Feelin' philosophical

Let me share something with you which is not commonly known, but as a history graduate, I am privvy to this little nugget of information.  It is a long forgotten piece of history - some even say its just a myth - that HMV actually was a music shop.  Oh yes, there are primary sources from people that used to be able to leisurely browse several aisles of CD's, rather than just lots of empty spaces filled up with miniture gadgets to put music onto.

That - a music shop with minimal music in it - is just one of the contradictions I find about modern society.  The one that always always grinds my gears is automatic doors. Why? Why? Why? I'm not even referring to the cost of electircity or the effects on the planet (with me being a vegetarian, my sister being a lesbian and my mother living on a canal boat, I do frequently have to stress that I'm not from a hippy family) but the fact that every automatic door takes longer to open than just simply pushing it.  Worse still are the ones that open so slowly that you have to actually reduce your approach speed.  The other day I went to the bank and for some reason the automatic door did not register me as a living soul, so there I stood looking helpless in the vestibule (sorry, I just needed to use the word 'vestibule,' its so pleasant and under-used) until a pock-faced lanky teenage girl with a nose so large that I would not be shocked if she could smell into the future sprang it into action by merely approaching it.

Yes, I am in a foul mood.

It's not limited to just physical embodiments like that, condractions have infected our language too.  Sayings such as 'industrial action' - excuse me while I 'lolwut', but isn't the whole point of taking 'industrial action' to cause industrial inaction? 

Although my ultimate ultimate favourite condractory saying has to be 'dirty virgin'.   That is just . . . well, where to start.   Grace, my ex-girlfriend I was on-and-off with from the age of 17 to 23 once called me a 'dirty virgin' in an argument.  I can't remember what my comeback was, but it was something along the lines of;

"Virgin? No, that title went quite a few years ago.  Remember, you were there?"

 The main reason why I'm a bit tetchy is because it is that time of the month.  No, not like that, I am referring to the unending trauma I have to face when going for a haircut.  My hair is pretty unadventurous, I've adopted the style which was made popular Adolf Hitler's European tour of 1939-45, and just mess it up a wee bit.  Whenever I go to the hairdressers, I mutter the following sentence without fail;

"I'd like to keep the style, but it's just got a bit long around the back and sides and just needs a bit of a trim."

The endless varieites of hairstyles I leave the place with after issuing these instructions is quite incredible, although the Rod Stewart-esque look has to be the most outrageous.  Needless to say, the hat I take with me without fail made an appearance.

Another thing that is on my mind a lot recently, I mentioned earlier, is Grace.  Not in a romantic sense or anything like that, because I think we would both agree that ending our relationship was probably more the best; the last I heard from her she was with some chap called Alex who was  more successful and more intelligent than me, and basically sounded like a good match . . . maybe she was trying to make me jealous, I dunno, but she was happy, and the last time I spoke to her I was with Poppy and between all four of us it was immensely rosey (which wasn't entirely the truth, but I was trying to make her jealous because I thought she was trying to make me jealous.)

What can I say?  I get childish at times.

. . . . did any of that sound bitter?  Hmmm, looks it.  Like I say, I have absolutely no romantic feelings for her, but I will admit that has been a massive part of my life.  She is my ultimate best friend and knows me better than I know myself, and I miss her and just hope that she is happy more than anything.  Obviously I can't say that to her; our relationship when it existed was more of a chess game, constantly trying to second-guess one another and why they are doing what they are doing or saying what they are saying, so it would just stir up more unneccessary trouble.  We did have trouble at first; she told her friends that I had stolen £500 off her by hacking her bank account.

Really? Me?  Dude, I can't even get out of the bank without being aided  by a teenager.

But she did later apologise and we spoke for a time as friends until Pops got involved and caused a bit of a stir.  Oh well!

So yes, I think that's me all waffled out for the day.  I could carry on but . . . . in fact, I can't carry on, I need to google 'mens hairstyles 2011' so I can find a safe back-up option.

Me and Grace, 2003.  I was 17, she was 19 . . . yep, I haven't changed at all in seven years.

My hero!

Well Friday night had its ups and downs. 

The up: one of the really cute identical Corporation twins was once again giving me the eye and a smile.

The down: With them being identical, I have no idea which one it was.

Ah well, sometimes all you can do is LOL. 

Gareth always claims that I am a rubbish 'wing-man', because - in his mind - 'chicks dig Michael (but then, these are the misguided views of a gent who also has previously claimed 'chicks dig accesories'.  'Chicks dig buttons', and my personal favourite, 'chicks dig moleskin trousers').  On the way to Claire and Tim's, we had a tete-a-tete about it (and the following dialogue is paraphrased, as a fair amount of alcohol has been drank since)

Gareth: "Oh well you don't have this problem with women, they all 'dig' you."

Michael: "No they don't, its a lie."

Gareth: "Yeah they do, you always pull in Corp."

Michael: "When? When? Name me one occasion when I have pulled . . . ever?"

Gareth: ". . . . . . . . . . . . that lass who bit you."
Michael: "No Gareth, that was me getting sexually assaulted, and all you lot did is point and laugh."

. . . I suppose I best now get everyone up to speed with that unfortunate encounter.  It happened a few months ago, obviously on a Friday, and obviously in Corporation, and obviously with the usual suspects of Claire, Tim, Gareth and myself.  Tim and Gareth had slinked off somewhere, either to the bar or the toilets, and I was stood talking to Claire.  With the music being pretty loud, we were stood fairly close together, and I imagine to most people we must have looked like a couple.

. . . . . . unfortunately, my assailant did not fall into the 'most people' category.

Unperturbed by my close proximity to another female, she strided up and interlocked fingers with me roughly, and forced me to sway to Feeder.  A bit startled, I asked her if I knew her (mainly because God fashioned me to look like everyone else in a crowd; average height, average build, common hair colour, common eye colour, no distinguishable features, 5/10 in the looks department) and with her being quite evidently drunk, I thought she had mistaken me for someone else.  However, she took this as a cue to introduce herself.

. . . this was going badly . . .

We spoke briefly (she told me that she hated Rupert Murdoch, which is always what you want to hear on a night out) and then it happened; she basically tried to climb down my windpipe whilst biting my lip at the same time.  Just to make the situation even worse, from over her shoulder I could see Tim, Claire and Gareth all having a rare old giggle at my expense.

There wasn't much I could do to get away without losing a chunk of my face, so I had to bide my time until she decided to have an interlude from her exploration of my oesophagus.  "Erm, I'm jus' going to the toilet," I mumbled, and fled to the sanctuary of some grotty tiolets with my green vodka in hand.  Never have I so welcomed the hybrid smell of sweat, sick and urine.

From there, I had no idea how to get away.  Corporation is in some of a horse-shoe shape; the bar, main exit and escape to the smoking area (and my molester) are all in the narrow bit, whilst it opens up into a large dance floor.  If I tried to escape to the smoking area, I would have been caught again, so my only choice was the dance floor.

It is here, evidently, where heroes are forged.

I ran into my dear companion Rachel, and gave her a brief overview of what happened, using a doll to point out places where I was touched and everything, and I said that I needed to get to the smoking area.  Between us, we hatched a plan; I removed my glasses and shirt, and she lead me to the smoking area.  Blindly and wearing just a vest (well, not just a vest, obviously) Rachel guided my bumbling form through the dance floor, passed my attacker, and out into the fresh air (or a very close approximation; it is in Sheffield.)

Rachel Innocent, when I was a damsel in distress in my darkest hour, you were my knight in shining armour.  Now carry me off into the sunset.

Me and my hero  . . . and Jade's awesome face!

And whilst we are on the subject of sex pests . . . are women's clothes shops specifically designed to make every male look like some form of pervertt? 

Where are males likely to gather in such an establishment?  I'd say outside the changing room in the imbecile chairs.

With that in mind, where should the women's underwear department be?  Erm . . . essentially, anywhere but outside the changing rooms where the males are likely to gather.

But no, sadly, this logical deduction does not happen, so there end up being a smattering of men uncomfortably shuffling their feet amonst a flock of frilly frenchies - I know, I was one of them whilst waiting for my sister to try on a formal dress, which instantly sounds even more sordid . . . . I'm innocent, damn you!

Right, I am done, and it is officially beans on toast time.  Thanks for reading ^_^

I can barely conceal my lack of effort

Blergh!

I've been so busy of late  Thursday = out drinking.  Friday = drinking at Claire and Tim's flat.  Saturday = crawled home from Claire and Tim's flat.  Sunday = ice hockey.  Monday = out drinking.  Tuesday - out drinking.  This whole social life malarky is hard work; if I sat down for five minutes my arse would think I have died.

Right, before I became in demand I promised an entertaining episode, but I have lost track where I was, so I shall just re-cap . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ah yes, my most awkward dining experience (since I regailed all with the second-most awkward one in my last blog).

Let's go back-a-ways to mid-2010, when I lived in Durham (its near Newcastle - no one ever knows where it is) and worked at the County Council.  Me and my friends had just left for lunch, and I was at the back of the little group of us.  With a cup of tea in one hand and a hot soup and a roll in the other, it was a struggle enough to hand over the money to the Geordie lady who every day would mock me for saying 'scone' as 'scone'.  However, things took a rather dramatic turn for the worst; with both hands full of very hot contents in flimsy containers, for some inexplicable reason the button of my work trousers simply decided to fly off (they weren't even tight!).  Unfortunately, this was the only day I didn't wear a belt to work . . . . even more unfortunately, it corresponded with the day I was wearing fluorescent pink boxer shorts . . . .

So there I was, both hands full of hazardous substances, a pink beam emitting from my broken trousers beaming around the canteen full of roughly two-hundred people, desperately trying to keep the majority of my trousers up using only my knees.  So, with my dignity in tatters, I walked like a Thunderbird with a few tangled strings towards the table my friends were sat at, only to be greeted with a unified shaking of heads, and a silence only broken by my boss muttering 'typical le Silk'.

. . . . . I wish I was cool, just for a day.

That's another thing; le Silk!  For some reason which makes no earthly sense, my friends always think I'm a ladies man.  Hah!  Duuuuuude, in my 24 years on this planet, I have had two serious girlfriends, and they can be described as 'dysfunctional' at best and just "what-the-fudgery" at worst.  Worst still is that I always get asked relationship advice . . . really? Me?  I'm hardly equipped to deal with such things.  Its the equivalent of asking a . . . well I am too tired and recoupering from a five-day drinking session to invent a witty comparison, but be aware that my heart is in the right place.  As such, I am convinced that this theory of me being a ladies man is all based simply on the fact that I have a sleazy sounding surname (which links into the whole 'le Silk' thing, ya get me?).

For example, when you hear the word 'silk', there is one of three things you immediately associate with it;

1) Silk Cut cigarettes (and let's be honest, everyone instantly becomes far more attractive if they smoke . . . well, maybe not everyone.  Deirdre Barlow is an exception to this theory.)

2) Silk worms (worms being rather phallic.)

3) . . . . erm, just lingerie.

So there we have it!

Another vicious lie is that I have a 'thing for red-heads' - now that's just false . . . . okay, let's see.  My first girlfriend was Jackie (y'know the type; the secondary school girlfriend that as soon as you are 'in a relationship with' you can't be seen with, spend time together or speak to . . . but they are your girlfriend) and she had red hair.  First year of college was the whole Cat thing, who happened to have reddish/pinky hair.  Following that came Grace, who was undeniably ginger (but would attack me if I mentioned that she was ginger),  and when I met Poppy she had a reddish hue to her hair . . . . . . . okay, that looks like it might in fact be true.

Erm, I think I am all rambled out for now, or simply too tired.  Anyway, the jist of my story is, there are dragons terrorising Skyrim that I medically need to turn into a rug . . . might need to get an extension on my house in Whiterun to accomodate a dragon-skin rug, but as the saying goes, 'meh!'

"and the geek shall inherit the Earth"

Gah!  Twice today I have had people querying why I haven't written a new blog since Wednesday.  Naturally, I will grumble and moan, but in all honesty I'm quite flattered people are reading it (but that's a secret, don't tell anyone).

First of all, I should point out my latest bumble, which was brought to my attention by Gareth on Thursday over a curry.  In my last blog, I went into a fair amount of detail about how I fled living - well, squatting - in London.  Well . . . . Celina, the Polish girl who accused me of not speaking proper English (bah!) introduced me to one of her friends who came over one time, and sort of hinted that we should go on a non-formal date as we have a fair bit in common (mainly a love of anime and pokemon) and to show me around the area.   Since then, we have become pretty good friends,  but since I am not living in London anymore, there is no need to explore the area.  The two of us are facebook friends, and I post the links to my blog on facebook. . . . and she's friends with Celina, whose evil damp-ridden clutches I escaped from . . . but not informed her yet - whoops, bumble!  I expect some emails and phone-calls in the near future >.<

Anyway, I spent last night (Friday) in a similar manner of how I spend every Friday - at Claire and Tim's flat.  However, unlike most Friday's where Corporation is attended and I once again question why I thought it was a good idea to wear a white t-shirt on a bleary-eyed Saturday morning, we were having a credit-crunch induced night in with a fair amount of cider and Saints Row 3.  Between the two of us (and a brief cameo from Claire) we got through a handsome amount of the Strongbow, and yet I don't think either of us were particularly drunk . . . oh wait . . . hmmm, we were both crying with laughter at Professor Genki's misfortune for a fair few minutes . . . and I did fall asleep for a while . . . . okay, maybe just a wee bit. Regardless, t'was good to have a relaxed night in.  However, I think the most striking difference between going to Claire and Tim's this week when compared to last Sunday was perhaps the journey home, when I found the very first member of my fan club!

Picture the scene, it was dark and cold on a Sunday, and we all know what Sunday buses are like.  I had twenty-five minutes to wait until my next bus, so I decided (as I do far too often, as my increasingly tight-fitting waistcoat is screaming at me) to feed myself.  So off I went in search of sustainence, and having found an establishment that was open (I won't name the place; Rose will berate me if she ever finds out) I stood lost in thought studying the menu (why I do this I don't know, I only order the same thing) when from the edges of my peripheral vision emerged a gaggle of youths, one of which gasped loudly and shouted "it's Sonny Moore!".  And so, cue one of my more unique dining experiences, and second most awkward (that will have to wait for another time, if I remember, but it is very cringe) as whilst I was waiting for my food, I had my face poked and stared at, some hugs and my photo taken with my number 1 fan;

. . . and the hat was to control my fluffy just-washed hair.  I realise I look awful in this picture, but please appreciate that this sort of thing doesn't happen to me every day >.<

I googled this 'Sonny Moore' fellow, and I don't think I look anything like him.  Still, it made for an interesting experience, plus its someone else to add to my list of look-a-likes I suppose.  Here's a test; let's see if you can spot me from the following line-up of me and my look-a-likes;

So, not only do I have a real life fan, but there are people actually reading this!  Soon, I shall have a flock of minions, and my plan of taking over Panama shall become a reality, but until then, thanks everyone who says you are enjoying it.   It makes my painstaking pace at typing (without a hint of exageration, this has taken me roughly 1 hour and 45 minutes) worthwhile.  Tomorrow's shall be more interesting . . . promise!

Like the last cruiser fleeing Hoth . . . sort of

Today. the 16th November 2011, was going to be a defining moment in my existence.

The mission objectives were simple; return to South East London, collect the remainder of my possessions (most noticeably, my Totoro teddy . . . more on that to follow), and flee from whence I came back to my northern stronghold.

The day did not get off to the most . . . professional of starts.  Rather than enjoying a montage of running in the rain to Eminem or Rammstein before commencing on my mission, I was preparing and focussing with a combination of being having a nightmare about a swarm of mechanical spiders (Lukeus, I blame you for this), my cat demanding more biscuits to be added to his already-full biscuit bowl, and having a text conversation with Poppy about my introduction to Iconicles (BBC2, 08:30am - watch it!)

Let me fill you in on the situtation (or, to keep the whole military theme going, I shall provide a 'sit-rep'). Roughly two weeks ago I left my life in my quiet Derbyshire town in search of much better employment and career opportunities in London.  It was something of a catch-22 situation; nowhere would offer me a job as I was using an address a fair few hundred miles away from London, and without having a job to come to, I was trying to find some budget accomodation . . . . and boy, did I find it!

The advert read 'furnished semi-converted warehouse' and was only charging £150 per month!  Again, the thrifty northerner in me took ahold, and leapt at the opportunity.  On the day I moved in, I found that the 'furnished' room consisted of the following;

• A mattress . . . with no bed (so it was just on the floor.
• A sofa with all but one missing cushion, and that was an arm one.
• A pin-board with some incense attached.
•  2004 business calender.

Actually, this is a lie.  I was also provided with some thick green dust-sheets that had to be hung over the windows at all times 'in case anyone sees us inside' . . . . the plot thickens greatly.  After some more gentle probing (which took some time, as my housemates were all Polish, and the ring-leader of which complained that she couldn't understand my accent and that I should speak "proper English" . . . . wow!) I was also told that we were not able to use the address to have sent to - again, in case people realised there were people living there.  Furthermore, there is no overhead lighting in the entire building, and the plugs only work from one end of this fairly big empty building, so I had to trail 30m extension cords to my room . . . and then plug in a load of electric heaters and fairy lights just so I could see what I was doing after it got dark at 16:30.  So yes, it was very depressing, and I imagine that after much longer living there I would have hung myself from my electricity-less ceiling . . . and not being discovered unless the dust-sheets over the windows fell down and let in enough light for one to actually see anything.  I was going to get some photographs but . . . no, I'm too ashamed of my own naivety. . . so instead, here is a dramatic mock-up of how I imagined my escape to look like;

Fast forward four hours - 13:28

The target zone had been entered.  The I was, outside 'Dylon Inte-national' (the 'r' had fallen off, and was lying outside the front entrance) which is also my abode.  I was there thinking I would need to sneak in, like a panther partaking in . . . well, panther-esque undertakings.  Fighting back the ivy, and delicately unlocking the double doors, I slinked in (stepping over a worryingly large mound of cat faeces as I did so).  I fought my way through the gloom up the wide stairs, my hood pulled up, my fingerless gloves being fingerless, my white dilapidated Converse-all stars giving away my position as much as the odd cracking noise my ankles always - I mean always! - eminate.

The destination was reached at 13:30.  Pressing my back against the outer wall, I gathered my breath, held it . . . and then stormed my own bedroom!  Hastily gathering all my possessions which I couldn't take on my initial trip - Totoro teddy, Deathnote collection, monster slippers, random notes on pretty much anything - and then as I was about to exit the building - ideally by diving through a window in slow motion in a shower of glass - I realised that I was there on my own . . . so instead I made myself a lovely cup of herbal tea, had a five-minute break on my seatless sofa, and then nonchalantly exited stage right.

There I had visions of fleeing Dylon Inte_national in a style similar to the rebel alliance fleeing Hoth, but instead I left with a spring in my step, a lemon taste in my mouth, and a smug sense of detoxicating smugness.

Soooooo, yes, that was my day!  A lot less eventful than I initially prepared myself for . . . spent most of the journey home texting Poppy about 'Hey Arthur' and trying to sleep with a cracking headache. But the salient point is . . . 

I have re-claimed my Totoro teddy.  True, he is not really mine to claim; I bought him for Lyla but . . . . blergh!  Totoro shares my bed every night.



. . . . . . . not like that, jeez!  Can you imagine? In fact, don't try to imagine.

Teddybears never left this picnic.

So, this is my first ever blog, or post on a blog, I dunno, I fail at all this modern technology; if one was to imagine someone who just crawled out from underneath a rock and entered the twenty-first century, that is I.  I feel that, straight away, there are two key points that I must stress about myself before we begin our . . . whatever it is that happens on these sorts of things;

 1) I am a vegetarian, and
 2) I am, what my dear friend Richard terms, the ultimate bumbler.

For those who need to revise the term, see below;

Bumbler - (noun) To bumble. An individual prone to finding themselves at the centre of whimsical, laughable, awkward and ultimately  ridiculous situations.

Cast your mind back a few years (oh buttons, its actually a fair few years ago now; I'm old!) to the summer of 2007, and I spent the summer in Belgrade doing research for my dissertation.  Well, foreign languages are far from my strong point (instead I am gifted with a rather flambuoyant command of my native English) and I was equipped with only a very basic grasp of both Serbo-Croat (I don't care what the Croats say, its one language - there's my input to the ol' Yugoslav split) and the Cyrillic alphabet.  I scanned the menu with a fair amount of eyebrow furrowing for a suitable meat-free Balkan delicacy, and came across something I translated as 'bean soup' . . . . . . . .

The positive - I managed to get seven out of the eight letters correct.

The negative - . . . . . . the 'n' was the incorrect letter . . . . it was actually an 'r' . . . . 

So there I sat, alone in a subterreanean restaurant, with a huge grissle-encrusted slab of bear in a bowl with a dash of gravy thrown over it.  I am ashamed to say that, at this point, vegetarian Michael was vanquished by stereotypically-thrifty-northern Michael and . . . . . . . . . . . I ate it >.<

At this point I'd like to point out that I tried to find a picture of 'bear soup', but google came up with the following as the top result for the afformentioned word combination;

. . . pah lets go for it: here is 'bear soup', according to google images - enjoy!

Since then, I have eaten a fair few dangerous animals in all manner of exotic locations.  I have also eaten shark in Bulgaria (doing m'dear Poppy a favour there, obviously) and a crocodile burger in . . . erm, Chesterfield market place.  Next on the hit-list is an eagle, but I can never catch one . . . might need to do a bit more levelling up before I can catch myself an eagle.

I recently moved to South East London from Chesterfield (no, I know you don't know where Chesterfield is, but it is best described as Sheffield's cancerous growth) . . . and then it transpired that where I lived in that there Lundun place is quite hideously illegal, so by tomorrow I shall have legged it back up north with my pride in tatters (macho law forbids me to admit when I am wrong. so this doesn't 'alf grate on my stubbornness.) 

I will fill all in on the "how's" and the "why's" tomorrow, and grudgingly admit publicly to some people that they were right and I was wrong (to name just a short smattering, I know Gareth, Julia and Jojo all registered their alarm fairly early on) but, as a wise man of unequivocal intellect once said, "meh", and it is with that I bid you adieu.