Saturday, May 01, 2010
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!
So I finally got to play with a Wii on Saturday night, and bloody good fun it was too. Not only was I pretty good at Wii Bowling, and only mildly average at Wii Golf, but I also didn't accidentally throw the controller through the TV screen or at a wall.
And I didn't decapitate anyone either...
Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net
Which was nice.
And I didn't decapitate anyone either...
Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net
Which was nice.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Hangover Recovery Again
Another Sunday, another hangover, another finger of blame pointed at Kronenbourg for its part in the proceedings and another Carry On film on UKTV Gold.
This week it was the classic Carry On Cruising, not the best in the series but one of my favourites nonetheless. The plot, such as it is, involves a motley group of officer's aboard a cruise ship in the Med. They have the duration of the cruise to attempt to charm the Captain into taking them with him on his next posting (an ocean liner). Hilarity ensues.
The nasal antics of Kenneth Williams, the dirty laugh of Sid James and the lecherous 'phwoar' of Kenneth Connor are joined by a comedy drunk, a quirky old lady and a romantic sub-plot which pays out with a fairly moral climax given the seaside postcard humour which played out before it. Admittedly not a lot happens, and what does has been seen before, but that's the point. It's familiar so it's comforting and it stops the head from throbbing too much whilst I wait for the coffee to kick in.
My favourite bit occurs near the end of the movie when the fantastically jug-eared Lance Percival bakes a celebratory cake for the long suffering Captain. Amongst the ingredients are coconut, bombay duck, chop suey and spaghetti.
Mmm.
Bombay duck.
With icing and cream.
H'mm.
No, I think I'll stick with the Bran Flakes.
This week it was the classic Carry On Cruising, not the best in the series but one of my favourites nonetheless. The plot, such as it is, involves a motley group of officer's aboard a cruise ship in the Med. They have the duration of the cruise to attempt to charm the Captain into taking them with him on his next posting (an ocean liner). Hilarity ensues.
The nasal antics of Kenneth Williams, the dirty laugh of Sid James and the lecherous 'phwoar' of Kenneth Connor are joined by a comedy drunk, a quirky old lady and a romantic sub-plot which pays out with a fairly moral climax given the seaside postcard humour which played out before it. Admittedly not a lot happens, and what does has been seen before, but that's the point. It's familiar so it's comforting and it stops the head from throbbing too much whilst I wait for the coffee to kick in.
My favourite bit occurs near the end of the movie when the fantastically jug-eared Lance Percival bakes a celebratory cake for the long suffering Captain. Amongst the ingredients are coconut, bombay duck, chop suey and spaghetti.
Mmm.
Bombay duck.
With icing and cream.
H'mm.
No, I think I'll stick with the Bran Flakes.
Sunday, March 04, 2007
Hangover Recovery
Urgh.
Jérôme Hatt has a lot to answer for.
I woke up this morning with a sore head, an empty wallet and the usual collection detritus littering the bedroom floor; I should know better to stop at the 24 hour garage on the way home, I only waste money buying things I don't need that I never use.
So, to assuage the effects of my hangover, I flicked on the TV and found Carry On Cowboy showing on UK Gold. It'd been awhile since I'd seen it and, to be honest, there was nothing else on, so I disengaged the noodle and soaked up the innuendo.
H'mm.
To be honest I'm not sure if I felt better or worse afterward as it's not aged well at all. It was entertaining enough in a "why does the American countryside look like the New Forest?" kind of way; the judicious use of a flaccid cactus next to some gorse really does look convincing.
Umm.
Not.
Sid James' American accent is worth hearing, though he uses it to better effect in Campbell's Kingdom.
Jérôme Hatt has a lot to answer for.
I woke up this morning with a sore head, an empty wallet and the usual collection detritus littering the bedroom floor; I should know better to stop at the 24 hour garage on the way home, I only waste money buying things I don't need that I never use.
So, to assuage the effects of my hangover, I flicked on the TV and found Carry On Cowboy showing on UK Gold. It'd been awhile since I'd seen it and, to be honest, there was nothing else on, so I disengaged the noodle and soaked up the innuendo.
H'mm.
To be honest I'm not sure if I felt better or worse afterward as it's not aged well at all. It was entertaining enough in a "why does the American countryside look like the New Forest?" kind of way; the judicious use of a flaccid cactus next to some gorse really does look convincing.
Umm.
Not.
Sid James' American accent is worth hearing, though he uses it to better effect in Campbell's Kingdom.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Monday, May 01, 2006
Somewhat Inebriated
It was the Disco King's stag do on Saturday. The festivities had started at 0800 when several of the chaps joined him for a day's paintballing. Whilst this sounded great fun (it's something I've always wanted to have a go at) I decided against taking part as I was out the night before (i.e. I'd have had a few beers so wouldn't have been at my shiniest that early in the morning).
So instead I met up with a few of the other guys who'd baled on the paintballing for a few cheeky beers and some Pool at the bowling alley. We met up with the rest of the stag in Santa Fe at 2000 (or thereabouts), by which time we were a bit drunk and the paintballers were sporting nice red wheals (which they delighted in showing us). After they'd entertained us with tales of woodland frolics, possible cracked ribs and bruised nipples, the stag headed across the way to the HaHa Bar.
I was barely through the door when I remembered why I never go in there on a Saturday night. The bar is fairly large but there's always a scrum of people desperately pushing forward to get served. It's not the Titanic, there are alcoholic lifeboats aplenty, so why act as though there's a only one beer behind the bar? I pulled the short straw so pushed my bulk through the gaps to get to where the booze was. I ended up next to four women who had to study the wine list for some time before they eventually purchased "a nice bottle of white".
I finally got my hands on a cold pint of Red Stripe only for my bladder to require attention. Not wanting to cause a "clean up in aisle three" moment I sucked it in and headed for the Gents. The time it took me to return to the stag was enough for them to get fed up with the Haha, so we popped next door into Tiger Tiger.
The idea of Tiger Tiger, several bars under one roof making one big club, is a good one. The horseshoe layout of the Gunwharf branch is not. The stairs lead up from the lower bar to those up top; here a traffic jam of bodies occurs, usually around 1130-0130, as people make their way from one bar to another. The problem is further exacerbated by the toilets and cloakroom being adjacent to this junction. Come half past midnight and it's nearly impossible to make your way around from one side of the place to the other without much jostling and getting in people's way.
With that in mind we stayed in the Dance room, the biggest of Tiger Tiger's 5 bars (I'm not including the VIP lounge). We got in early (it's £10 entrance after 2200) so the room was practically empty; this meant we could take over a corner of the room and have something to lean on (well, we're all getting a bit old). It also meant there was plenty of room for the Disco King to strut his funky stuff, and strut he did. He cut a rug, got down with his bad self and pretty much made shapes in our corner, and all the while the room filled up around us. Even a casual observer wouldn't be surprised at what happened next.
The Disco King was having such a good time, arms and legs flailing around as he got lost in the music, that he didn't realise he'd bumped into a woman, spilling her drink all over herself. He was therefore somewhat surprised when she started having a go at him. Luckily the Best Man was on hand to deal with the situation, and there his troubles really began. He bought the hapless woman a drink, and then she wouldn't leave him alone.
We (i.e. the rest of the stag) were, of course, no help at all. The Best Man suffered in the corner as we stood, drank, and felt relaxed, all with the same thought in our heads. Thank fuck it's not me. Eventually he'd had enough and made a break for it. Sure enough she followed him, although he managed to give her the slip. Five minutes later she came back and, seeing me, yelled "gout gout" in my ear (at least that's what it sounded like) before leaving again. The Best Man sheepishly returned several minutes after she'd gone (and proceeded to keep a watchful eye out just in case she came back).
It was round about this point in the evening that things took a turn for the silly. I'd already ventured down the path of wrongness with a large shot of Absolut Raspberry (which smells a lot nicer than it tastes), my fate was sealed when the Shooters menu was waved in front of my face. You know you're in trouble when you start buying small drinks that you can set light to. This is wrong and, trust me on this one, your body will hate you for it. I think I could have just about got away with the Flaming B52, but I followed this up with something that had both vodka and tabasco in (which went by the monicker of Dragon's Breath, fair-warning really).
Luckily (for my liver) by then it was nigh on time for the club to shut. I staggered out into the night with the rest of the stag party, the Best Man checked over his shoulder for the mad gout-shouting woman, and we all headed for the cab rank. For some reason, in my somewhat inebriated state, I made the conscious decision to go to the casino. Yes, it was after 0200 in the morning. Yes, I wasn't a member. Yes, I don't like gambling. Three good reasons for going home and sleeping it off.
So of course, in I went, having decided to adopt the classic "if I take a deep breath before every time I speak I won't sound drunk" method of looking like a sober and respectable gentleman. I think, deep down, I really didn't expect them to let me in. I must have looked a mess (I couldn't have walked in a straight line even if my life had depended on it) and I must have stunk of booze and stale aftershave. However, I must have done something right as they accepted my ID, after which all I had to do was fill in the membership form.
That it took me three (!) attempts to fill in the membership form should be some indication of the state I was in. It didn't matter, they took the completed form from me, directed me to the camera in the ceiling (I'd really like to see the picture, I'm assuming I look a state) and into the gambling hall I went. Some of the stag party were in there, those that had left Tiger Tiger before it got too hectic. I attempted conversation but it was all I could do to get some chips and place them on the roulette table.
I struggled through another beer before drawing a line under the evening. I left the roulette table 50p up from when I started, after which it becomes something of a blur. There were chips, ketchup, mustard, a taxi and.. and then I woke up in bed, fully clothed (yes, including shoes), at midday with Godzilla in my head and the Loch Ness Monster prowling around in my stomach.
I'm getting to old for this shit, I really am.
So instead I met up with a few of the other guys who'd baled on the paintballing for a few cheeky beers and some Pool at the bowling alley. We met up with the rest of the stag in Santa Fe at 2000 (or thereabouts), by which time we were a bit drunk and the paintballers were sporting nice red wheals (which they delighted in showing us). After they'd entertained us with tales of woodland frolics, possible cracked ribs and bruised nipples, the stag headed across the way to the HaHa Bar.
I was barely through the door when I remembered why I never go in there on a Saturday night. The bar is fairly large but there's always a scrum of people desperately pushing forward to get served. It's not the Titanic, there are alcoholic lifeboats aplenty, so why act as though there's a only one beer behind the bar? I pulled the short straw so pushed my bulk through the gaps to get to where the booze was. I ended up next to four women who had to study the wine list for some time before they eventually purchased "a nice bottle of white".
I finally got my hands on a cold pint of Red Stripe only for my bladder to require attention. Not wanting to cause a "clean up in aisle three" moment I sucked it in and headed for the Gents. The time it took me to return to the stag was enough for them to get fed up with the Haha, so we popped next door into Tiger Tiger.
The idea of Tiger Tiger, several bars under one roof making one big club, is a good one. The horseshoe layout of the Gunwharf branch is not. The stairs lead up from the lower bar to those up top; here a traffic jam of bodies occurs, usually around 1130-0130, as people make their way from one bar to another. The problem is further exacerbated by the toilets and cloakroom being adjacent to this junction. Come half past midnight and it's nearly impossible to make your way around from one side of the place to the other without much jostling and getting in people's way.
With that in mind we stayed in the Dance room, the biggest of Tiger Tiger's 5 bars (I'm not including the VIP lounge). We got in early (it's £10 entrance after 2200) so the room was practically empty; this meant we could take over a corner of the room and have something to lean on (well, we're all getting a bit old). It also meant there was plenty of room for the Disco King to strut his funky stuff, and strut he did. He cut a rug, got down with his bad self and pretty much made shapes in our corner, and all the while the room filled up around us. Even a casual observer wouldn't be surprised at what happened next.
The Disco King was having such a good time, arms and legs flailing around as he got lost in the music, that he didn't realise he'd bumped into a woman, spilling her drink all over herself. He was therefore somewhat surprised when she started having a go at him. Luckily the Best Man was on hand to deal with the situation, and there his troubles really began. He bought the hapless woman a drink, and then she wouldn't leave him alone.
We (i.e. the rest of the stag) were, of course, no help at all. The Best Man suffered in the corner as we stood, drank, and felt relaxed, all with the same thought in our heads. Thank fuck it's not me. Eventually he'd had enough and made a break for it. Sure enough she followed him, although he managed to give her the slip. Five minutes later she came back and, seeing me, yelled "gout gout" in my ear (at least that's what it sounded like) before leaving again. The Best Man sheepishly returned several minutes after she'd gone (and proceeded to keep a watchful eye out just in case she came back).
It was round about this point in the evening that things took a turn for the silly. I'd already ventured down the path of wrongness with a large shot of Absolut Raspberry (which smells a lot nicer than it tastes), my fate was sealed when the Shooters menu was waved in front of my face. You know you're in trouble when you start buying small drinks that you can set light to. This is wrong and, trust me on this one, your body will hate you for it. I think I could have just about got away with the Flaming B52, but I followed this up with something that had both vodka and tabasco in (which went by the monicker of Dragon's Breath, fair-warning really).
Luckily (for my liver) by then it was nigh on time for the club to shut. I staggered out into the night with the rest of the stag party, the Best Man checked over his shoulder for the mad gout-shouting woman, and we all headed for the cab rank. For some reason, in my somewhat inebriated state, I made the conscious decision to go to the casino. Yes, it was after 0200 in the morning. Yes, I wasn't a member. Yes, I don't like gambling. Three good reasons for going home and sleeping it off.
So of course, in I went, having decided to adopt the classic "if I take a deep breath before every time I speak I won't sound drunk" method of looking like a sober and respectable gentleman. I think, deep down, I really didn't expect them to let me in. I must have looked a mess (I couldn't have walked in a straight line even if my life had depended on it) and I must have stunk of booze and stale aftershave. However, I must have done something right as they accepted my ID, after which all I had to do was fill in the membership form.
That it took me three (!) attempts to fill in the membership form should be some indication of the state I was in. It didn't matter, they took the completed form from me, directed me to the camera in the ceiling (I'd really like to see the picture, I'm assuming I look a state) and into the gambling hall I went. Some of the stag party were in there, those that had left Tiger Tiger before it got too hectic. I attempted conversation but it was all I could do to get some chips and place them on the roulette table.
I struggled through another beer before drawing a line under the evening. I left the roulette table 50p up from when I started, after which it becomes something of a blur. There were chips, ketchup, mustard, a taxi and.. and then I woke up in bed, fully clothed (yes, including shoes), at midday with Godzilla in my head and the Loch Ness Monster prowling around in my stomach.
I'm getting to old for this shit, I really am.
Monday, April 24, 2006
Stripped Bicycle
I'm not sure if this is supposed to be a modern art installation or not, but this forlorn looking bike frame has been locked up on Albert Road for at least three weeks now. It's only a matter of time before someone comes along and blags the d-lock.
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