Monday, 10 November 2008
I'm finding the whole concept of blogging incredibly difficult to keep up with. How do people
a) find the time?
b) find the time?
I mean, for example, I'm busy watching Time Team at the moment and am forced to type at the same time as Baldrick's making a very interesting speech about some mud, or something. I still love this show.
We're currently rehearsing for our 'Seasonal Entertainment' at school right now. (That's Political Correctness for 'Christmas show' - sssh, I don't want to offend the Grinch's of the world.) Yes, I know it's November 10th. And yes, I know we started preparing for this way back in September, but the ruddy show will be shown to parents on Friday.
I can't remember the last time I taught an English lesson, what with all these rehearsals. I miss English lessons.
Thursday, 31 July 2008
I've had a few readers come through from my Flickr site, too. Flickr is a photo and video uploading site that enables you to (it's obvious when you think about it) share photos and short video clips with the online community (see, told you). If you haven't seen my page, why? Here it is, you lazy sods: http://www.flickr.com/photos/asimpleman/
The video I've posted here has been filmed by the inspiration for my Flickr photoset, Route79. (He's strangely obsessed with the Route 79 bus service that runs here in North West London. Don't worry, he is normal. Ish.)
The clip is based on the fact that Route79 takes the same route as I do to work and that I have now made it my mission to look out for this random man carrying out his filming whilst on my drive in.
Here, he has chosen to video the last section of the journey I take, added The Whispers' 60s disco classic 'And The Beat Goes On', highlighted the beauty of Greenford Road (most particularly the Texaco petrol station - a must-see for any tourists in the area) and even sped up the video a tad in order to catch the road I turn into.
If anyone else wishes to pay homage, I'll happily accept cash gifts.
And to see how a real blog should be written, check out Route79 and his Flickr site:
Wednesday, 30 July 2008
such as why your queue in Asda is always slower than the one next to you. Switch queues and your old queue goes faster;
such as why men feel the need to show off their podgy, pasty chests with the merest hint of sun;
or why someone ever told Shane Richie that he could turn up on my TV screen. The man's a lemon.
Another one to add to the list is the whole point of the game of golf. I do not understand it.
Every few months, I feel the need to brush down my brother's clubs and take them out for a round. My reasoning is always based around the fact that it's a lovely day, so I should make the most of it by spending a few hours with just greenery and me. I'd be better off sitting in Homebase.
From the moment I tee off (look at me with my technical speak), I see people hurriedly putting up umbrellas to prevent themselves from being permanently maimed by the projectile lumps of earth that I carve out of the ground with every shot.
I usually take along a friend to make me feel even worse about my lack of aptitude for the game. Whereas they seem to have an invisible fishing line reeling their ball towards the hole, my ball always seems adamant on exploring areas of the green that man hasn't set eyes on for the last millenia.
These areas largely consist of pointy branched trees, stinging nettled patches of grass and the bottom of ponds. Bill Oddy, eat your heart out mate.
I'll get to the end of a hole, which should have been completed in three shots, swearing under my breath as my attempt was closer to fifteen. And even then I chose to give up as the pair of golfers behind us had resorted to pitching up a tent and starting a camp fire because I'd taken so long.
It really is a pointlessly frustrating game. So frustrating that I'm not going to get back those hours spent rooting around in undergrowth.
So frustrating as that lump of earth has now been been projected into space, to orbit the Mir Space Station, never to fit into the patchwork of green from which it once came.
So frustrating that I'll find myself trying to get the better of it very, very soon...
Saturday, 19 July 2008
So far, it's succeeded in being poorly maintained. That's about it.
I've got six weeks to put it right. That's because it's summer holidays!
For those of you who don't know me (and quite frankly, not many people do. I'm somewhat of an enigma. Or should that be an enema?), I'm a primary school teacher.
Six weeks holidays are what every teacher looks forward to after busting a gut to get the kids through the year. All those early starts, late evenings marking and preparing and weekends lost due to flippin' paperwork all melt into insignificance when you have this time on your hands.
What to do with it, though? Well, being completely disorganised, I haven't actually booked a trip anywhere. As I scan the holidays online now, it seems as though I'll be paying through my bottom to actually afford anywhere overseas that at least doesn't have a chavvy family in the room next door, or where the streets don't smell of British wee and vomit. Tenerife, that means you.
I'm in work on Monday though. Tidying up and prepping for next year. Those six weeks are never what it says on the tin.
Saturday, 29 March 2008
Monday, 24 March 2008
My best friend's getting married in two weeks. I'm joint best man, with one of his friends from his work-days.
I spent four ruddy hours writing a speech today. I thought the internet would help. It just gave me dodgy jokes that Jim Davidson would have used, circa 1984.
The trouble with using the internet for something like this is that everyone uses it. Therefore, you run the risk of regurgitating a speech that people have heard in drips and drabs at all the weddings that they've ever been to.
I, however, have never been Best Man and this is only the second Christian wedding I'm going to so it's all new to me. Even if I heard jokes from Bobby Davro's stand-up act from 1987, it wouldn't make the blind bit of difference to me as it'd all be fresh material to my ears!
Writing this speech has been difficult as I can't be rude, nor can I mention any of the groom's past 'misdemeanours'. It's like I'm writing for someone who doesn't really exist.
This must be what it's like when you work for a politician.
I'm going to test the water with the speech with colleagues at work this week. I expect quite a few re-writes as even I'm cringing at some of the gags that have been thrown in there, and I wrote the ruddy thing...
Wednesday, 5 March 2008
Greyhound racing. The sport of the common man. Stale beer. Greasy chips. Chavs.
And a bloody good laugh!
I went to Wimbledon dogs, for the first time, as part of my birthday celebrations. I was joined by other novices and one wannabe John McCririck (blimey, that's tricky to spell) who'd brought along the paper to 'study the odds'.
I, on the other hand, went for the well-thought out route in order to earn my millions - pick the pooch with the best name.
So, my choices ranged from 'Droopys Dalvina' (as it reminded me of an impotent Davina McCall - scientifically impossible, but logic doesn't come into this), through to 'Comans Joe' (it reminded me of the great Schwarzenneger in Conan The Barbarian).
With such a fine system, I ended the night with three wins. Out of eleven races. Left a fiver down. Not quite enough to jack the job in yet.
Next port of call: bingo. Those old biddies clearly know something I don't...
Friday, 22 February 2008
Went to See Avenue Q last night, as part of my birthday celebrations. Had heard that it was very funny, with actors controlling puppets that were vaguely Sesame Street-esque, but ruder.
Yes, I'd say two puppets boffing away in the middle of the stage was slightly rude, but incredibly funny.
The show 'starred' puppets, but the stars were really the voice artists/puppet controllers who had a strange skill of being obviously there manipulating the puppets but, after a while, just became part of the scenery and enabled the audience to concentrate on the puppet, rather than the person standing two inches behind it.
Highly recommended. Just don't take the kids.