Went with Corie and Gus to a Polish restaurant in Hammersmith, to celebrate Lynn's birthday.
LOCATION: 96 Fulham Palace Road, London W6.
A pain in the bum for East Londoners, but easy to find, just south of Hammersmith flyover on Fulham Palace Road. 5 mins walk from station.
AMBIANCE: (8/10) Local, relaxed, quiet.
SERVICE: (10/10) Lovely, friendly, family-centric. This reminds me a bit of my favourite restaurant, Boneparte in Hornchurch another fine restaurant in the most unlikely of areas. It feels family run, though who knows? Service actually was pretty close to perfect actually with no fuss about the two guide dogs we bought with us. On leaving, the maitre d', a wonderfully helpful lady, gave us a couple of bottles of beer to take home with us. Never have I been offered service like this.
THE GRUB: (10/10) Quite frankly, I can only find the tiniest quibble with the food here and that is that there wasn't enough of it. Far from being stingy, the problem I had was that I just wanted to unzip my stomach and start all over again. I had the Hunters Plate to start with - a combination of chopped smoked meats in a rich gravy, served with bread and butter. Main for me was lamb rolled in bacon and onion and served with saute potatoes, beetroot, sauerkraut and cooked cabbage. Divine. Dessert was warm pancakes filled with soft cheese, apple and sultanas. By the usual standards of grub, this was both unusual, filling and and well made food. Tiny it was not.
VERDICT: I don't want to tell people about this. If you find it, keep it to yourself as its one of London's best kept cullinary secrets, surely. We found a couple of similar restaurants in New York. Local, well-kept little places hiding in the back streets, frequented by those who know the deal and like what they get. Off the tourist trail and all the better for it.
£20 per head with beers.
9.5/10 and my Pick of the Year 2006
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Yet another...
...another dead rat that is.
Our house is going to be full of dead rats.
Horrible, horrible, horrible.
At least the grey grey grass is now the grey grey stones of home. Looks like we're nearly finished. Photo to follow (when its light enough for anything to come out).
By the way and apropos bollocks-all, I heard the Beatles LOVE album on Saturday and the bits I've heard are brilliant.
Our house is going to be full of dead rats.
Horrible, horrible, horrible.
At least the grey grey grass is now the grey grey stones of home. Looks like we're nearly finished. Photo to follow (when its light enough for anything to come out).
By the way and apropos bollocks-all, I heard the Beatles LOVE album on Saturday and the bits I've heard are brilliant.
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Rat
Today my dad became an official hero. Since Wednesday, we've been smelling what can only be described as a shitty smell in our toilet. Now I know a toilet is occasionally meant to smell of shit. Maybe only the Queen's smells of roses all the time. For the rest of us great unwashed...
Anyway, on Thursday I remarked that our landscape gardener Lee must have dumped an enourmously stinking load because, I said, it whiffed like the portable khazis you find at festivals. On Friday, it had got worse. By the evening, when we returned from work, Mrs D/D noticed that the small had moved into the living room. Now, in east London, it seems the majority of bathroosms, like ours, are situated downstairs. Ours is no exception, and therefore, the back wall of the bathroom seperates the downstairs cupbarod in our house. Oh fuck, we both though as it dawned on us what it might be. Its dead rat.
And behold, that's what it was. We've have rats every year for five of the seven we've lived here - we've even named them. Rufus, Reinhardt, and ths year, Roland. We've laid various baits over the years and usually they just disappear and the munching rats die somewhere else. This year's monster has been quite troublesome though. First, it munched through the wiring in our central heating boiler, more-or-less maiming it at a cost of £217. Then it ate quite a lot fo food in the kitchen. Because we've got Nicki, the ratfood eating guide beast, we needed bait a dog could not feed on, so we took the normally reliable but loose Rentokil bait away this year and replaced it with solid bait in a plastic box, whose admittance holes are too small to allow a dog to investigate too closely. In the meantime, I'd bought a bottle of Bayer granules which i left under the kitchen sink for a rainy day. Well that bottle had been bitten into and most of the contents consumed. On the side of the bottle, it says in large friendly letters "kills up to 20 rats". And that, I think, is what killed ours.
For under the bath, large as death and twice as ugly was Roland. He was very smelly, and about a minute after being found, was also very cooked as our garden incinerator cremated him. Roland, RIP. Stinking bastard.
So my dad gets a huge thanks for finding him and disposing of the cunt.
Not Roland, but they all look the same, don't they?
Anyway, on Thursday I remarked that our landscape gardener Lee must have dumped an enourmously stinking load because, I said, it whiffed like the portable khazis you find at festivals. On Friday, it had got worse. By the evening, when we returned from work, Mrs D/D noticed that the small had moved into the living room. Now, in east London, it seems the majority of bathroosms, like ours, are situated downstairs. Ours is no exception, and therefore, the back wall of the bathroom seperates the downstairs cupbarod in our house. Oh fuck, we both though as it dawned on us what it might be. Its dead rat.
And behold, that's what it was. We've have rats every year for five of the seven we've lived here - we've even named them. Rufus, Reinhardt, and ths year, Roland. We've laid various baits over the years and usually they just disappear and the munching rats die somewhere else. This year's monster has been quite troublesome though. First, it munched through the wiring in our central heating boiler, more-or-less maiming it at a cost of £217. Then it ate quite a lot fo food in the kitchen. Because we've got Nicki, the ratfood eating guide beast, we needed bait a dog could not feed on, so we took the normally reliable but loose Rentokil bait away this year and replaced it with solid bait in a plastic box, whose admittance holes are too small to allow a dog to investigate too closely. In the meantime, I'd bought a bottle of Bayer granules which i left under the kitchen sink for a rainy day. Well that bottle had been bitten into and most of the contents consumed. On the side of the bottle, it says in large friendly letters "kills up to 20 rats". And that, I think, is what killed ours.
For under the bath, large as death and twice as ugly was Roland. He was very smelly, and about a minute after being found, was also very cooked as our garden incinerator cremated him. Roland, RIP. Stinking bastard.
So my dad gets a huge thanks for finding him and disposing of the cunt.
Not Roland, but they all look the same, don't they?
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Its good to touch, the grey grey grasss...of home
Just a wee picture for the future. A future when we have a garden and not some kind of Somme-like quaggy.
This is how our garden looked between being paved and being a weed-filled "lawn".
I only hope there is a patio there next Wednesday. If there is, I shall post a picture of it in its virginal glory.
If not, bring on the Seroxat. For it is going to be rather frigging expensive.
Some rules Nicki the New Guiding Beast needs to learn
Nicky needs to learn:
1. Leaving my bones all over the house, particularly in doorways, does not friends win.
2. One lick is as good as 2 million.
3. Sometimes wrestling is not on the cards, like it or not. When THE MAN wants to watch TV or just slob out, I must join him, or at least pretend to be joining in, even though in my head I'm actually killing Yorkshire Terriers with my FIERCE bite.
4. My bark is pretty impressive, yes, but I only need to convince you once. That's enough.
5. Turding is something I am told to do, and can't, unlike alpha humans, do it when I feel, where I feel. Pavement turds mean I sleep outside in the snow. When there is no snow, I sleep outside with two peed off cats. And THREE Yorkshire Terriers.
6. When the man wants to wrestle, I am not to curl up and pretend to be dead. He does not believe me and will only hate me for being lazy.
7. Older dogs may know more than me. I must learn from them.
8. Water can be drunk at a relaxed pace. I don't need to flood the kitchen floor to drink it and it won't disappear if I don't gulp it down as if I were living in sub-saharan Africa during a drought.
9. I am a guide dog, not a pet dog. This is something I need to remember unless I want to end up prematurely in the back of the Dog Van. NOBODY KNOWS what happens in the Dog Van.
1. Leaving my bones all over the house, particularly in doorways, does not friends win.
2. One lick is as good as 2 million.
3. Sometimes wrestling is not on the cards, like it or not. When THE MAN wants to watch TV or just slob out, I must join him, or at least pretend to be joining in, even though in my head I'm actually killing Yorkshire Terriers with my FIERCE bite.
4. My bark is pretty impressive, yes, but I only need to convince you once. That's enough.
5. Turding is something I am told to do, and can't, unlike alpha humans, do it when I feel, where I feel. Pavement turds mean I sleep outside in the snow. When there is no snow, I sleep outside with two peed off cats. And THREE Yorkshire Terriers.
6. When the man wants to wrestle, I am not to curl up and pretend to be dead. He does not believe me and will only hate me for being lazy.
7. Older dogs may know more than me. I must learn from them.
8. Water can be drunk at a relaxed pace. I don't need to flood the kitchen floor to drink it and it won't disappear if I don't gulp it down as if I were living in sub-saharan Africa during a drought.
9. I am a guide dog, not a pet dog. This is something I need to remember unless I want to end up prematurely in the back of the Dog Van. NOBODY KNOWS what happens in the Dog Van.
Monday, November 20, 2006
Some pictures of Dagenham
Hardly on the tourist trail, but some nice pictures of Dagenham. Nice, that is, if you like pictures of new exciting housing developments...
....lopped trees in Pondfield Park (I thought the light was kind of sinister, matching the trees - you can almost hear those crows a-cawing....
.. and finally, an overbridge taking you from one side of the District Line to the ohter.
As I say, nice.
....lopped trees in Pondfield Park (I thought the light was kind of sinister, matching the trees - you can almost hear those crows a-cawing....
.. and finally, an overbridge taking you from one side of the District Line to the ohter.
As I say, nice.
Monday, November 13, 2006
Your guide dog questions answered
Some frequently asked questions about my wife's guide dog and some answers. Those I'd LIKE to give, anyway. I tell you, people are frigging unoriginal and the boredom value in answering them is best alleviated with a seriously cruel dose of irony. Here's my attempt at it.
“What’s your dog’s name?”
Her full legal name (in the manner of naming racehorses) is “Walker’s Potato Crisps Have Sponsored This Dog for a Poor Socially Excluded Blind Victim”. Her “working” name is “Nikki” which is a “pet” version of Tuna Nicoise, a flavour Walkers Crisps tried out in the North-East ACORN region 32 then abandoned after poor focus group survey reports. Sadly, she wasn't renamed Nacho or the sweetie-cutsie "Pickle".
“Isn’t that a cute doggy”
Yes, its cute because Guide Dogs are now genetically modifying their dogs in order that they appeal to children and bears with very little brain. The GM trials were broadly successful, but various sceptical scientists have posited that there is a high probability that dogs’ lives are reduced by over two years compared to non-GM dogs. The cost of vanity, eh?
“Is he/she your best friend”
No. My best friend, Katie, tragically died in a car accident in 1994 when her guide dog Sally pulled her in front of a fast-moving truck. The lorry driver suffered months of stress. Oddly, Nicki seems to have acquired a psychic link with my deceased friend and now leads me to her graveside where I regularly mourn while Nicki howls her poor doggy heart out.
“Can your doggy play safely with children”?
In theory YES, though she hasn’t been licensed to without a muzzle, technically required under the Dangerous Dogs Act 1988*. She hasn’t injured anyone yet. Caveat emptor…
* Clarification – she’s not as you can see, actually “dangerous”. However, since she is a working dog, like police- or military-dogs, she’s technically NOT a pet, and therefore, she is automatically subject to much harsher licensing laws than ordinary pet dogs.
“Can your dog do your washing”?
Why, YES. One of the benefits of creating a genetically modified dog is that her saliva glands have been re-aligned so they also produce a perfect oxygen/enzyme mix required to clean all manner of common household dirt to be found on clothes. My dog really appreciates getting her tongue round my husband’s skiddy pants.
“Can your dog read to you”?
Guide Dogs are continually working on giving their dogs voices that can read back text messages and issue other short commands to blind people. However, although my dog can read, and perfectly understands SMS messages and other simple text material, at this time she cannot communicate back to me. Sad but (maybe) true.
“I bet she’s the most important person in your life”?
As you might care to observe, she’s not a “person” as such, but a mere dog. My daughter is the most important person in my life, and since her dog is the most important person in her life, following the argument through, her dog is in fact the most important thing – dog or human – in my life. This may seem confusing, but honestly, it makes perfect sense once you think on. I did say daughter, by the way. I know it’s maybe an oddity to your prejudices that a) blind people have sex and b) a quick shag with the milkman feels as good to me as it does anyone else. I had to pay Mr Express Dairy danger money for his services though since he thought he might “catch” blindness from me. He was right in a manner of speaking: I gave him a dose of the syph. He went blind. Ha ha.
“I used to have one of those dogs” or “I used to look after a retired guide dog/guide dog puppy” or “I raised £25,000,000 for those blind dogs once”
So has everyone else I’ve met. Why are there so few dogs around then? Why aren't more guide dogs than ordinary dogs on the street? In fact there should be more guide dogs than humans in the whole world!! The maths just doesn’t work. Oh yes, and think about the moniker you use to define my aid: a “blind dog” is not really useful to a blind person is it?
“Why don’t all blind people have dogs?”
Simply, only really bright blind people get them. A guide dog is a fantastic mobility tool but they cost thousands of pounds to train and need a lot of sighted help in their preparation. Blind people are not worth much to society, but it is agreed by many academics, albeit reluctantly, that even those who are free of sight have their uses. I’m a fully qualified comptometer programmer at the University of East Acton. I fulfil a vital role in the running of the Government’s research project into the settlement and rehousing of Homophobian refugees. You may have noticed that most blind people don’t have guide dogs. You can be assured that these people have a lower IQ than average and are thus, in the words of Bill and Ted “NOT WORTHY”. Please pity them, and give them any small change you have, as they will be in desperate financial need not having a job nor a cute little dog as a people-magnet.
“How can I raise money for Guide Dogs”?
As a trusted user, I am a therefore an agent for the UK Guide Dogs organisation. If you wish to give direct, then any money you pass to me will be paid straight into Guide Dogs’ account. Promise. Larger amounts can be transferred securely via Western Union to the Internet bank account at:
Funraiser419@lagos-bank.ng.com
If you have any further questions about my dog, or me please email me at
Compt_programmer@east-acton.ac.uk
“What’s your dog’s name?”
Her full legal name (in the manner of naming racehorses) is “Walker’s Potato Crisps Have Sponsored This Dog for a Poor Socially Excluded Blind Victim”. Her “working” name is “Nikki” which is a “pet” version of Tuna Nicoise, a flavour Walkers Crisps tried out in the North-East ACORN region 32 then abandoned after poor focus group survey reports. Sadly, she wasn't renamed Nacho or the sweetie-cutsie "Pickle".
“Isn’t that a cute doggy”
Yes, its cute because Guide Dogs are now genetically modifying their dogs in order that they appeal to children and bears with very little brain. The GM trials were broadly successful, but various sceptical scientists have posited that there is a high probability that dogs’ lives are reduced by over two years compared to non-GM dogs. The cost of vanity, eh?
“Is he/she your best friend”
No. My best friend, Katie, tragically died in a car accident in 1994 when her guide dog Sally pulled her in front of a fast-moving truck. The lorry driver suffered months of stress. Oddly, Nicki seems to have acquired a psychic link with my deceased friend and now leads me to her graveside where I regularly mourn while Nicki howls her poor doggy heart out.
“Can your doggy play safely with children”?
In theory YES, though she hasn’t been licensed to without a muzzle, technically required under the Dangerous Dogs Act 1988*. She hasn’t injured anyone yet. Caveat emptor…
* Clarification – she’s not as you can see, actually “dangerous”. However, since she is a working dog, like police- or military-dogs, she’s technically NOT a pet, and therefore, she is automatically subject to much harsher licensing laws than ordinary pet dogs.
“Can your dog do your washing”?
Why, YES. One of the benefits of creating a genetically modified dog is that her saliva glands have been re-aligned so they also produce a perfect oxygen/enzyme mix required to clean all manner of common household dirt to be found on clothes. My dog really appreciates getting her tongue round my husband’s skiddy pants.
“Can your dog read to you”?
Guide Dogs are continually working on giving their dogs voices that can read back text messages and issue other short commands to blind people. However, although my dog can read, and perfectly understands SMS messages and other simple text material, at this time she cannot communicate back to me. Sad but (maybe) true.
“I bet she’s the most important person in your life”?
As you might care to observe, she’s not a “person” as such, but a mere dog. My daughter is the most important person in my life, and since her dog is the most important person in her life, following the argument through, her dog is in fact the most important thing – dog or human – in my life. This may seem confusing, but honestly, it makes perfect sense once you think on. I did say daughter, by the way. I know it’s maybe an oddity to your prejudices that a) blind people have sex and b) a quick shag with the milkman feels as good to me as it does anyone else. I had to pay Mr Express Dairy danger money for his services though since he thought he might “catch” blindness from me. He was right in a manner of speaking: I gave him a dose of the syph. He went blind. Ha ha.
“I used to have one of those dogs” or “I used to look after a retired guide dog/guide dog puppy” or “I raised £25,000,000 for those blind dogs once”
So has everyone else I’ve met. Why are there so few dogs around then? Why aren't more guide dogs than ordinary dogs on the street? In fact there should be more guide dogs than humans in the whole world!! The maths just doesn’t work. Oh yes, and think about the moniker you use to define my aid: a “blind dog” is not really useful to a blind person is it?
“Why don’t all blind people have dogs?”
Simply, only really bright blind people get them. A guide dog is a fantastic mobility tool but they cost thousands of pounds to train and need a lot of sighted help in their preparation. Blind people are not worth much to society, but it is agreed by many academics, albeit reluctantly, that even those who are free of sight have their uses. I’m a fully qualified comptometer programmer at the University of East Acton. I fulfil a vital role in the running of the Government’s research project into the settlement and rehousing of Homophobian refugees. You may have noticed that most blind people don’t have guide dogs. You can be assured that these people have a lower IQ than average and are thus, in the words of Bill and Ted “NOT WORTHY”. Please pity them, and give them any small change you have, as they will be in desperate financial need not having a job nor a cute little dog as a people-magnet.
“How can I raise money for Guide Dogs”?
As a trusted user, I am a therefore an agent for the UK Guide Dogs organisation. If you wish to give direct, then any money you pass to me will be paid straight into Guide Dogs’ account. Promise. Larger amounts can be transferred securely via Western Union to the Internet bank account at:
Funraiser419@lagos-bank.ng.com
If you have any further questions about my dog, or me please email me at
Compt_programmer@east-acton.ac.uk
Monday, November 06, 2006
Concrete Zeerust
Zeerust is a Liff word which means “the particular kind of datedness which afflicts things that were originally designed to look futuristic.”
These two concrete structures (which by the way I’m very fond of) are a great pictorial definition of this
Firstly we have the concrete lampposts of Hainault. These were obviously a 40s or 50s design. The modern pink bulbs on them are totally out of character. I remember when the fittings were of the standard tungsten type used in houses, giving out a sickly yellow light, and though the station is about 12 miles from Central London, these did, until the new fittings were added, give it an oddly rural feel – a lot of the outer stretches of the Underground felt rather countrified until maybe 10 years ago. The only rural –feeling section I can think of now is the Central Line’s Woodford-Hainault shuttle. The stations haven’t been modified that much since the late 19th century I’d guess (the underground came here in 1957 but the stations are much older) Those concrete posts shout at me “white heat of technology” (can a phrase be an example of Zeerust?) and yet like tower blocks and other concrete structures, they are unsuited to the British climate and have discoloured nicely. Long may they remain in their pre-cast, browning glory.
Another wonderful bit of concrete nonsense is the canopy at Newbury Park station. What inspired this overblown bus shelter is beyond me, though I know in the 40s and 50s you could take a number 30 bus to Putney from here (Putney is 20 miles south west of here). Thus I would assume it was a much busier place. Its not even used properly since all westbound buses go straight along Eastern Avenue. Only three local bus routes use it now. The structure looks wonderfully modernistic, but how pointless it has become– a folly dedicated to public transport if ever there was one and hence all the more reason to like it.
Friday, November 03, 2006
Too fat to fight
According to the Grauniad, two thirds of all UK teenagers are too fat to join the military.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/military/story/0,,1938440,00.html
Kiddies, a message from the dukc.
Keep eating.
Eat until you burst.
Not only will you enjoy the experience of shovelling huge quantities of blubber making goodness down your throats, but you'll also be prevented from whoring yourselves as cannon fodder later, in order to fight illegal, immoral wars. Not all wars are, of course, illegal or immoral. Its just that this government can't decide which ones are which. So until they can get their silly little heads around the idea of whether there not there are WMDs, huge amounts of oil etc to fight for (or against) its down to you to make sure that the only armed forces we have are a lean and fit bunch. So its your responsbility to make sure this pool of is an ever-diminishing one.
Eat and save your skin. You're worth it. And if you have to fight, stay safe. Remember, we should be heading towards a state of rationality. A French philosopher once wrote: "a rational army would see the opposition and run away". So prove to the world that you are not only able to eat more than men of old, but you have moved on to a new level of collective brain evolution demonstrated by your rationality.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/military/story/0,,1938440,00.html
Kiddies, a message from the dukc.
Keep eating.
Eat until you burst.
Not only will you enjoy the experience of shovelling huge quantities of blubber making goodness down your throats, but you'll also be prevented from whoring yourselves as cannon fodder later, in order to fight illegal, immoral wars. Not all wars are, of course, illegal or immoral. Its just that this government can't decide which ones are which. So until they can get their silly little heads around the idea of whether there not there are WMDs, huge amounts of oil etc to fight for (or against) its down to you to make sure that the only armed forces we have are a lean and fit bunch. So its your responsbility to make sure this pool of is an ever-diminishing one.
Eat and save your skin. You're worth it. And if you have to fight, stay safe. Remember, we should be heading towards a state of rationality. A French philosopher once wrote: "a rational army would see the opposition and run away". So prove to the world that you are not only able to eat more than men of old, but you have moved on to a new level of collective brain evolution demonstrated by your rationality.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
The sea on C2C. Two news stories
Instruction to self; thou shalt not jump on train while parked at platform without first checking that the train is calling at where you want to gp tp. I ended up at the seaside last night because I didn’t. (Well, I know Benfleet is probably not quite “the seaside” but it is close enough to Leigh-on-Sea).
Two headlines in the papers, which grabbed my attention this morning.
1. The UK is the most surveyed society in the world. There are 4.2m CCTV cameras, both publicly and privately owned. That’s one for every 14 people.
2. British teenagers have the most fights, drink the most, and have the largest amount of unsafe sex in Europe.
Which leads to the conclusion: this government doesn’t trust us very much. And that if you treat people like stupid kids, rather than citizens, they’ll act like stupid kids. Even stupid kids take stupid kidism to new heights. Self-fulfilling prophecy, dahling.
Another pertinent point. More cameras, badder teenagers. Well that really works then.
Two headlines in the papers, which grabbed my attention this morning.
1. The UK is the most surveyed society in the world. There are 4.2m CCTV cameras, both publicly and privately owned. That’s one for every 14 people.
2. British teenagers have the most fights, drink the most, and have the largest amount of unsafe sex in Europe.
Which leads to the conclusion: this government doesn’t trust us very much. And that if you treat people like stupid kids, rather than citizens, they’ll act like stupid kids. Even stupid kids take stupid kidism to new heights. Self-fulfilling prophecy, dahling.
Another pertinent point. More cameras, badder teenagers. Well that really works then.
Monday, October 30, 2006
Welcome to Studio S
I am mildly annoyed by those greengrocer’s apostrophe’s (sic) you see on signage. Cafés with large signs offering TEA’S, and of course greengrocers offering APPLES’ ORANGE’S and “NANA’S”. What I like about this sign is the obvious attempt at cleaning up the mal-placed apostrophe. I can imagine the argument between underling and manager at the estate agents’ office who placed this sign being one of the clabby, circular kind (see Meaning of Liff for definition of “Clabby”).
It looks like the rather bog standard flats for rent in Kings Cross this sign is trying to flog are now part of a funky, luxury, city-centre development – STUDIO S.
And on the other side of those railings, just to the right of this sign, is another, identically modified one. So good, they screwed it twice.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
You're like Manchester, you've got Strangeways: Daggersdukc on tour
Now that the wife has gone – though admittedly, only to train with that wild, smiling beast Nicki, Mr DD has done a bit of travelling. As well as going to see a little bit of posh on Monday, Tuesday was taken with a trip to the North West, centred on Manchester. So here’s what I did.
Pendelino from Euston. Not been on one of these to date and many of my more travelled friends have complained about their uncomfortable journeys. Humbug! They are extremely pleasing trains with nice seats and a smooth, quiet ride. I don’t think anything can beat the old HST style coaches for comfort, but these are a good, modern effort towards that end.
Metrolink to Bury. I’ve done this journey a few times before and like it for its ‘London-ness’ in that it feels like a journey to Chingford. But with better connections at the other end. At Bowker Vale, some mong threw a firework into the nearly empty car. Driver unimpressed and he did call police, but what can you do about this? Similar happened on a school trip I took in 1984 to Paris (on Bastille Day). Note to Metrolink – sort out your bloody ticket machines. Some supercomputers need less effort to make them work.
Bury to Bolton. Bus round the long way to Bolton as I realised that I’d never seen the North country (as opposed to say, Liverpool or Manchester city) than by any means of transport than by train, and hadn’t a clue as to what the anonymous wee towns between the big ones are like. I almost went to Rawtenstall, but I noticed there was only one route there and back, whereas Bolton was nearer to Manchester (I aimed to be on the 1915 back to London) and there were about six routes. So it was a 480 Rossendale bus. What strikes me about this semi-urban-ness is how raw it still looks. The countryside between is nice, but the towns with their little red brick houses and tree-less roads bring to mind the feeling you get after an LSD trip or a really serious hangover when coming home blasted on a Sunday morning. Perhaps I’m just seeing it through Southern-wanker eyes, but there seems to be an ‘unfinished’ element about the urban North. Prescott would like to demolish all this. Why? Those houses would fetch a small fortune in the South, being described as “bijou” and “compact”. My earlier comment may sound like a bit of a sleight, but I rather like these places, and can see why southerners piss off from Fulham or Southend and the freaking mad rat-race we’ve got ourselves into down here. What’s needed in these small towns is more prettification: more trees, flowers etc, costing almost nothing. Then we need a rebalancing of the economy so that the South isn’t the centre of the universe and houses like ours, which are nothing special, and pretty damn poky, don’t go for the price of some African countries’ GDPs. Bolton could be the new Guildford, since the only difference lies in the preponderance of millionaires in Guildford.
The countryside round abouts, what little I saw of it, seemed much like countryside anywhere else – perhaps I imagined huge slag-heaps and infertile, blighted fields. I should laugh at my own ignorance, and my naivete proves, if nothing else, that I need to go out more.
The real jewel in the crown of my trip was Bolton. I’ve read that it contains the second most deprived ward in the UK and so imagined it to be like Deptford with all the good bits taken out. A sort of grey brutalist-Modernist pound-shop city with abandoned shopping centres and Morlock-esque people dressed in scuzzy, beer-stained trackies. The usual pound-shops there were, but the city centre is a gem of a place with a real sense of civic pride, a good collection of old (the refurb’d market hall) and the new. I was pleasantly amused by the stone baby heffalumps at the southern end of the town centre. I liked the Russian-sounding bell (perhaps emanating from the town hall, I only heard one chime). I like the size, which gives the sense of being a self-contained town, but near another larger one, so it has nearly everything you need within walking distance but without all the problems of scale you get living in a large city. .
Bolon Market Hall
I really, really like the singy songy accent, which lies somewhere between East Lancs and Manc-proper and easier on the lugs than rough Manchester. I’m not sure about job prospects here, whether the housing is any good, whether it’s a scarier place to be than Romford on a Saturday night, but in the daytime, in the centre, it’s a place I’d be very content to be. One of those places from which you expect little, and when your expectations are well exceeded, feels quite warmly towards afterwards. Nearly Guildford, then. As I would like Guildford too were it not full of pretentious bastards.
Bolton Town Centre
I’ll just mention briefly the train journey back to Mancunia. Behind me, on the Trans-Pennine Express, were two Indian lads with mongphones. Now, the public playing of MP3 phones on any form of public transport should be punishable by having one’s nether regions shaved with sandpaper impregnated with iron filings and hydrochloric acid, but these guys I had to admire – quietly - for their inventiveness. One fellow would fire up a Punjabi vocoder classic (does anyone actually sing any more? Pitch shifters are everywhere in music now!) Then his mate would play the same tune. They were obviously trying to synchronise tracks, but alas (and I’ve tried doing the same and thus realise how hard it is) couldn’t do it quite right. So the one version of the tune was about one quarter of a second behind the other, causing a Doppler-ish echo. One was waving his blower around his head, and although I’ll be a much happier man when someone invents a Bluetooth jamming device for these blots on humanity, I just had to grin.
The rest of the trip consisted of doing the various tram routes. I didn’t really have time for proper exploration, but I can say now that Altrincham and Eccles have been seen. I wish I had been given enough time to blunder round Eccles, which looked OK too, but alas, time was against me and after a whistle stop pick-up-some-food shopping at Morrisons, I took the tram back to Piccadilly, the Pendelino, and home.
Metrolink trams as the sun goes down
My overall impression is that Manchester, a city I haven’t been massively predisposed to, at least compared to its rival, Liverpool, is on the up and looking sharp, disposing with, at long last, its down-at-heel vibe which always seem to suggest barely suppressed violence and dysfunction lurking under the surface. I always had the impression that it was jealous of London. If city could claim to have a soul, well, at long last, this place has realised that it can do things differently and at least as equally well as the capital. Small things I noticed: pink bulbs have replaced the orange sodium streetlights in the centre. Big deal, you cry, but these orange babies do make a place look murky, even sinister, at night. I can’t imagine today the sense of brooding depression I might have felt a few years ago wandering just off Oxford Road with the somewhat austere buildings (which still are austere and long may they remain so) lit by a brown light-fog, rain tap-tap-tapping on your shoulder and a Smiths tune playing in your head. To me, the appearance of the place is as radical as the one, which changed the London docks during the late 80s. Redevelopment for its own sake can be a double-edged sword and as you can see by the diminishing quantity of East End locals (who have now moved to Essex and beyond), it’s sometimes done without any thought for the indigenous population. But central Manchester is looking well, content with itself, and is destined to rise even further. London and Manchester will always be friendly rivals, but there is something to be said for being a second city (remember the Avis rent-a-car advert’s slogan: “Avis – we try harder”. London may arrogantly think it has it all – and it is a world city there is no doubt – but that doesn’t mean its brasher Northern sister isn’t capable of knocking it down with a better way of doing things. One thing that Manchester has that London does not is city centre living. Now, if only London could pull that feat off, it would feel like an entirely different place. And its true: Mancs really are friendlier, with three people in a space of a few hours getting into conversation with me without my prompting. This happens extremely rarely in the South.
As John Shuttleworth says: Manchester – long may it rain.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
A little bit of posh...
Lynn started training with NickiDogg yesterday, and having dumped her at Chelmsford, I wandered over to Burnham-on-Crouch.
Not a dire place in the manner of Tilbury, but I think that laying on the couch is about the only thing that Billericay Dickie could have done because there is sweet fanny-adams else to do. I think an hour between bus arriving and next bus leaving was all the time one needs to explore this wee town. There is quite a nice pub near the clock tower. Pricey though (£2.50 for a very small Woodpeckers).
Not a dire place in the manner of Tilbury, but I think that laying on the couch is about the only thing that Billericay Dickie could have done because there is sweet fanny-adams else to do. I think an hour between bus arriving and next bus leaving was all the time one needs to explore this wee town. There is quite a nice pub near the clock tower. Pricey though (£2.50 for a very small Woodpeckers).
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Holidays, good news, glass ceiling for blindos
I am quite looking forward - no, very much looking forward - to not working this week. I am having a well-earned holiday. I still have 14 days left which is ridiculous since I have 27 days and they started in April. There are many reasons as to why, and they are all down to the pressures of work that me and Mrs Daggersdukc have experienced.
Bang went summer.
Carly's boyfriend was no help there either. Less said about *him* the better. It could get libellous.
The big news is this week is that Nicki the New Doggg will be arriving next weekend. Mrs DD trains with her this week in Chelmsford. The other bit of news is that Wifey the Wi-Fi whyphe has been offered a new higher paid, better job at the Snivil Service and so will most likely be moving leaving from her current employer, which is the same as mine so shan't be named. The cheeky little minxes offered her a new pay package as golden padlock. It was the same rate as the other programmers in the org. She wasn't aware that she wasn't already being paid the same rate as other programmers. Needless to say, she's kinda pissed off knowing this, and alas, won't be staying unless they can do significantly better than this - putting it mildly - insulting offer. Personally, I think she should play the blind card. Any other fuckwit would when confronted with what has obviously been a glass ceiling neither of us could have guessed existed.
Is it cos sheez is black? Nah, blind. We'll just have to set Nicki the wild beast of Ilford on to them.
Bang went summer.
Carly's boyfriend was no help there either. Less said about *him* the better. It could get libellous.
The big news is this week is that Nicki the New Doggg will be arriving next weekend. Mrs DD trains with her this week in Chelmsford. The other bit of news is that Wifey the Wi-Fi whyphe has been offered a new higher paid, better job at the Snivil Service and so will most likely be moving leaving from her current employer, which is the same as mine so shan't be named. The cheeky little minxes offered her a new pay package as golden padlock. It was the same rate as the other programmers in the org. She wasn't aware that she wasn't already being paid the same rate as other programmers. Needless to say, she's kinda pissed off knowing this, and alas, won't be staying unless they can do significantly better than this - putting it mildly - insulting offer. Personally, I think she should play the blind card. Any other fuckwit would when confronted with what has obviously been a glass ceiling neither of us could have guessed existed.
Is it cos sheez is black? Nah, blind. We'll just have to set Nicki the wild beast of Ilford on to them.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
The day my religion died
I just want to note that after two years of soul-searching I gave up any claim Christianity had over me yesterday and am, to all intents and purposes, an atheist.
I feel quite sad about that.
Its been my crutch since the age of 14 or so., a good 23 years. But since starting uni four years later, followed by some determinedly unanswered questions, a complete lack of tangible evidence of God's existence in *my* life - well you've got to stop believing in Santa Claus some time.
For all the good Christians out there- and believe me, there are plenty - but mainly my mum and dad who gave me a good example by which to live by, my ever-loving, Christian wife - my apologies for bailing out. Whatever I think about it, this will be a shock and will sadden these good people. But IF there is a God, and my belief is that there is not, , I would rather meet him knowing that I've thought about my belief, and not, like so many others, simply followed some doctrine, sheep-like, fearful, or just unthinking. I'd rather be a firm non-believer than a by-proxy believer.
I leave the fold with a sense of regret and mostly fondness for what it held. Despite what certain idiots would have you believe, Christians are not all moronic right-wing conservative stupidheads. Jesus was easily as radical as Marx, for sure. I'll defend their right to practice their faith as long as they allow me to not practice any.
So, with the utmost respect and ultimately, regret goodbye. The evidence just doesn't add up and I can no longer lie to myself.
I feel quite sad about that.
Its been my crutch since the age of 14 or so., a good 23 years. But since starting uni four years later, followed by some determinedly unanswered questions, a complete lack of tangible evidence of God's existence in *my* life - well you've got to stop believing in Santa Claus some time.
For all the good Christians out there- and believe me, there are plenty - but mainly my mum and dad who gave me a good example by which to live by, my ever-loving, Christian wife - my apologies for bailing out. Whatever I think about it, this will be a shock and will sadden these good people. But IF there is a God, and my belief is that there is not, , I would rather meet him knowing that I've thought about my belief, and not, like so many others, simply followed some doctrine, sheep-like, fearful, or just unthinking. I'd rather be a firm non-believer than a by-proxy believer.
I leave the fold with a sense of regret and mostly fondness for what it held. Despite what certain idiots would have you believe, Christians are not all moronic right-wing conservative stupidheads. Jesus was easily as radical as Marx, for sure. I'll defend their right to practice their faith as long as they allow me to not practice any.
So, with the utmost respect and ultimately, regret goodbye. The evidence just doesn't add up and I can no longer lie to myself.
Friday, October 13, 2006
Will "Living Science" kill real science?
I heard on Radio 4 earlier this week, various educationlists whining on about the new science examination called “Science for Living” or something similar. Science for a dumbed down generation! It will widen elitism since it is generally kids from the state school sector who are going to be taught it! Leaving the real science involving chemicals, expensive glassware and experiments involving mysterious dial-ridden boxes to the posh kids! The world will end! Britain needs more scientists, not less! And so the hyperbolic whine went on.
Now, I love cooking. I’m not great at it, and I don’t do it as much as I would choose. I don’t have the time or inclination. But I do have a natural kind of flair. I can usually second guess what ingredients work with others without needing a recipe book. My kitchen time management is pretty good and unlike most areas involving multiple activities that can lead to a daggersdukc panicfaff, the kitchen environment is somehow soothing. I am to the kitchen what my mum is to gardening. Seemingly with no effort at all, plants of all shapes and sizes flourish under her supervision – plants from spuds to exotic trees thrive under her Midas touch. It’s a wonderful thing, but she’s trained as a nurse, not a gardener or landscaper.
I started cooking at school. Our teacher, Mrs Johnson, was a strict taskmistress, and taught us well the fundamentals. But, seeing as this was ILEA in the 1980s there was never the opportunity posited in my direction to train more formally, for example, as a chef. And besides, it would never have crossed my mind to train further.
The new science curriculum focuses on areas of life which most inquisitive kids already have a basic knowledge or at least interest in GM foods, the changing environment, mobile phones and so on. If the facts behind these are used to illustrate the real dope strands of science – radio waves, chemistry, physics, meteorology to name but a few, then what it might achieve, far more than any dry and to a kid’s mind, irrelevant, experiments with Bunsen burners and pickled dogs*, is make the brain’s lightbulb go ‘ping’. I would love to do a course like this; I mean how damn fascinating. Real issues, real products, real science. Being a schoolboy would be so much fun doing courses like this.
I never took up cooking. BUT…what I obtained from the loudest Brummie in London, also known as Linda Johnson, was the confidence to make my own way around the kitchen, not be afraid of kitchen disasters (as with Sinatra’s regrets, there have been a few, but then again…). And many of the kids doing Science for Living won’t be interested in later years, in thermodynamics. Who cares? Science is an elite subject like maths or the Classics. That’s why it pays so well once you get past a certain level. Top scientists would be the first to moan should their professions become comodified like production line workers. And most kids who are forced into doing old-fashioned science won’t ever use these skills. Heck, I don’t use anything I learned while doing my degree, but I’m very glad I did it.
School, today, isn’t an education in the sense that it was 50 or even 20 years ago, but a springboard towards greater things. Look, 50 percent of kids now go on to higher ed and you need a degree to clean a Micky D’s floor. So if you’re going to get sprung towards a scientific vocation, it makes far more sense to go into real sciences – the hard slog - understanding complex theorems, mathematics, hypothesis, experimentation, more experimentation, review, conclusion – having some sense of the ends to which it can be used.
I bet you after a few years, universities will be complaining about the poor quality of undergrads. I also bet their will be many, many more of them. That’s when the real hard education begins – the way it should be.
Who’s first in the queue then?
* I only mention this poor beast as our school had a dog feotus suspended in alcohol in what Americans would call a Mason jar. No one ever took the lid off while I was there.
Now, I love cooking. I’m not great at it, and I don’t do it as much as I would choose. I don’t have the time or inclination. But I do have a natural kind of flair. I can usually second guess what ingredients work with others without needing a recipe book. My kitchen time management is pretty good and unlike most areas involving multiple activities that can lead to a daggersdukc panicfaff, the kitchen environment is somehow soothing. I am to the kitchen what my mum is to gardening. Seemingly with no effort at all, plants of all shapes and sizes flourish under her supervision – plants from spuds to exotic trees thrive under her Midas touch. It’s a wonderful thing, but she’s trained as a nurse, not a gardener or landscaper.
I started cooking at school. Our teacher, Mrs Johnson, was a strict taskmistress, and taught us well the fundamentals. But, seeing as this was ILEA in the 1980s there was never the opportunity posited in my direction to train more formally, for example, as a chef. And besides, it would never have crossed my mind to train further.
The new science curriculum focuses on areas of life which most inquisitive kids already have a basic knowledge or at least interest in GM foods, the changing environment, mobile phones and so on. If the facts behind these are used to illustrate the real dope strands of science – radio waves, chemistry, physics, meteorology to name but a few, then what it might achieve, far more than any dry and to a kid’s mind, irrelevant, experiments with Bunsen burners and pickled dogs*, is make the brain’s lightbulb go ‘ping’. I would love to do a course like this; I mean how damn fascinating. Real issues, real products, real science. Being a schoolboy would be so much fun doing courses like this.
I never took up cooking. BUT…what I obtained from the loudest Brummie in London, also known as Linda Johnson, was the confidence to make my own way around the kitchen, not be afraid of kitchen disasters (as with Sinatra’s regrets, there have been a few, but then again…). And many of the kids doing Science for Living won’t be interested in later years, in thermodynamics. Who cares? Science is an elite subject like maths or the Classics. That’s why it pays so well once you get past a certain level. Top scientists would be the first to moan should their professions become comodified like production line workers. And most kids who are forced into doing old-fashioned science won’t ever use these skills. Heck, I don’t use anything I learned while doing my degree, but I’m very glad I did it.
School, today, isn’t an education in the sense that it was 50 or even 20 years ago, but a springboard towards greater things. Look, 50 percent of kids now go on to higher ed and you need a degree to clean a Micky D’s floor. So if you’re going to get sprung towards a scientific vocation, it makes far more sense to go into real sciences – the hard slog - understanding complex theorems, mathematics, hypothesis, experimentation, more experimentation, review, conclusion – having some sense of the ends to which it can be used.
I bet you after a few years, universities will be complaining about the poor quality of undergrads. I also bet their will be many, many more of them. That’s when the real hard education begins – the way it should be.
Who’s first in the queue then?
* I only mention this poor beast as our school had a dog feotus suspended in alcohol in what Americans would call a Mason jar. No one ever took the lid off while I was there.
Monday, October 09, 2006
New Thames Gateway Key Worker Housing
For Sale
£10,000 ono. 2 bed flat, Charlton SE5
GCH (untested) with fresh-air ventilation. Single glazed, with open plan window framing in places. Bullet holes are a unique feature of this delightful residence near schools (Borstal High) and local facilities such as Emergency Room, mental asylum and abandoned glue factory opposite. Near North Greenwich tube station and 108, 472 and 161 bus routes are also close by for quick getaway.
Would suit professional couple.
I promise you, this wasn’t taken after a Sarejevo bombardment. It is indeed located in Charlton, SE London, just off the Thames path. Fancy moving there?
Saturday, October 07, 2006
Grays and Tilbury - the visit
Went for a wander this afternoon to Grays and Tilbury in Essex.
It was a mixed bag of an area.
Grays: Not a bad High Street. Has a new-ish Mall, which considering Lakeside is just round the corner, is quite a brave thing for the council to have installed. There is a rather pleasant smell of fish and chips pervading the whole area. I know there are a lot of chippies around here, but why the whole area should resemble a seaside resort which has had its sea removed I don't quite know. You expect to hear caliope organs and people scoring heroin up side-alleys, the kind of thing British seaside resorts are best known for.
This should make the place appear jolly in a "we are at the seaside and so even though its freezing and my boxers are full of sand we WILL be jolly" sort of way. However, the area feels somehow incomplete. I can see why people might get depressed living there as it is so temptingly close to London and yet nothing like the big smoke. And despite its atempts to lie to you, the sea is another 15 miles further east at Leigh.
I am not saying that Grays is the grimmest area I've been to - far from it - but it does feel as if it was the centre of something great once - or perhaps something amazing was planned for it and never completed as it has an 'almost done but not quite' feel about it. Quite weird overall.
Tilbury. This really does feel like the last chance saloon of places in and around London. It has a totally dead atmosphere and even the laughably named 'Civic Square' whose name conjurs up images of office buildings, or at least a communist-style concrete shopping centre is nothing more than a parade of wanky, crap shops (not even a KFC, but Favorite Fried Chicken sort of parade). Maybe I missed the action: maybe nearby is a huge uber-mall which might explain the centre's complete deadness. When I say dead, I mean - where are the cars? Where are the passers--by? The words 'no hope' spring to mind. Its like a day when you wake up, scratch your arse then realise that the thumping of th dole cheque on the mat is the best thing that's going to happen to you this month. A truly dispiriting hole. Not grim in the same way that towns near nuclear reactors must be (they can at least be interestingly bleak, but just a dead, not-happening, hollow kinda town. I tell you, 20 minutes there and I was glad to be heading back on the C2C to Grays and on to Lakeside. And look, I'm from Dagenham and don't have much to write about favourably when it comes to associating 'interesting' and 'my own manor'. I'm just trying to put this review into context, yeah? I am not a fan of shopping centres as a whole for the reason most people who dislike them dislike them. When it comes to my reasons for disliking large shopping centres, I'm not an original thinker. However, arriving at Lakeside, I was truly RELIEVED to back out of the Twilight Zone that is Tilbury. You have been warned. You should only go to Tilbury if you're completely sure of your own sanity, because a few hours there will surely turn you into a paranoid depressive if you're nothing less than 70 percent normal in the first place.
And you call THIS a Civic Square?
It was a mixed bag of an area.
Grays: Not a bad High Street. Has a new-ish Mall, which considering Lakeside is just round the corner, is quite a brave thing for the council to have installed. There is a rather pleasant smell of fish and chips pervading the whole area. I know there are a lot of chippies around here, but why the whole area should resemble a seaside resort which has had its sea removed I don't quite know. You expect to hear caliope organs and people scoring heroin up side-alleys, the kind of thing British seaside resorts are best known for.
This should make the place appear jolly in a "we are at the seaside and so even though its freezing and my boxers are full of sand we WILL be jolly" sort of way. However, the area feels somehow incomplete. I can see why people might get depressed living there as it is so temptingly close to London and yet nothing like the big smoke. And despite its atempts to lie to you, the sea is another 15 miles further east at Leigh.
I am not saying that Grays is the grimmest area I've been to - far from it - but it does feel as if it was the centre of something great once - or perhaps something amazing was planned for it and never completed as it has an 'almost done but not quite' feel about it. Quite weird overall.
Tilbury. This really does feel like the last chance saloon of places in and around London. It has a totally dead atmosphere and even the laughably named 'Civic Square' whose name conjurs up images of office buildings, or at least a communist-style concrete shopping centre is nothing more than a parade of wanky, crap shops (not even a KFC, but Favorite Fried Chicken sort of parade). Maybe I missed the action: maybe nearby is a huge uber-mall which might explain the centre's complete deadness. When I say dead, I mean - where are the cars? Where are the passers--by? The words 'no hope' spring to mind. Its like a day when you wake up, scratch your arse then realise that the thumping of th dole cheque on the mat is the best thing that's going to happen to you this month. A truly dispiriting hole. Not grim in the same way that towns near nuclear reactors must be (they can at least be interestingly bleak, but just a dead, not-happening, hollow kinda town. I tell you, 20 minutes there and I was glad to be heading back on the C2C to Grays and on to Lakeside. And look, I'm from Dagenham and don't have much to write about favourably when it comes to associating 'interesting' and 'my own manor'. I'm just trying to put this review into context, yeah? I am not a fan of shopping centres as a whole for the reason most people who dislike them dislike them. When it comes to my reasons for disliking large shopping centres, I'm not an original thinker. However, arriving at Lakeside, I was truly RELIEVED to back out of the Twilight Zone that is Tilbury. You have been warned. You should only go to Tilbury if you're completely sure of your own sanity, because a few hours there will surely turn you into a paranoid depressive if you're nothing less than 70 percent normal in the first place.
And you call THIS a Civic Square?
Thursday, October 05, 2006
A review of The Bermondsey Kitchen
Next time I post a restaurant review I'll get a phone included from my mobile. I hadn't thought of doing a review until today though.
This gastro-pub is situated on Bermondsey Street, about 10 minus walk from London Bridge station. I was there with 10 people from work at a post-meeting meal.
The interior is light and mainly consisting of pale woods and beiges which make it look fairly contemporary. It’s more ‘restaurant’ than ‘pub’ in my view.
First course: small, but tasty I had the mixed continental meat selection. There could have been a bit more meat, but what was there was more Borough Market than Borough High Street.
Second Course: Sweet potato, mozzarella, cous-cous and rocket, splashed with chilli oil. I’m a carnivore through and through and the only reason I ordered this dish was because everything else either came with tomatoes, which I can’t abide, or was offal. Which I can’t abide either. My veggie course therefore had an air of low expectation about it. Not justified fortunately as the meal was delicious – plenty of varying tastes and enough gear to keep my stomach happy.
Dessert: Yummy choices, I went for a dessert whose name I’ve forgotten, so let me describe instead. In the middle of he plate was a ball of the kind of ‘crème’ you get in crème brulee. Atop this sat a scrumptious almond and butter cookie. If I could make these I’d give up work and sell them to random people on the on the street who would instantly want more. Boy, I could make some ‘dough’ with these biccies. Around the side of the crème/biscuit tower were pieces of quince which I’ve never tried before and whose taste I was delighted by.
So: results time:
Cost was £27.50 per head, 3 stars
Value: starter 2/5 main 3/5 dessert 4/5
3.5 / 5 then. Not bad. I would say its quite a pricey meal considering the quantity you actually get, but the grub is suitably unusual enough without being over poncified so I’m giving it a rating of RECOMMENDED.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Fags
To paraphrase Daphne du Maurier:
"once again, I stopped smoking".
Actually it was two days ago, but I thiought it would be better to blog it two days late than not at all.
I can't breathe, and that's the only reason why. I'm pumping Ventolin into my lungs 3-5 times overnight. This is shit.
"once again, I stopped smoking".
Actually it was two days ago, but I thiought it would be better to blog it two days late than not at all.
I can't breathe, and that's the only reason why. I'm pumping Ventolin into my lungs 3-5 times overnight. This is shit.
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