St8rk Reality.

Thursday, August 31, 2006

Tell Tale Sign I'm Growing Old No.11

I get excited about travel passes and waterproof jackets (see previous entry).

Wednesday, August 30, 2006

Trainspotting

I am now an official commuter.

As of last Monday I have joined the throng of iPod-wearing, Metro-reading hordes who brave our beloved public transport system twice each day.
The previous week I was a lone, irate driver, who spent up to an hour every day ranting to no-one in particular about the Renault Clio in front which refuses to pull back into the inside lane.
Now... well, I'm a different person. Rather than play 'dodge the crazy lorries' and suffer the smug middle Englishness of BBC Radio 5 Live, I now enjoy a leisurely stroll through the park, a relaxing coffee and bury my
nose in a good book.

I even look the part. Waterproof jacket, comfortable walking shoes, homemade coffee in a portable mug/flask thing. I even have the ubiquitous white plastic string hanging from my ears. Which is handy if you don't like speaking to people - especially commuters.

I even... ooh this is so exciting.... have my own travel pass. With a photo of me. It reads: "Mr Stark - license to ride (the train)."

It doesn't. I made that up. But it's cool nonetheless.

Tuesday, August 22, 2006

Tree-mendous

I have an alien tree in my front garden.

At first glance, it loooks like any ordinary tree. You know, the typical tree you'd find in any garden, park or woodland, anywhere across the country. With leaves, branches, bark, the whole tree shebang.

Except this tree hides a sinister secret. IT DOES NOT EXIST. I don't mean in a foliage existential way, it really does not exist. Anywhere. In any book. About trees.

It's tried to hide its 'alieness' by disguising itself as a goold old-fashioned Great British Tree. Blending into the tree-laden background. Borrowed its leaf shape from a rowan, bark from a willow, branch size from a birch. That sort of thing.

*Doesn't Bark From A Willow sound a great name for a heavy metal band?*

But the simple fact is, it doesn't exist in the world of known trees. So, either one of three things is possible.

1) It is a new species of tree, a hybrid of several existing species, possible created by some long-forgotten Dr Frankenstein of the tree world which has self-seeded itself from his top secret hideaway deep in the mountains. Or in the hatch where Lost is set.

2) It is an alien disguised as a tree, making notes on human behaviour. If so, his notes will probably read like this: human male. bit strange. likes sitting position. swears at box in corner of room a lot. no one visits. smells a bit too. even from outside in the garden. could be spy from the planet Frrooghlemeyyer.

or

3) I'm no use at using tree reference books and it's as common as muck.

Whatever the truth, I just wanted to know before I chopped the bugger down. In which case I won't ever be back if it turns out to be reason number 2.

"I'm a lumberjack and I'm... what the?... aaargghhh... get it off!..."

Monday, August 21, 2006

ratatatatatatatatat

I have a pneumatic drill in my head today.

Or at least that's what it sounds -and feels - like.

Like drilling through glass in a cavern.

I have white finger brain.

I must lie down and watch mind-sapping television.

I'm so glad us men get to make the most of minor ailments.

Aren't you?

Back soon.

Thursday, August 17, 2006

Flippin' heck(le)

I read the funniest thing today.

It was about the best heckles people have heard at stand-up shows and concerts. The best one, which literally had me rolling in the aisles -except there are no aisles at my place of work, I am not a priest - was about everyone's favourite pseud-rocker, Bono.

The Dublin crooner and his U2 chums were playing to literally dozens of adoring fans in Glasgow last year. Ever the one for gettin his tuppence-worth in, old Mr Hewson spoke solemnly to the audience:

CLAP

CLAP

"Every time...

CLAP

"...I clap my hands..."

CLAP

"...a child in Africa..."

CLAP

"...dies..."


CLAP


A lone voice from the midst of the crowd piped up: "Well stop fuckin' doin' it then!"

Hats off to you, wherever you are.

Wednesday, August 16, 2006

technophobe

No, it's not the fear of being trapped in a lift with The Shamen, it's me trying to get to grips with the slippery eel that is technology. Bare with me, they've only just discovered Channel 4 up in my neck of the woods.

Grrrrr

Technorati Profile

Tuesday, August 15, 2006

Fest-ering weekend

Three nights, four days, six shows, four minor celebrities and countless pints of Guinness.

I'm back from Edinburgh.

The celeb count was significantly down on last year but still included a very drunk Gail Porter, a very tall Alistair MacGowan and a very lonely (he was devoid of company) Marcus Bridgestock. Oh and I was asked directions my that tall blonde guy who played the new boy in The Office and was also in The Smoking Room.
I also bumped into that girl from Coronation Street who is also in Peter Kay's live videos (Shelley something perhaps?) whose lovely smile melted my cold Scottish heart at the bar - despite the fact her friend pushed past me and stepped on my toes.

We saw a few good shows too, Mrs S and I.

Top Gun was hilarious in a way only students running around a stage pretending to be jet fighters can be.
Levelland, the Rich Hall play, was interesting, if a little baffling.
Justin Edwards was self-deprecatingly funny. And 'clever', whatever that means.
Lucy Porter was lovely. She's made my list of people whom I'd love to go for a drink with. But, sorry, she didn't make me laugh out loud.
Midnight Cowboy was very moving.
Daniel Kitson was captivating. Must make an effort to see him again.

Special thanks to the Holiday Inn Express staff for turning a blind eye when I stole half a dozen bread rolls and countless pastries. They provided a cheap alternative to actually buying lunch.

And special, special thanks to the pretentious young Oxbridge drama students whose discussion at a pedestrian crossing concerning actors who "weren't challenging themselves enough" made me realise that, irrespective of how my life pans out, I'll never be as big a bunch of pseuds as them.

Cheers.

Thursday, August 10, 2006

capital idea

I'm off to the world leaflet convention this weekend.

I hope to collect upwards of 46 (last year's total) of the little colourful flyers from drama students with an unhealthy amount of youthful zest. With perma-grins emblazoned across their faces, they cry: "Come to our show, it's about the moral corruption of the nation's youth by egomaniacal religious zealots. Timmy Mallet's in it!"

Yep, I'm off to Edinburgh for the festival. A weekend of queuing, drinking and haranguing c-list celebs at the Pleasance bar.
This year I'm 'doing it' in style. With a proper hotel and everything. With breakfast included! For three nights!
I'm used to a flying visit, three shows, quick pint, last train home with a bag of chips, so this year I hope to be able to relax, enjoy the best of the fest. And drink more than usual.

If I'm not back in a couple of days, you know I've joined a Bulgarian circus troupe and am on my way to a tour of eastern European young offenders institutions with my new juggling act.

Sunday, August 06, 2006

Golden Oldie

I'm now I'm growing old because...

1) I have developed a 'fondness' for folk music. Where once nothing but screaming guitars and angst-ridden sonnets would 'float my boat' I now find myself harking after a good old fiddle. So to speak.

2) The 'morning lines' on my face stay with me all day. That first glance in the mirror in the morning? That's as good as it's going to get.

3) I have no idea who is Number One (in the charts or Hit Parade)

4) I seek out pubs with comfortable seating and no music - so I can have a "good chat". Usually about folk music or growing old.

5) I have began sampling real ales without feeling sick. I even managed an entire pint recently. And quite enjoyed it.

6) I panic because I still don't know what I want to do when I grow up. And I'm past grown up. D'oh!

7) I write to the council to complain about 'old people issues' - like not cutting the communal grass properly (God help me).

8) I think televeision is shit compared to when I was a kid. Bring back Ivor the Engine.

9) People who drink in my local pub were born after I finished college. That's a really scary one.

10) I make up irrelevant lists because I can't find something useful to do...

Wednesday, August 02, 2006

You Won't Stop Talking...

I have a confession to make.

It ranks alongside 'I used to dress up in my mother's underwear' in the embarrassment stakes. (That bit was made up to illustrate my point. No, really).

I like... oh I can hardly say it... listening to.... ummmmmm.... Chas 'n' Dave.

There. I said it.

Stop that sniggering at the back.

The cheeky cockernee duo's tribute to Watership Down - Rabbit - regularly pops up on my iPod playlists. I downloaded it one drunken evening when I thought it was funny. But ever since, I find myself walking about the house singing under my breath: "You got more rabbit than Sainsbury’s, why don't you give it a rest," is a mockney accent a la Dick Van Dyke in Mary poppins.

Mrs S looks at me and shakes her head, undoubtedly trying to recall her ex-boyfriend's phone number.

It's not something I'm particularly proud of but I just can't resist the couplet: "you've got luv-er-lee eyes... you've got luv-er-lee thighs."

You'll be singing it all night now.

Sorry

Tuesday, August 01, 2006

Car Crash Telly

I have discovered the best show in the history of the thing they call television.

'Cheaters' is the tackiest, sleaziest, lowest form of voyeurism. It's car crash TV. And I'm addicted.
For those who have yet to discover this wonder of 21st century entertainment and are still stuck with Newsnight and Noel Edmonds (note to any television producers reading this - must sound out Noel for possible guest presenting slot) a world of joy awaits.

In a nutshell it's an American (obviously) reality show where a suspecting spouse/partner hire a detective agency to spy on their other half, in the hope of catching them 'at it'. Upon being presented with the evidence that their partner is 'having it away with some little madam from the office/milkman' they are given the chance to confront their cheating partners.

[Believe it or not, Suspicious Minds by Elvis Presley has just come on the radio as I type - spooky!!]

Last night's 'confrontation' was the best television I HAVE EVER SEEN.

It involved a young man who suspected his wife was 'playing away' with an old boyfriend. The cuckolded young hubby (great word, cuckold, eh?) discovered his wife, and her cheating heart, was at a party with said ex-boyfriend.

So, there he was, bursting in on the party ready to confront his wife about her infidelity. What did he see when he (and a film crew of about 20) opened the front door?

Not only was his wife "engaged in extra marital activities" (their words, not mine) with her ex, she was 'at it' with the entire room! She was at the centre of attention of a full-blown masked orgy! The look on her husband's face will stay with me for a long time.

Upon seeing the cameras, people began to grab their underwear and scurry away to the nearest exit. One party guest - and I kid you not - was seen carrying a REAL LIVE GOAT. I almost dropped my Horlicks, I was laughing so much.

Until the party host emerged from the bedroom waving a gun!!! Thankfully the burly film crew security 'disengaged' him. Ouch.

Total class.