about, I used to work in the office in Denbigh from 2001-2003 so I know the area quite well.

I know we go on about history in Wales but I've just realised that both em and I now can see Castles from our places of work! how weird would that be if we worked in Milton Keynes?

Okay, I think Wez is a stones throw from the Houses of Parilment althought they have banned stones within a one mile radius I think.

My birthday was a web of awesome and sweet sweet lies. Em took me out to Bodrhyddan Hall where I had some delicious yet poncy food. It was great but the ponce to decent portion size ratio was a little too far in favour of the ponce.

Then Em said 'let go home and go for a pint or two in our local.'

'Ideal' says I. Em then drives straight past the turning for Rhyl.

'You missed the turning' I said, trying to avoid the wheedling note in my voice.

'Did I?' She says with a voice that can mean one thing only, we're not going back to rhyl tonight!

Turns out she has reservation at this very plush hotel near flint. Loveley so it was.


Right, off for a good long walk today to blow away the cobwebs of a night in with the boys.


(Oh and the picture? Let me tell you about that some other time. )

Hotel morning

dinner at chez Andy

...you will be visited by three spirits...

RIP M.J.

Au revior Mr Jackson. Like most people of my vintage (1977 : Oaky notes, citrus aroma and a smooth vanilla finish.) I grew up replaying the cassette album of Bad until the tape warped and it started sounding like a duet between Barry White and Alvin from the Chipmonks.

And when that happened I went and bought another beacuse the music is timeless classic pop. You listen to it now and all the freakshow elements from his later life just dissappear. Thriller is apparantly still the best selling album of all time and its sales on Itunes (Other online music stores are available) are only adding to that achievment.

He made the mistake common to those the public revere as Gods, he started to think he was one. If you surround yourself with Yes men, whose continued employement revolves around agreeing with every word that drops from your lips, then don't be surprised when you find yourself dangling your son over a balcony or feeding alcohol to minor because no-one had the termerity to say "No".

Goodbye (to the singer of ) Billie Jean, you left us with Three classic albums, a couple of crap ones, Thousands of unredeemable o2 tickets and a rainforests worth of tabloid headlines.

Things we have learnt...

... at our first D n D session.

1) Andy can hit a man so hard that he will BURST INTO FLAME!

2) A daisy taped to the front of a helmet not only provides extra protection but good cover in a flower bed (Em).

3) Standing downwind of a flatulent Wizard (Llion) is never a good idea.

4) Teasing a randy Dwarf (Will) is taking your life, and your trousers into you own hands.

gaming part 2

gaming part one

Bad of the minton

We play badminton regularly and tonight was one of those nights that remind me why.

We play on thursday with a mixed ability group which most times gives an uneven balance which is nice because no-one takes it seriously. Well, apart from She-who-must-not-be-named , see Llions blog for details.

However, tonight we had a brilliant match-up for our third game which meant I was trying my hardest but still having a good amount of banter with the opposition. It really made my night fantastic and reminded me why I really enjoy playing.

It can really be like a chess game sometimes, actually probably more like Poker. I can anticipate the move that my opponent is going to make and try to counter it by my body placement on court. But sometimes they can throw out a total wildcard and leave you looking like a right numpty.

Actually that happens more than I'd like to admit.....

Bbq.

Breakfast?

Birthday Emsie!

Ems birthday treat? A break at a super exclusive hotel in Llandudno.

Dog Cape!