Awkward

So, um, what to say? May as well stick to the facts.....

In the early hours of the fifth day of the trial, Mrs RS was attacked and *insert hideous imagination here* by a group of guys near her apartment.

Which is why I went to NY the next day.

We will get through this together, and I cannot overstate my thanks for the support we've been receiving. We both appreciate everything that has been done for us and, well, kindness will be visited upon those that have shown themselves to be real friends.

If by 'kindness' you mean 'beer'.

And indeed I do.

On a positive side, even without her testimony the perps in the robbery case were sentenced to consecutive life sentences for the murders they committed in the earlier robberies in their spree.

On an even more positive side, I'm rescuing Mrs RS from the ghetto that is the 'US of A'* and she's moving over here where the worst thing that's happened on my street is some student scrote keying my car.



*Like, joke, non-Brooklyn resident dude types

Being there

I've just got back from NY and I haven't had much sleep for the last day or so, so please forgive me for not replying to your thoughtful comments on my previous post(s) yet.

I was musing on the way back (and there's little you can do but muse when you're sat on a plane that's stuck on the tarmac at JFK for 80 minutes) about the nature of friendship. A very good friend of mine once explained to me - whilst very drunk, obviously - that he saw friendships existing at three levels, and being a mathematician he was forced to use an example; that of phoning a friend at 3am during a personal emergency.

An acquaintance, he postulated, wouldn't answer the phone.

A friend would answer the phone but probably only to commiserate/offer platitudes. Help would be offered but not right then.

A true friend would, no questions asked, offer to do whatever was required to help immediately.

For most people, the number of people you'd be a true friend to would be roughly the same as those you thought would be a true friend in return. For those of us with low self-esteem, the number you'd help outweighs the number you think would help you in such a situation.

So when something truly appalling happens, when something almost too ghastly to contemplate happens to someone you love, something so terrible occurs that you jump on the next available flight and go halfway round the world - and work be damned - when that happens and you need help feeding the cat for a week, watering plants, looking after the flat, giving you lifts, putting you in contact with people that can help you (or just giving you emotional support) and you need all that help right now late on a Friday night before you fly on Saturday morning. When that happens, you find out who your true friends are.

And I feel humbled.

Because something terrible did happen, and they were there. All of them. They know who they are, and all I can say is thank you.

From the bottom of my heart.

Ciao

Okay, my world (or rather a huge fucking ginormous chunk of it) just fell apart.

So I'm off for a bit.

Behave yourselves while I'm gone.

It's green, so it must be healthy

Couple of things going on right now. Firstly I've had a really bad cold since Saturday and am currently paying for inadvertently ingesting a pint of snot every night whilst trying to breathe.

It probably counts as one of my five-a-day though, right?

Secondly, Mrs RS is attending court for the trial of the men involved in the robbery at the beginning of the year. Unfortunately, as one of the key witnesses she has to attend every day and stare at pictures of herself beaten black and blue that are pinned on the evidence board, so my efforts are directed towards talking to her this week. If we'd realised that she'd have to attend every day then I'd be over there now, and I can only wish that the trial concludes swiftly. It's about as open and shut as it could be and they'll get life for murder, but it doesn't mean it won't take weeks.

So I'll apologise now for being rather distracted by events and not posting much. I'll be back to normal service once everything calms down a little.

Lessons in life pt. 28 and 29

Lesson 28:

Should you ever run out of kindling wood and be unable to find any in the vicinity, it is possible to light a coal fire using a mixture of Gordon's Gin, Extra Virgin Olive Oil and wood chips from a spare piece of two by four you've attacked with a chisel and a mallet.


Lesson 29:

When lighting your homemade napalm with a lighter, make sure you wear your glasses (or any other protective head gear). Thankfully I had no arm hair anyway.

I'm so looking forward to bonfire night now :)

Ow

I got added on facebook last night by a colleague's girlfriend, an action that included the message:

"Hello is this <> the one who works with <> who meet (sic) his american love interest via internet?"

Well, when you put it like *that*, it sounds kind of wrong... :(

Anyway, guess what this is:


Any ideas?

It is, in fact, my stomach this evening after copping a brute of a volley at football last night. You can only imagine how hard that was struck to leave an imprint.

And yes, I am that pasty and hairless. What. Ever.

If only I could have got a Nike logo on there as well - I could've sold my stomach as advertising space! Regardless to say, that stings like fuck 24 hours later and a proper yellow bruise a foot across is developing.

Still, my pain is your amusement. I know my place :)

On the other hand...

(So to speak)

I did quite like this in my statcounter logs:

Detroit Public Schools (76.216.132.35) [Label IP Address]
passablycontent.blogspot.com/2009/08/oh-titty-fucking-bollocks.html
www.google.com/search?hl=en&source=hp&q=titty fuck blogspot&aq=f&oq=&aqi=

My thoughts:

a) Teacher or pupil?
b) Surely there's better porn outside of blogger?
c) How disappointed were they to see a list of football predictions from a random Englishman? :)

Right then...

I guess I've been not-in-a-good-mood for a few weeks for a very simple reason.

Lack of sleep.

For the last three Sundays I've had almost no sleep, which has resulted in me being spaced and irritable at work on a Monday, which has made all the stupid politics that I normally laugh at seem like a personal affront, which has put me in a bad mood in the evenings, which has disturbed my sleep and so on and so on. Like a negative feedback loop of tickedoffedness.

On the plus side, my Saturdays have been amazing.

I suppose it doesn't help that Mrs RS lives in New York - meaning that the only time we can have a conversation is normally late at night when I've been so very tired. I'm very much looking forward to our three weeks in the same time-zone over Christmas and New Year.

Anyway, my sleep has been destroyed on a Sunday night for various reasons. A few weeks ago was my fault for letting Harper's Island get to me (I've now solved this by watching Match Of The Day right after it finishes as nothing dissipates fear like watching Didier Drogba hurl himself to the ground every five minutes), but the last two weeks have been because of something else entirely.

Seeing as it's the beginning of the week (roughly) and I was feeling all lyrical today for some reason, you may have the reason in poetic form:


I walked to work and what did I see?
Thousands of students looking at me.
Then I thought of something I saw on TV
(That we all owe three-quarters of our GDP.)

I noticed they all had more money than most,
As they smeared caviar on their triangled toast.
So I figured a way to bridge the spending gap,
By picking on those who most need a slap.

Tax hike on cheap Merlot and wine by the glass.
A large fine for wearing a miniskirt to class.
Pay double for Minis and Fiat 500s
(Until they learn to drive without crashes and blunders.)

20% on jeans that show off your crack.
40 on mullets that hang down your back.
Ugg boots and PJs? You'll pay for that!
As much as that git in a big jester's hat.

We'll triple the price of your small bag of coke.
And quadruple the cost of the weed that you smoke.
There is, however, a route through this pain,
And that's to stop having fucking parties on a Sunday night until 4am the next morning and meaning that your neighbours get no sleep no matter how much they knock on your door and complain, YOU UTTER BASTARDS.


I think the last time needs a bit of work though? I dunno. Feel free to add your suggestions.

Sorry

I've been in a bit of a lull recently, so apologies if I've been narky on here.

I aim to resolve this by the end of the weekend.

Tchuss.

A little bit of politics...

I'm not an overtly political person, in that I have my ideas about life and how it should be run, but I'd not stand around hectoring other people into voting for the same thing.

I like to believe in collective, blind, benevolent voting. Which generally results in everyone voting for the people who promise to steal slightly less than the other people. It's basically the same as normal politics.

But now and then you see certain promises that are so jaw-droppingly bollocks that you have to read them again. The sort of claims that are the smegma neck-tie to the politician's bell-end. The sort of thing that should be outlawed so as not to confuse the dumb people who do most of the voting. I mean that's too easy - you could claim the other party were aliens and a significant minority would actually believe you.

I refer, specifically to the Conservatives 'home protection scheme'.

So let's get this straight. Currently you get old and need residential care. You own a house. The state turns round and suggests you sell your house to pay for the residential care you may get. In fact, if your assets (i.e. your house) are worth more than £23,000 then you have to contribute.

Boo fucking hoo. Cough up. The only people who complain about this are middle class people who've been eyeing up their Dad's cottage and hoping it comes to them in their will.

Don't forget that the reason the state asks for a contribution is because it would costs a fortune to provide it for free. Apparently the Conservatives can square the circle.

According to their own figures, an average two-year stay in a residential care home can cost about £52,000.

That's £26,000 a year. Every year.

The Conservatives plan? That a single sum of £8,000 is paid at the age 65 that covers your residential care for life.

Um, call me picky, but that doesn't even cover 5 months. I mean not even close.

I'm wondering if someone left a zero off a calculation? The only alternative explanation is that the Conservatives are a bunch of lying, cheating, PR-obsessed c*ntflaps who believe that everyone is a bit stupid and reads a tabloid newspaper.

They're so going to win aren't they? :(

That sinking feeling....

If I accurately described what is going on at work at the moment, you wouldn't believe me. So instead you can have some doodles that highlight my current working life.

I call this 'What my department would be like if it was a well-known ship (and it doesn't half feel like it some days)', or 'My Managers are Clueless Numpties' for short.

















And yes, I did do all of that this evening. Frustration can be a real motivator :)