This Is The Goo I've Got – Page 60 – Colliding hadrons in my underpants since 2002

Tam

Post author By pete
Post date 2003-01-24
2 Comments on Tam

For some reason, my dad liked Tam. Tam wasn’t exactly a friend. Friend is the wrong word. We were never really friends, in that we didn’t actually talk an awful lot. But we used to stay over at the other’s place for a night, and play computer games.

This was back when I was about 12, I guess. I had an Amiga 500, and he had a Sega MegaDrive.

And for years after me and Tam stopped playing computer games together, my dad would sometimes ask “How’s Tam?”, and I’d reply “Haven’t spoken to him for years, dad.”

This morning, an envelope arrived on my mat, the address written on in my dad’s handwriting. I peeled it open.

Inside was just a scrap of newspaper, cut out of the local newspaper. No letter inside, nothing.

I haven’t spoken to Tam for about three years, maybe more. I think the last time we spoke was when we worked in a bar together for a short while. At the time he had been going out with this really nice girl for about a year. She wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous, but she was pretty, and she smiled all the time, but not in a stupid way. In a nice way. And they made a good couple.

The scrap of newspaper showed a quarter of an advert for a fireplace showroom. “Interesting,” I thought, “but I don’t have a chimney.” I realised my idiocy and turned it over.

I saw two familiar faces. A recognisable nice smile, and the ever-so-slightly buck teeth that could only be Tam. She was wearing a white dress and holding a bouquet, and he was in a black tux.

I’m very happy for both of them, naturally, and I also think that they are both very lucky that they met eachother when they were so young.

For the rest of us? Maybe we’ll never meet the right person. But that doesn’t matter, because even if you end up unmarried forever, there will always be somebody else in the same situation to keep you company. The thing that you have to understand about life is that it has the advantage. Life makes the rules, and life breaks the rules. Sometimes you just have to be flexible.

Dear Donkey

Dear Donkey – the brain map

Post author By pete
Post date 2003-01-21
No Comments on Dear Donkey – the brain map

> Dear Donkey,

> The new(ish) swearing function has finally destroyed my already fragile ego, thus sending me into a tragic spiral of self-loathing despair.

> While I’m lost in the depths of my own neurosis, do you have a map of the mind’s nether regions that I can borrow?

Donkey says:

You can borrow my brain map, if you like:

the brain map

Now, at first it might look a bit complicated, but allow me to walk you through it.

Section 1 is called the Frontal Lobe. That’s used for thinking about womens’ breasts. It’s pretty big, as you can see. And, as Ms. Brook is demonstrating over there on the right hand side, it varies in size during the course of the day.

Section 2 is called the Temporal Lobe. That’s used for getting angry. Like, if some guy in a bar is hitting on your girlfriend, then BOOM! Your temporal lobe kicks in, and you lay the smack down on him.

Section 3 is called the Parietal Lobe. You use that for thinking about how attractive your friends’ parents are.

Section 4 is the Occipital Lobe. That’s the bit that the surgeons squeeze when they need to knock you unconscious for any reason. That’s how the Vulcan Death Grip works.

Section 5 is the Cerebellum. The cerebellum does everything that the other bits don’t do. For example, thinking about pies and watching films.

thinking about pie

I hope that this answers your questions, you fucking idiot. I mean, you’re lovely and cute and great and we all love you.

Politics

The Obligatory War Post

(punctuated by pictures of a pretty lady, to make it more manageable)

I was wondering the other night what my contribution to the war effort is going to be.

I don’t think I’m going to be the shouting general in the room with the guys with headsets. That’s a thankless job really, and I don’t think I could see me in a moustache. And besides, they all suffer from hormone imbalances and want to nuke everything, until the geeky bespectacled scientist in the white coat suggests a far more constructive and pacifistic course of action. And then the general has to eat humble pie. And I prefer chicken.

I don’t want to be the cannon fodder on the front line either. I’m useless with a bayonet, and I’ve never liked the look of dismembered corpses. That said, one of my ambitions before I die is to have sex with a prostitute, so I imagine that there will be plenty of opportunity for that out abroad. Long time, five dollar?

I don’t think I could be a spy either. I think I’d just fall over too often. And I haven’t got the right sort of verbal delivery either. When the bad guy is interrogating me, I think I would be less likely to say “Do you exchpect me to talk, Goldfinger?” and more likely to say “Wanker.” Mind you, the women would be throwing yourself (whoops, I meant, themselves) at my feet. It’s not the same if you aren’t paying for it though.

Working in intelligence probably wouldn’t be wise either. I don’t really have the anticipative mentality when it comes to foreigners. The less said about this, the better.

I could do a George Bailey, and stay at home and organise rubber drives and such like. Be a bit of a local hero, just do odd jobs around the community and be a good guy. However, that would require me to take some sort of initiative, which would probably mean that I would lose my job, as that kind of thing is not allowed around here.

I think I’ll be a pilot. I’ll be like Tom Cruise in Top Gun, and I’ll get to utter the immortal line: “He’s too close for missiles – I’m switching to guns.”

Nothing would give me greater joy.

Apart from not having to go to war, of course.

Photos

Some snow

Post author By pete
Post date 2003-01-09
No Comments on Some snow

A snowy scene

I haven’t yet posted any photos of the snow from the last couple of days, so here’s one of the view from my French doors at 8am this morning.

Tags snow

Dear Donkey TITGIG

Dear Donkey – the one with the townie’s shirt

Post author By pete
Post date 2003-01-07
No Comments on Dear Donkey – the one with the townie’s shirt

> Dear Donkey,

> How can I cope when one of the blogs I read has “a background like a townie’s shirt”?! Someone else’s words, but they reflect my sentiments…

Donkey says:

You call that a problem? If that is really the issue that is vexing you the most in your life at this particular moment in time, then I am most impressed with how incredibly “together” your ensemble de vie seems to be.

If you really need tips to cope with this eyesore of mammoth proportions (which, strangely, everyone except you seems to like) then resize your browser to about 800 pixels wide.

And besides, it isn’t a townie’s shirt. It’s a picnic blanket. Sounds to me like someone has some unresolved issues relating to townies. Were you abused by townies as a child? Did you once walk in on a townie having sex with the family cat? This is the kind of stuff that “Dear Donkey” wants to hear about.

Meander

One wintry night

I don’t consider myself to be worldly-wise.

I haven’t seen the world. Yet.

I haven’t travelled all over, and experienced the diversity that only a true ramblin’ man could.

But I think I’ve had first hand experience of some quite varied environments within the United Kingdom. I’ve lived in cities, and I’ve lived in villages, and a spectrum in between.

Tonight, 2:05am, I walked home from the train station amidst the sodium lights and the shrill birdsong, both of which are still filtering in through my open balcony doors. And I felt this feeling of unity, like the minor details of my life so far had been distilled and mixed into a small basin, and were being fed to me there and then.

I realise now that I have achieved so much more in 2002 than I dreamed possible. I am in a fantastic situation right now, and this is a great place to be attacking the remainder of my life from. Let’s hope that I don’t fuck it up.

Some rewinding may be in order.

I didn’t steal the broken headrest from the train tonight.

Rewind.

I was sat on the return train tonight, amidst pissheads and lager louts who were staggering up the aisles and laughing the most despicable laughs imaginable. A broken headrest was opposite me, laid on the seat, inviting me to use it as a weapon, so that I may destroy the form of this twat in a beanie hat who was laughing like a bad comedian.

Rewind.

The Gods were smiling on me tonight. After wandering the streets of Wimbledon for 45 minutes, I was sure that I was doomed to spend the next six hours trapsing the highways and byways, waiting for the public transport to restart in the morning so that I may be on my merry way. I had missed the train that I was aiming for, by a long shot. It was long gone, and I couldn’t see a resolution.

I continued to walk. After all, what else is there? I would walk all night, if necessary. It would be a learning experience, that would build me as a man. I’ve walked all night before, and if necessary I would walk all night again.

However, I broke the crest of a hill and was warmed by the glow of Wimbledon station. The grail. The target. If only I had happened upon it earlier.

I wandered inside, more out of curiosity than any belief that it would be fulfilling. I sauntered to my regular platform. Hark, what did I see? A train. But not just any train.

A train that could take me home.

Rewind.

I left the party on foot at about half past midnight. I had a train to catch. As long as things went according to plan, I could be home in an hour. 1:30am. A quite respectable time.

The party was very enjoyable actually. It was attended by a dozen rather likeable people, with only a small number being too drunk to appreciate it. The wine was plentiful, the music was variable, and the conversation was of a fine calibre. I was having a good night, amongst like-minded individuals.

Dare I say it, probably the best New Years’ Eve on record.

And now, to my readership. I’d like to wish a lot of love to you all. Over this coming year there will be moments of greatness, and moments of not-so-greatness. It’s inevitable. But I’ll look after you in any way that I can.

Adieu. Speak to you tomorrow.

Fiction

Return to the homestead

I opened the front door and the sea monkeys were yapping around my ankles, eagerly anticipating my return. The wife kisses me on the cheek and asks me how the weekend was, and I tell her that it was fine, and my parents are great, and how I transferred a hard disk from one of my father’s computers to another, and all sorts of other anecdotes about the curry that went from docile to underwear-threatening within the space of a ten minute walk et al.

And then she passes me this mornings newspaper, still unopened, and I put on my slippers and sit down in front of the roaring log fire and read how my stocks and shares are doing, and about Manchester United’s poor performance yesterday.

And the sea monkeys are curled up at my feet, snoozing in front of the fire, whilst my oil painting of my late great-great-uncle George looks down on me with pride from above the mantelpiece.

The smell of hot mince pies permeate my nostrils, mingling with the aroma of the beef and onion pie in the oven.

A little Beethoven would be appropriate, I think.

Photos

Sea Monkeys

Post author By pete
Post date 2002-12-11
1 Comment on Sea Monkeys

The Sea Monkey experiment has begun. After allowing the water to purify for 24 hours, I have introduced the eggs to the tank.

I can’t help thinking that the desk isn’t the most stable place for these waterbound critters, but once they grow big and strong I am hoping they will be as therapeutic and as inspirational as a huge tank of tropical poisson.

At present, I appear to be looking at a jar of slightly cloudy water, with a fine precipitate on the surface and within a couple of millimetres of the surface.

There are, as of yet, no verifiable signs of life, though I swear that these particles on the surface are arranging themselves to spell out the word “HI”.

I wonder if they like tabasco sauce…

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