London Metrosexual
A week savouring the joys of commuting to Waterloo on South West Trains. Oxford Street is packed, the Christmas lights are on, the temporary ice rinks are open and lots of people are enjoying Christmas parties. Inevitably romance, as well as alcohol, is in the air.
I am fairly shy and reserved so I took the opportunity to place a couple of small ads in the wonderful London Paper and am eagerly awaiting a couple of calls and an early Christmas present next week.
'Monday night. District Line train to Wimbledon. You - beautiful, blonde hair, long coat, stylish scarf. Me - semi-comatose, dishevelled, drinking a can of Special Brew, pretending to read 'C# for beginners'. Drink ?'
'Tuesday night. Clapham Junction. 9pm. I was train-spotting on platform 11. You disembarked the 20:47 from Waterloo to Guildford. I informed you this service was delayed by 3 minutes 22 seconds due to a person being taken ill at Vauxhall. I then tried to tell you this locomotive had recently been serviced at Wimbledon Train Care Depot but you hurriedly walked away. Drink ?'
'Wednesday night. 01:55 Milk train to Portsmouth. Cute brunette who chose to sit next to me but was too nervous to say anything. I was desperately trying to remember what I had told the CEO at the office party. I fell asleep, snored and mistakenly lolled onto your shoulder. You smiled. Nervously. I missed my stop at Surbiton and ended up in Gosport. You laughed. Drink ?'
'Thursday night. Football club party. Stunning blonde who stood next to me under the Waterloo clock waiting for the 23:59 to Wokingham. I was wearing shorts, white T-shirt with fake breasts and a reindeer hat complete with flashing lights and antlers.
I smiled and hicupped. A lot. You frowned and stared out the window while I tried to make eye contact. I asked you: 'Excuse me, but do you happen to know whether this train is stopping at Chessington South ?' I was transfixed by your beauty. At Raynes Park, your boyfriend said 'What do you think you're looking at, mate ?' and viciously attacked me. Drink ?'
Friday. Discharged from casualty with seven stitches. Called in sick. Quiet night in with the wife.
world's first blogger dies
Sadly, the world's first and most prolific blogger, the Reverend Robert Shields has passed away in America aged 89. Shields was the author of the world's longest diary consisting of a staggering 37 million words. Shields was truly the world's first blogger with his first recorded entry in April 1927 beating Dave Winer by 3 months. Nor was Robert Shields afraid of including trivia and useless information in his journals. For example, how many blogs (or Tumblelogs for that matter) record blood pressure readings (Shields despised silly mood emoticons), make any effort to fastidiously record every single visit to the lavatory (Shields had dozens of imaginative ways to describe the act of urination) or have the thoughtfulness to detail every single piece of junk mail ever received. Lazy, modern bloggers (with the possible exception of Robert Scoble who, coincidentally, was named after Shields) everywhere should hang their heads in shame when they learn of Shield's commitment to the blogging cause; Shields never slept for more than 2 hours to ensure he could capture his dreams. Here is just one example of his exceptional writing:'9.35-9.40 I cleaned the cerumen from both my ears and from both hearing aids.'Unfortunately, although Shields has left the 91 boxes containing his life's work to a university, he has stipulated that the full contents can not be published until 2049. I will leave the final words to the great man himself.
'It is an uninhibited diary, It is spontaneous. I type it as it comes, I don’t correct it and I don’t edit it.'
just do what you are told
Another in this award winning and ever popular series. 'Hello John. Can I ask you a quick question ?' 'Well I'm onsite at a Red account in deepest Kazbakistan about to go into a crisis meeting. But, as it's you (again). Go on. Fire away.' 'Well I have a really strange problem. I'm currently at Asda and I can't get...' 'Yeah. Hurry up. What's the actual problem ? Installation, performance, database, network, security, clustering, defect, LDAP - what is it ?' 'Well it's an unusual one. It's the milk.' 'The milk. What on earth are you talking about ? Did you really say milk ?' 'Well, as I said, I'm currently in Asda and there is no milk.' 'For Christ's sake, you're calling to ask me a question about your grocery shopping.' 'Yeah. I really need milk and there isn't any.' 'Well obviously all the milk is sold out. Get fully skimmed or get 2 pints from the newsagent or the Total garage.' 'But the milk isn't actually sold out. That's the weird thing.' 'Well if it isn't sold out, why is there no milk there ?' 'That's why I am calling you. Although there's no milk, there is a sign on the refrigerator where the milk should be and the sign mentions you.' 'Mentions me. What do you mean - the sign mentions me ?' 'Shut up and listen''Due to circumstances beyond our control, the milk chiller is currently out of service. We hope to have the unit working again as soon as poss-''Look - can you hurry up ? The council of war is starting' 'Well just shut up and listen then.'
'We hope to have the unit working again as soon as possible. We sincerely apologise to all our loyal customers for the inconvenience caused. Until then, may we suggest you ask a colleague for advice.'
dead body under my floorboards
When your children ask for a pet hamster, always follow your gut instincts and refuse. Last night, I entered the bathroom to find my wife had suddenly and unexpectedly replaced the tile lino with bare floorboards. She was on her knees sanding the boards for that perfect Victorian antique looking finish. I carefully navigated my way to the sink and noticed my two children huddled under the pedestal, feverishly yanking at floorboards and ripping up plywood with their bare hands. 'Stop it. What do you think you're doing ? For the last time, it's bedtime. I'm trying to brush my teeth here.' 'Dad - it's Gromit. He's trapped under the floorboards.' My wife politely interjected... 'Put that bloody toothbrush down and get me a claw hammer. Now.' And so it continued. The stylish, ivory and cream, fake Italian lino got torn, pieces of plywood got raised and more floorboards got levered up. Still, there was no access to the little, cuddly, brown hamster who was squealing from under the sink pedestal. I could have sworn he was singing 'A song from under the floorboards' by Magazine. I resigned myself to his imminent death and yet another pet funeral in my garden. I tried to sneak out without brushing my teeth, claiming I was looking for creative solutions on the Internet. I slipped and broke my ankle on pine nuts that were liberally scattered on the floor. 'Get me a pair of pliers. Now.' Oh no. Not the torture by pliers. My wife proferred a coat hanger which I severed in two places. She then bent the wire into an improvised corkscrew style, helter-skelter type device for small rodents. Thankfully, with more coaxing, the hamster managed to achieve yet another miraculous escape. This was a tremendous relief as I suspect my wife's next strategy was to start drilling up through the lounge ceiling perilously close to multiple water pipes. Later in bed, I remarked 'When those hamsters are dead, we are not getting any more pets. Ever.' Norma replied 'Oh come on. Could you really stand there every morning and night brushing your teeth knowing that Gromit's dead body lay just four feet away under the floorboards ?' 'You know what Norma. You're right. He's such a lovable little hamster I don't think I could have possibly lived with myself.' 'There you are. So you do have a heart after all. You do care.' 'I suppose I would have ended up using the downstairs loo instead.'non-stop erotic cabaret
Please don't tell Norma but, earlier this week, I spent £25 in Shagorika. Such is the life of a sad, lonely IT consultant on a slow Tuesday night in Sunderland. Unfortunately, contrary to my expectations, Shagorika turned out to be a rather mediocre, overpriced Indian restaurant rather than the sordid den of sexual iniquity I was hoping for. It took me a while to summon up the courage to cross the threshold. My nerves were soothed when I was warmly welcomed by a beautiful, flirtatious lady who led me by the hand to a cosy waiting area. She gave me a complimentary drink and asked me to wait a minute while she prepared a table. A table, not a bed ! How very exotic. I looked nervously at my surroundings; comfy seats, a well stocked bar, motoring magazines and stunning ladies peeking out from behind net curtains. Then my host returned with a warm smile: 'Sir, I are ready for you now'. And by now, I was also ready for her. In fact, I could barely contain my excitement. My glamorous hostess led me to a table with an immaculate white table cloth, set for 3 courses with wine glasses. Perplexed, I reluctantly sat down. I wasn't really that hungry so I asked if this foreplay was absolutely necessary and whether it cost any extra. My hostess looked a little confused, proffered me a food menu and ran back to the bar. Then the awful realisation slowly dawned. This was not a brothel but an Indian restaurant. Words can not describe my utter embarrassment and how stupid I felt. Particularly, as I had already stripped down to my vest and boxers. I immediately and rapidly got dressed again and ordered 'The Chef's Choice'. Fortunately, I was able to bury my head in the July-August 2007 copy of Oracle Magazine to avoid the stares of my fellow diners. Originally, I was going to savour this fine publication with my partner, in the glowing aftermath of our steamy, breathless sexual encounter. Normally, I would smoke a cigarette but a recent change in the law prohibits that nowadays. One of my favourite sections in Oracle Magazine is the interviews with real-life DBA's. However I nearly choked on my Prawn Patia as I read this inappropriate and leading question to M. K Rizwan:'What's your favourite tool or technique on the job ?'I am now frantically leafing through my 157 back issues to see precisely how Tim and Doug replied to this question.