The Stuff I've Been Up To. (part one)

Apparently, sometime this week, this blog had its 10,000th visitor (well, since I started counting, anyway) so I thought I'd better put something mildly interesting on it! I've been busy the last few weeks, not updating as much as I'd like, so I thought I'd give you a brief round-up of what I've been up to. I'll leave out all the boring day job stuff that's taken up most of my time, as a post which just says 'I've been working harder than Janet Street-Porter's toothbrush' isn't very interesting. So anyway, here's part one of 'The stuff I've been up to':

Hiking weekend:

A few months ago, whilst out drinking with my dad and brothers on my birthday, we all drunkenly decided we were going to go on a big walk around Kinver Edge. My dad's other main hobby, besides drinking and passing wind, is hiking, but he hadn't gone on a walk for ages and talked me and my brothers into going with him when we were all pissed enough to say yes.

This was against my better judgement as I spent quite a big chunk of my childhood traipsing around canal towpaths behind my father. That's the thing, you see, my dad didn't really do the pretty walks, he liked walking along 'the cut' (that's what canals are called around here. You know how the Inuit are supposed to have four-hundred words for snow, because they're surrounded by it? That's a bit like us Brummies and canals; We've got a whole two words for them!) and subsequently knows how to get anywhere in the West Midlands by towpath. This isn't so bad these days, because Birmingham has been regenerated like Doctor Who, and the council has spent money cleaning up and renovating and prettifying a lot of the canals, but when I was a kid marching alongside the cut with my dad (this was the the early Eighties) it wasn't so groovy. Walking along a muddy towpath dodging overgrown nettle bushes alongside a canal full of shopping trolleys and used johnnies looking at the backs of semi-demolished empty factories in Thatcher's Britain wasn't really my idea of fun. But, my brothers and I all agreed to go on a walk with our dad because it sounded like a great idea at a quarter-past pint number seven.


Anyway, we decided to go for a walk on August Bank Holiday. That got changed as it was my brother's wedding anniversary that weekend. We didn't go to Kinver, we ended up going somewhere else in Worcestershire. (I don't want to put where we did go in case the guy that owns the B&B we stayed at happens upon this blog. You'll read why soon enough.)

My brothers, my father and I, my dad's mate and his son had a nice walk along the river Severn in the pissing rain, (it was torrential, most of the time) stopping in every pub along the way and taking the piss, swearing (mostly at the weather), talking football (mainly about how shit Birmingham City are) and swapping jokes and funny stories. My dad and his mate are very scatological in their humour; anything to do with farting and shite are incredibly amusing, so much so, every anecdote I heard from either of them during the weekend tended to be about all the amusing al-fresco shits they've had in years gone by. So, among the stories I heard were: Slices of bread being used as emergency toilet roll; bread which was subsequently eaten by a dog. I heard about the time my dad's mate accidentally shat in the hood of his cagoule, and the time he was dying for a crap but couldn't go because his wife's sister was using the bathroom, so he went and did it in a bucket in his shed, but he missed the bucket and crapped all over his lawnmower. These stories are base, not very clever, and yes, disgusting, but I love them! I also found out, from my dad's mate's son (who's a soldier) that, despite Hollywood telling us otherwise, people make a lot of noise when they've had their throats cut. Nice. We finished our walk in good humour, especially after seeing my brother Matthew go arse over tip in a muddy puddle, and avoiding the escaped cow that was running at us along the riverside.We ended up sitting outside a pub in the rain sinking a few more pints. Although hiking isn't really my idea of fun, I did enjoy it. It was a good craic, and all the other hikers we met were nice, always saying hello, and the views were great. It's just a shame, because of the rain, I had my head down for most of the walk and didn't really appreciate the scenery as much as I should have.

We headed back to our B&B to get clean and dry and to change into nicer clothes so we could head into the town centre for more drinking. My dad and his mate left us to it at about half-ten, but my dad's mate's son, my brothers and I carried on into the wee small hours. I've subsequently realised we drank something like sixteen pints that day (we started drinking very early and finished late), and we moved on to spirits at the end of the night. Staying out late was a bad idea, because we realised when we got back we couldn't get back into our digs. We weren't given a key, and we all tried phoning up our fathers but to no avail, they'd gone to bed and turned their mobiles off. Bugger. we ended up having to break in through a small open window on an upstairs floor. Let me tell you, trying to scale walls and run along rooftops like a staggering Matt Murdock when you've had sixteen pints is both difficult and, in hindsight, bloody stupid. Anyway, we got in and after me and my brother Marc stopped giggling like twats about the ridiculous situation we'd just found ourselves in, finally got some sleep.

We got back to Brum the next morning via the Severn Valley steam railway, and ended up in a city centre boozer (more drink; bloody hell! My liver was aching until at least the following Wednesday) putting the world to rights until we decided to go home and get some proper kip. All in all, a good weekend.

Kids Today.

I know this post will make me sound like a moaning old fart, but what the hell is wrong with some young people today? (Please notice that I wrote 'some', not 'all', as I know that there are many great youngsters out there.)
Usually, I'm thinking these negative thoughts about teenagers after every bus journey I take around Birmingham. Usually, it's thoughts like 'Why haven't these wankers heard of headphones? Why do they think everyone wants to listen to their shitty, tinny music? It sounds like Pinky and Perky!'
Today, I'm also hating youngsters because of a bus journey, but it wasn't because of some selfish scrote playing his crappy MP3s out loud on his phone. It was because, today, whilst travelling back from Birmingham city centre on the 97 bus with my two daughters, some little shitbags lobbed a brick at the bus window. The bus window right next to where my youngest daughter was sitting. Luckily, it struck the bottom of the window and bounced off. Any higher, and the rock would've probably come straight through and who knows what would've happened? The window was a write-off, though, and the driver had to make the rest of the journey at a snail's pace so it wouldn't fall out.
What makes these little wastes of spunk tick? Why is this fun? If I ever grab hold of them, it'll stop being fun for them. I'd make them wish their fathers pulled out early, the little fuckers.
Right, rant over.

Horse-faced Lies.

I have to get something off my chest. It's been bugging me for a while now. The other day, whilst at the cinema, I was watching the trailers. As you do. One was for Hancock, a Will Smith movie. Now, Will might be a good actor, but I reckon he'll just look stupid in the black coat and homburg, and he'll have to go some to get the timing right of the classic line: 'A Pint? That's very nearly an armful!' Who have they got to play Sid James? Will Ferrell?
That wasn't what was bothering me, though. The next trailer was for the Sex And The City movie. Aaaaaarrrrggghhhh!!! I'm sick of seeing ads for this film. I'm sick of hearing about it, and I'm sick of flicking past articles about it in newspapers and magazines. They go on about this movie like it's the Second Coming. It's not. It's just a film about a horsey-faced skeleton and her four ropey mates sitting around a table and talking about men's cocks.
Now, I'm not claiming to have seen a lot of the original TV show. I did see a few episodes, though (the reasons why escape me, now) and they were all basically the same. Shergar or one of her mates gets a new boyfriend, or has problems with an old one. One of their boyfriends has a weird sexual kink, which they all have a good laugh about in a coffee shop.(They are all supposed to be successful career women, yet they all have employers that don't mind them fucking off for three-hour lunches every day.) They all buy shoes. Desert Orchid wears something that makes her look bleedin' ridiculous, the old one has a sex scene, and Red Rum sums it all up in a voiceover at the end.
This is not the great leap forward for feminism it thinks it is. I'm not claiming to be an expert on feminism either, but I have had my ear bent by a few of them in my time. SATC claims it shows modern women and relationships as they really are, but it basically tells us all women are interested in is shopping for shoes and big cocks. I suppose some are, but not the ones I know. (Just as well, really, considering my knowledge of shoes begins and ends with Doctor Marten. Can't really say I have a massive cock, either!) Also, in the episodes I saw, the men in it were either perverted or just useless. Or both. I find this offensive. Every bloke they met had something weird about them sexually, be it foul-tasting semen, or a prediliction for analingus or calling someone a bitch when they reached climax. And the four gorgons all found it a big laugh to share this intimate info about their boyfriends with their mates in a restaurant. I'd hate to be on the next table to them, about to tuck into a chocolate mousse when Trigger starts banging on about rimming. Lovely.
Can you imagine the furore if there was a TV show about four blokes sitting around a table in a cafe talking about how their girlfriend's fanny tasted disgusting? It would be criticised for being sexist. And so it should. Also, it should be noted that the SATC movie is written and directed by a man. Girl Power!
Maybe it's just me. Maybe I don't get it because I have a 'Y' chromosome. Maybe women like being stereotyped as cock-hungry fashion victims on telly and films. Or maybe it's because I've (hopefully) got a bit of intelligence and see this shit for what it is.

Hypocrisy: The Curse Of The Brummie Nerd.

Sorry for the big gap between posts, but I've been a busy Brummie boy lately. There's been lots of things I've wanted to comment on while I've been away, so this post is a quick roundup of my thoughts on said topics:

My accent:

It's been reported in a few newspapers in the last week or so that the Birmingham accent is the least liked of all the regional twangs. Apparently, prospective employers equate the Brummie accent with stupidity. So, do all companies in the West Midlands employ from outside the region because all the locals are stupid? Of course not. I'm sick and tired of the stick we Brummies get from the rest of the country. For example, in a recent episode of Ashes To Ashes, there was one character (played by Matthew MacFadyen) who was a famous charity fundraiser, who suffered from OCD, embezzling the money he'd raised by pulling a bath along, or some other bollocks.(As you can see, I was far from impressed with the return of Gene Hunt.) MacFadyen gave his character an unconvincing Brummie accent. This had no bearing on the plot, and seemed to be used just as shorthand for making the character a bit laughable. It's the same with Timothy Spall in Auf Wiedersehen, Pet. It's just an accent, no better or worse than Scouse or Geordie or Cockney. And I couldn't really give a toss if people like my accent or not, it's part of who I am and where I'm from, and I'm not going to change it. I'm proud of where I'm from.

Sausages:

Apparently, sausages give you cancer. Does that mean that, in a couple of years, every time I want to munch on a sausage, I'll be forced to do so outside, whatever the weather? Forced to brave the elements, exiled, risking hypothermia just for the crime of being addicted to pork?
If sausages do give you cancer, then Germany is fucked.

Charlton Heston R.I.P. :

No good will ever come from kissing apes. Now old Chuck's dead, I can finally get his gun off him, at last!
As much as I disagreed with his stance on gun ownership, it's a shame he's no longer with us, he did make some great films. He's probably best remembered for his epics, Ben-Hur, The Ten Commandments, etc., but generally, those biblical movies leave me cold. I liked Charlton's SF efforts from the late '60s and '70s: The Omega Man (much better than Will Smith's version of Matheson's I Am Legend) Soylent Green, and, of course, Planet Of the Apes:



Ta-ra, Chuck.


Return of the Doctor:

Doctor Who returned, and it was okay. Catherine Tate wasn't as annoying as last time, and the return of an old character at the end made me want to stick around to see what happens. The thing that gets me is how a lot of my female friends fancy David Tennant like mad. Besides the criminal jealousy this instils in me, I still think it's wrong that women should fancy the Doctor. When I was a kid, the Doctor was Tom Baker! Hardly a sex god. I don't remember my mother rushing to finish in the kitchen so she could rush in and swoon over him, anyway. Generally, all the Doctors have been a bit funny-looking. It goes against all tradition for women (or men, for that matter) to have a crush on Doctor Who. Actually, it goes against tradition to have women interested in SF in the first place!
(Not that I'm saying that it's a bad thing, by the way. It just tends to be a certain type of male that's really into SF. I don't know, one minute I rail against the stereotyping of Brummies, then I go and stereotype all SF fans. I know I'm a hypocrite, but as a Brummie nerd, it's just another reason for everyone to dislike me!)

That's all for this update. More from me soon, I promise!