Crikey, Is That The Time?

The Fourth of August Two Thousand and Eleven. Thursday.

The air is close and heavy but the storm is refusing to come and clear it up. It's always this way when the flow of time gets bunged up. The ozone created by lightning works as an excellent spatio-temporal decongestant.

But for now...

The American Pop Cultural Attaché (APCA) is visiting Scarborough, only her train was delayed and she missed her connection. As a result, reality split into two (y'know, like in Sliding Doors (fact: Gwyneth Paltrow still uses the accent Joey from Bread gave her when she did the film when she talks to husband Coldplay's Chris Martin. He still doesn't realise she's American!) while the good attaché had a cuppa and got here an hour late, her evil goateed counterpart arrived on time and started zapping holidaymakers with her phaser. I hate it when that happens.



Various bits of time slippage meant the next train to depart was hauled by Scots Guardsman, a steam loco that went missing in the mists of time 25 years ago. It was driven by Blythe Danner, pretending to be an older version of her daughter, Gwyneth Paltrow, by putting on an English accent! With a goatee!

But perhaps the weirdest side effect of this is that in 2 seperate parallel universes both myself and the APCA starting going on about Gwyneth Paltrow and Sliding Doors on my blog and her Twitter feed at EXACTLY THE SAME TIME.

Other related phenomena included a double rainbow over Scarborough and forgetting to set the timer for Torchwood and The Big Bang Theory. There's also the fact that this blog is being sent back in time from the following morning. Weird, eh? Almost like some mysterious force caused me to nod off.

Let's hope its not long until the normal flow of time is resumed.

More soonliest. Or the nearest non linear temporal equivalent.

Nineteen Years Ago

The Second of August One Thousand Nine Hundred and Ninety-Two. Sunday.

Got talking to Geena Davis today. My, she is an attractive woman and intelligent with it. I don't think I've enjoyed sex with anyone so much. I must ring her again.

I'm glad I had a chance to explain some of the customs of the planet Earth to those Jovians who popped around today. They looked as if they were a lot happier knowing exactly how to perform a two-fingered salute properly. Viva interplanetary union.

Started building a boat today.

I am now a telepath of the third grade which means I am able to read the mind of any brick regardless of what sort of clay it is made from.

Lasers to took too long to destroy Daleks and Cybermen resulting in one of the Telosians "kissing" me and placing a device in my mouth. Very scary.

And yes, it has been that sort of day, though I did find another way of writing.

Poetry reading #8: 29, 30, 31 & 32

The Third of August Two Thousand and Eleven. Wednesday.

That was a genuine diary entry from 1992. Haven't changed much, have I? (ho-ho). 3rd August would have been more appropriate, I guess, but that was all about catching a train from Pendleton station (closed now), buying some Dungeons and Dragons stuff and, quote, having 'a long argument about choice and free will vs. discipline with Mum.' (I know!). The entry for the 2nd had the rather half-assed flight of fancy stuff so I thought I'd go with that instead. The bit about the poetry was me working my way through a huge book of Emily Dickinson poems (I know!). Oh, 23 year old Vin, what were you thinking.

Blimey, Stewie on Family Guy has just asked 'Whatever happened to Geena Davis?' Freaking out now. Here's Emily's poem no 30:

THE NEAREST dream recedes, unrealized.
The heaven we chase
Like the June bee
Before the school-boy
Invites the race;	5
Stoops to an easy clover—
Dips—evades—teases—deploys;
Then to the royal clouds
Lifts his light pinnace
Heedless of the boy	10
Staring, bewildered, at the mocking sky.
Homesick for steadfast honey,
Ah! the bee flies not
That brews that rare variety.

So I hope that's cleared that up.


More soonliest.

Rail Tales

The Second of August Two Thousand and Eleven. Tuesday.

Back at the launderette for the light wash. I've already been into work today so I'm fit to drop now, but have to take advantage of these early starts to get the odd jobs done.

This is going to be another one of those odds and ends entries. Didn't plan it that way, but a couple of odd things worth mentioning (you may think otherwise...) happened at work today.
The first began last night. A woman came in to buy a ticket from Seamer to York for the next day, i.e. this morning. For those who don't know, Seamer is a halt 5 mins up the road from Scarborough with no ticket office. Consequently, you are allowed to buy your tickets on the train - at staffed stations you must buy before boarding. This woman had come into town to buy her ticket so I thought it would be rude to say something along the lines of 'You've wasted your time - you could get that on the train' and promptly sold her her ticket.

She paid with a gold Amex card that needed to be swiped so she handed it to me through my window. We chatted and I gave her the details of her complete journey which turned out to be to Peterborough (sorry, this is going on a bit isn't it? I'm boring myself here. Half these details aren't relevant, but this is how my brain works stuff through. Let's liven things up with a picture of a jet truck racing a plane.

You've probably figured out what comes next by now, haven't you? I'll give you a clue. She either: a) leaves her Amex card behind; or b) spontaneously combusts while a mysterious ghostly voice whispers 'Anglesey...').

She left her Amex card behind (good on you if you chose b) - sorry the reality's a bit more mundane). More truthfully I forgot to give it back to her, but let's not split hairs. I tried to see if there was a contact number with her Peterborough booking but all it had was an address in Spain (I think it was Spain - it looked Spanish. Could have been from South America (like America - only South), I suppose. Yes, isn't Peterborough twinned with Guadalajara? Anyway, all I knew was that she would be travelling on the first train in the morning.

Since I was following a late with an early shift I was in to give the conductor the card and a description of the woman. And so she was reunited with her plastic when she got on at Seamer without even realising it had gone.

Then she spontaneously combusted.

Hmm, two quick, slightly less anti-climactic stories now. First, a woman came to me early doors with an off-peak ticket for London and asked if there was any way of leaving as soon as poss. We looked at all the options but it turned out it would cost another seventy quid or so. The reason she had to get away? 'I've got to get back to my duck - my husband leaves for work soon and it'll be on its own for too long.'

Shu Shu grew up in Derbyshire and there's a habit I'd picked up from her. As the woman thanked me and left, I replied 'You're welcome, duck,' without even realising. Oh, how we laughed. A bit.

Also: at one of the places I used to work there was a bloke who used wink in an 'all right, kid' kind of way when he was passing on friendly comments (he had some tales to tell. One of them was entitled 'Fireball XR3i' - I can say no more). Having no personality of my own (see above re 'duck') I sometimes find myself doing the same. Weird, really. Anyhoo, I did this to one of the people I served today and they had - wait for it - only one eye. Don't think any offence was caused, but I felt a bit of a berk.

'Anglesey...'

Sigh.

Here's the jet truck again...

More soonliest.

Laundergate

The First of August Two Thousand and Eleven. Monday.

Late shift today which means I can get down the launderette and do me washing. Dark stuff today. I'm on an early tomorrow so I'll do me whites in the afternoon. The bachelor life is a non stop cavalcade of fun.

I used to pop for a fried brekkie and a paper during the spin cycle but it was always a bit of a rush so indigestion and budget have curtailed that. A short walk, giving the headspace a bit of a clean too is good. If I'm with No2 son we'll go to a nearby square and scare each other from behind trees and generally chase each other to and fro. Getting back just in time to put everything in the dryer.

I wrote in an earlier blog about the loneliness of a washing machine. The launderette is a place where people are lonely together. I've got my headphones on, the other two men here - one older, one younger - are reading their papers. The older man's other half helps him unload his machine - sometimes the reason to be here is practical: no washer at home. But sometimes you recognise a deeper solitude that goes beyond having to lug your smalls down the road. 'I hate this,' said the man packing up as I arrived. Ostensibly he was covering his male pride - he looked like he'd be more at home holding court at his local rather than doing the washing. But I suspect he was referring to more, perhaps the circumstances that brought him here. Or maybe I'm just projecting...

Pause to transfer to dryer.

Today there was drama, mind. Cheapskate that I am, I tried to shove as much as I could into one machine. I put in the powder and inserted the token to start the machine. It wouldn't go through! Each time I tried I had to press the reject button and retrieve the token. Could there be a cut out if the drum were overloaded? Even with that thought in my head I transferred my clothes to the next machine. Shame to waste the powder - I couldn't see a cup or scoop to recover it - but as I was pushing my luck I wasn't too bothered. More powder, token in, this machine burst into life.

Then promptly stopped with a clunk. All the lights went out. Arrgh!

Sheepishly, I went upstairs and confessed my crime. The woman on duty looked at me dubiously when I chucked in the word 'overload' - a term I more readily associated with destroying evil computers through logical paradoxes or the irrationality of love. She went into the service room behind the washers to investigate.

'There's a leak,' she declared. 'Put your washing in the next machine.' As a concilatory gesture I left out a pair of jeans and a shirt that wouldn't tumble anyhoo.

Bit of luck - I've already got some powder in that one! But the leak - had it already been there, or had I brought it about? Much like the chaos and uncertainty of the clothes now tumbling before me, the exact sequence of events is impossible to know.

Just better not bring as many whites tomorrow.

More soonliest.

AOB #1

The Thirty-First of July Two Thousand and Eleven. Sunday.

Every now and then when my poor brain is too fried to go into too much detail on stuff we'll just have a quick recap of some of the nonsense that has just flicked through my brain recently.

Ok, so I've been catching up on watching Castle today (yes it's got the guy from Firefly in it, but it's good fun in its own right so, ping! Thirteenth Telly Recommendation). By a bizarre stroke of fate (heh - they're always saying that in the 60s Legion of Super Heroes comics No1 son and I have been reading) I watched two episodes back to back that were shown a fortnight apart - I'd watched the one in between 'live'. Both of them had references to a 'Sleestak', something I had only heard for the first time recently on the track 'Cloisonné' from They Might Be Giants' new album Join Us (I call upon the power of the Sword of Omens to extend the Third Music Recommendation to include all the tracks off that album, not just Can't Keep Johnny Down as mentioned here).

Yes, it doesn't take much effort to google something, but it must only be done when it's mentioned three times in fairly quick succession. It's a bit like Beetlejuice in that way. Or something.

Hands up who knew a 'Sleestak' was one of these from Land of the Lost?

I'd heard of the series, but had never seen it, its 90s remake or the film with Will Ferrell from a few years back. I don't know how well known it is in this country, but I checked with my friend the American Pop Cultural Attaché in London and she remembered 'em with barely a prompt. The Wikipedia entry makes it sound really odd for what was essentially a kids' series which makes it right up my street. Will look out for it, I think.

Oh, and this guy does Monet pictures featuring Sleestaks. Cool.

Re the Wankel Rotary engine that I mentioned the other night. Well, walking home from work what was on the corner but a Mazda RX8 that is powered by... Ah, you're way ahead of me.

Pity I didn't see it in motion. I'd be curious to hear what its engine sounds like.

I can't find the photo from work that states 'NO UNATHORISED ENTRY' - I'll have to take another one tomorrow. But yesterday I came across a couple of odd misspellings. We all do this, so I'm not pointing any fingers, but they stood out a bit.

On the ticket office-cum-shop for the North Bay miniature railway:

And this was on my orange juice carton:

And that's July over and done with. Not the best there's been. Join me for a much better August.

More soonliest.

Adonai Vasu Baragas

The Thirtieth of July Two Thousand and Eleven. Saturday.

Salamé!

Among the many disappointments in my life is discovering that Whitley Streiber - the horror author who penned the 'true' account of his UFO abduction experience in 1987's Communion - pronounced his surname as 'Streeber' rather than 'Stryber'.

Thus Streibernaut - my name for the famous grey alien that featured on the cover of his book (the name was a riff on the Cybernauts from the TV series The Avengers (my Twelfth Telly Recommendation)) didn't sound half as cool.

I don't think I believe in UFOs any more. When I was little I thought 'The truth is out there' and it would only be a matter of time before conclusive proof of the existence of flying saucers turned up. But what sounded like exciting encounters to my infant mind now come across as either outright fibs or some sort of delusion. Streiber in his book hedges his bets between the physical and psychological, going to great pains to be as vague as possible over what he believes to be the origin of his encounters.There's no mention of hubcaps spinning or otherwise.

I love that photo. It's of a Venusian scout ship as seen by famous 50s contactee George Adamski (as far as I know, no relation to the bloke who had a hit in the early 90s with Killer). The website I've linked to shows his films of these ships in action. They're not very convincing, but I can't help thinking how cool they would be if they were real. That's the appeal of the UFO phenomenon - the possibility that all doubts could one day be swept away if you were lucky enough to make contact yourself.  I think it's all nonsense now, but part of me still longs for a close encounter.

If I do, at least I'll have some idea what to say to the visitors. The title of today's blog is spaceman talk for 'Farewell Good Brothers'. It comes from tape recordings made by one Philip Rodgers at his home in Grindleford in the Peak District. He goes into great detail about them, and the translations he deciphered here. Again, it's nonsense but the level of detail is compelling. We fill in the gaps in plausibility because we dearly want it to be true.

Mind you, I still haven't managed to explain those dreams I had of owls at the bottom of my bed when I was a child. Strange.

More soonliest.

How Gymnastics Saved My Life

The Twenty-Ninth of July Two Thousand and Eleven. Friday.

A brief sketch written in 2008. Hope it raises a smile.

THREE STRANDED EXECUTIVES, RJ, DOUG AND CURLY ARE COMING TO THE END OF A MEETING. RJ CLASPS HIS HANDS TOGETHER ENTHUSIASTICALLY.

RJ:    So that's settled then. Since we're stuck on this island without a tin opener and Curly here insisted on getting the cheap beans instead of the decent ones with a ring pull we're going to have to find an alternative source of food. I'll be project leader, Doug, Doug is going to be my PA. And you, Curly… Well you… Let's not beat about the bush here: We're going to eat you, Curly.

DOUG:    Yay! I get to be PA. (BEAT) And not get killed. Double yay!

CURLY:    Now hold on RJ. I'd like to question your authority to make policy decisions like that.

RJ:    Dougie? Are we going to be able to fit that in at all?

DOUG:    You've got a pretend meeting with the bank at ten. It's imaginary architects at eleven. I think we can fit in some brief face time this PM. (LOOKS POINTEDLY AT CURLY) After lunch.

RJ:    Excellent! What are we having? (TO CURLY) Only kidding. I know it's you. Said so a minute ago, didn't I? (TO SELF) Probably thought I'd forgotten - easy enough mistake to make.

CURLY:    I'm sorry, but you are in no way qualified to say who lives or dies.

RJ:    I'm more qualified than you are, sunshine.

CURLY:    RJ, that's not the point. You can't just-

RJ BUNDLES A PIECE OF PAPER IN CURLY'S DIRECTION.

RJ:    This paper says I can.

CURLY REGARDS THE PAPER SILENTLY.

CURLY:    What's this supposed to be?

RJ:    This is a photocopy of the sew-on badge I got for passing my B.A.G.A. Gymnastics Award 4. I am the highest ranking officer here, ergo, we do as I say!

DOUG:    Hold on a sec. Did you just say 'Award 4'?

RJ:    What of it?

DOUG:    I've actually got an 'Award 3' - Does that mean I'm supposed to be in charge.

RJ:    Er, no.

CURLY:    (TO DOUG) Yeah, you're bluffing, man. There's no chance you got all gymnasticated.

DOUG:    Oh,I did. I was quite nimble in my day.

RJ:    Oh yeah? Then where's your certificate? Where's your sew-on badge? Where's your photocopy of a sew-on badge?

DOUG:    I don't have one. It was years ago when I did it, all that stuff could be anywhere. But the fact remains I did do it.

CURLY:    I don't believe it. I've never seen you do ten star jumps followed by a forward roll.

DOUG:    That doesn't mean I couldn't do it if I wanted to.

RJ:    Then do it, then.

DOUG:    What?

RJ:    Show us your gymnastic prowess. Prove that you should be in charge.

DOUG:    All right, I will!

THE THREE OF THEM PAUSE. THEY TURN TO FACE THE AUDIENCE. CURLY TAKES A STEP FORWARD.

CURLY:    (ADDRESSING THE AUDIENCE) It is at this point that Doug - (CURLY GESTURES
TOWARD DOUG WHO NODS IN ACKNOWLEDGEMENT) - performs a spectacular succession of jumps and cartwheels, much to the surprise of myself and RJ.

RJ:    (HE GIVES A LITTLE WAVE) Hello.

DOUG:    (ALSO TO AUDIENCE) Unfortunately, spaced out on an adrenalin high, I attempt an over-ambitious somersault that is doomed to fail. (SLOWLY, HE STARTS TO LIE DOWN ON THE FLOOR) Now, my crumpled body, a rag doll where once there was a man, lies lifeless at the foot of a gnarled coconut tree.

RJ:    Hmm, I suppose the sensible thing to do now would be to eat Doug instead.

CURLY:    It's what he would have wanted.

DOUG SITS UP ABRUPTLY.

DOUG:     No, I wanted us to eat Curly, weren't you paying attention at the beginning? (HE GOES TO LIE DOWN AGAIN, BUT SITS UP WHEN HE REMEMBERS SOMETHING) Hang on, what's this about coconuts? 

More soonliest.