A Lump in the Night

In the words of the late great Steve Irwin, "croikey!" is perhaps the only expression I can use to summarise the period in between now and my last rambling about not-so-much.

Just to re-cap, here are the salient points of my last blog;

1) I am moving out . . . again; this will be my fifth residence since starting blogging in November '11.

2) I have a new job.

But my run of good-fortune did not end there.

Oh no.  Indeed, I got a rather welcome supplement in the post from Inland Revenue stating that I was owed nearly £500 in tax return, and that, after complaining that there is no way Derby City Council had correctly estimated that I owed them £898 in Council Tax after living here for five months, they amended it . . . to £68.

And yet, as usual with me, it's a case of 'one step forward and two steps back' . . . and as the Desert Rose Band surmised, 'nobody gets too far like that'.

Nope. In the space of a month, I had two previously held notions that seemed could not ever be topped were abruptly shattered, which were the following;

Notion 1) That the most demeaning, belittling and soul-destroying experience I would ever have to endure would be on a vibration plate at Clay Cross gym.

Notion 2) First, I must stress how much I loathe announcing as such, given my ardently prudish nature - that the most mortifying thing I would ever hear said to me after *ahem* some 'jiggery-pokery' would remain "wait 'til my mother hears about this!"

I know . . . hearing that was very . . . 

Where do begin with this tale of woe-is-me?  Probably from the beginning . . . and with the aid of Spiderman and Gengar.  So let us go back-a-ways to the heady heights of Derby, 2008, when I was a 21-year-old student and, surprisingly, looked nothing at all like 'the cousin from Hot Tub Time Machine' which is the latest comparison I am subjected to at work.

That's me aged 21.  Proof that I was once fabulous and slim.

Anyway, I shall stop basking in a vanity-riddled flash-back and continue the narrative.  So yes, whilst most of my time was spent between Bailey, Grace, Oblivion, Marxist-Leninist theory and a dissertation on the pan-slav movement, amongst all of this I discovered an oddity . . .

So after much a-bullyin', I went to see the healer from an Eastern land . . . Grace came along too, and asked if I wanted her to come into the room with me.  Now let me think; my current girlfriend, watching me have my bean-bag poked by a middle-aged Asian doctor.  The verdict?  Take it away Spiderman.

I hastily beat my retreat - and naturally changed doctors- when I was told all was normal, and suppressed the memory deep down at the bottom of my own personal jug of self-loathing, never to be brushed on again.


And now back to Derby, present day




Not much has changed, except a new bus station, and with a different girlfriend in the impervious-to-Siberian-climates Kittie, who just so happens to be a student nurse.  Anyway . . . y'know . . . the birds and the bees an' all . . . and . . . well basically, she made some comment about the lump . . 

Alright, steady on there fella

. . . and when a student nurse tells you something is abnormal, you tent to assume that something is abnormal.  This is Factor 2 shattered.  So back I go, to a completely different GP's and yet still have an area only dogs like to stick their noses investigated by yet another middle-aged mustachioed Asian doctor, who this time said quite the contrary to my previous privates-prodder, and confirmed that rather than it being nothing, it is something quite major.

Roughly a week later, I had to head to the Royal Derby Hospital to let another chap admire my genitals (his opinion: "I can't seem to find a lump") and then a week after that I had to go back to collect my results - and obviously have just the one plum examined by someone else - who actually said that the scans showed up something rather major, and that it is likely to be something quite serious.   Having my unmentionables examined by - so far - four different gentlemen - shatters Factor 1.

Thusly, I am booked in to have an operation on the 8th August at 7am, which is just wonderful as it combines two things I despise - hospitals and an early morning.

Oh don't worry Picard, I'm not.  I mean, I'm not that worried, mainly because plarin' over it all really doesn't change much at all. True, I do fully suspect it to be the absolute worst-case scenario - what?!  I'm a Chesterfield fan, preparing for the worst outcomes is in my nature - but unfortunately there is no way of knowing whether or not it is cancerous until the err . . . thing itself is . . . removed.  

Not impressed left teste.  Not impressed at-all.

Anyway, like I say, I fully expect it to be the worst case scenario.  Mainly because I've been blighted with pains . . .

Ay naah then I've warned you enough times now

. . . for as long as I can remember, but just assumed that it was perfectly normal. . . except that one time I was just getting money out of a cash machine and it genuinely felt like someone had just thrown a brick in a place exhibited often by Gengar.  Let's be honest, it's not the sort of thing you can mention without being ridiculed amongst friends.  Secondly, I do wonder whether my blacking-out episodes were linked to it - I mean it has had four years to become something rather nasty.  And lastly, I was researching into testicular cancer, and what should it say to be another sympton.  Lower back pain.  What did I complain about in my last blog?  Lower back pain.

Oh well.  To be honest, for me personally the most upsetting part is not losing a part of my anatomy and possibly my chance of ever having children - gotta love the irony in there, considering the whole Poppy fiasco - but actually my rather luxurious hair.  

Anyway, you may be wondering why I'm writing about something so personal.  Let's be honest, I'm going to come for so much stick for having something in common with Hitler, but I'm not writing this for sympathy at all.  I'm writing it (a) because I'd like to think that maybe I can help someone diagnose any problems they may have in an area they would rather not go discussing, and (b) I have come up with some absolutely cracking jokes about it over the last week, and want to see if anyone can come up with any better.

Meh. As my beloved Birgitte Silverbow said, "if you're facing the chopping block, toss the headsman a coin and tell the audience a joke."

I feel that I should apologise that what started out as a fairly light-hearted and jovial blog may end up being  about any further revelations I may have regarding an area that will see me steering clear of skinny trousers for a while (I did my best to avoid the "I'm currently writing a magazine now and it's all about my balls" quote from the song "Being A Dickhead's Cool)

So that is basically it until I come out of hospital, and I'm lead to believe that I am going to be weaker than one of Kittie's cups of coffee for the next two weeks.  But seriously anyone, if your . . . 

. . . just go to the doctors and have 'em touched the once, rather than the record-breaking score I'm racking up - and one of these times will be with surgical equipment.

Oh well, as that famous prophet Meatloaf exclaimed,

"two outta three ain't bad"

Amma Make Like Tom . . .

How very curious.

When I rage-quit blogging back in April, I completely abandoned my account.  When I did, I had just reached around 1,400 page views.  After my dramatic - well, I perceived it as 'dramatic', I'm sure most would class it more as 'inevitable' - return, I checked how many times my blog had been viewed.

1877 . . . including 400-odd views in May when I did absolutely nothing.  So allow me to express how I felt at said time . . .

. . . wut?  I'm easily pleased, alright?


During my many an adventure through Kanto, Johto, Hoenn - the less said about that the better; Pokemon Saphire, Ruby and Emerald were abysmal - Sinnoh and Unova, it was drilled into me that bugs were weak against both fire and psychic attacks.  Alas, I possess neither, just a contradiction of a girlfriend who had a pet tarantula but screams at the smallest of spiders . . . 

. . . but I uncovered a new method of fending out these eight-legged interlopers; towel-whipping.  Now let me tell you, towel-whipping a spider is much move effective than both Ember and Psybeam combined.  I've become quite a dab-hand at it too; I towel-whipped a fly out of the air the other day.  I would've strutted with success, but alas, my chronic back-pains subdue such proclivities.



Whilst touching briefly on things that so much as thinking about which hurt my spine, check out the moves on this chap; he could clear a dance-floor, but in a radically different way to what me and Adam have on our CV's.

And to think I struggle tying my shoe-laces at the moment . . . 


Perhaps more disturbing than the many an arachnid was finding a rather large ginger slug in my kitchen.  Cheesus alone knows how it got there, but to set an example to his mucus-y mates I decided in my wisdom to shovel him up with one of many take-away leaflets and drop him from the back bedroom window, so he landed quite nicely by the kitchen door.

Turns out, it wasn't.



Neigh, I was sent to gather the belongings of my dearly beloved from the depths of the living room, and whence I delivered it, she found a mucus trail along her bag.  Her immediate response?

"Have you sneezed all over my bag?"

Kittie Carter, June 27th, 2012

Granted, she may have a fair point, considering I found it most hilare after sneezing all over her coat, but I am quite convinced that in her mind I am cast as some form of vile tricksy goblin, which I find most injust.  So, just to get my revenge and to prove that it isn't just me who has had some astonishing biological faux pas whilst she has been an indirect witness to.  Please bear in mind also, that this occurred on our first date, at my house watching Ponyo.

In fact, that very same little comic strip seems to be applicable to a great many moments in our relationship (what can I say, Kittie is a rather terrifying individual).  Take these two examples of her getting intensely involved in some computer games.  Both times, I was left cowering in a corner.

And then there is the ol' Dungeon Keeper II fiasco.

Since the start of March, I was on a whole one-man power trip of not needing anyone to make me happy.  Imagine then, how big the slice of humble pie is I'm eating right now; it's actually almost pathetic how much time we spend with one another - we've been together for just over two months and I highly doubt we have spent more than ten days apart from each other since. However, she has taken this opportunity to try and sneak her way in and become BFF's with Totoro . . . . -____________-

Me and Totoro.  Friends fo' lyf

You may notice the 'Derby' bus stop that we are both waiting at.  Well, in August, myself and my furry friend shall be waiting at a bus stop destined for - yup, you guessed it, Chesterfield.


Try as I may, I can never escape the place.



Still, this is no particular bad thing, as I will get to see my dear friend Gareth again, who I haven't seen since the first week of May and miss rather muchly, which means I shall no longer have to sit next to a window acting miserable and pretending I'm in a music video reminiscing over the good times of 2011 we shared.

S'all about the bro-mance.

And so, on the 17th August, I will make like Tom, and 'cruise' outta Derby . . . and as #theSmithOpinion said all along . . . 

"Why did you come 'ere??!"

P.S.  Oh!  I have a brand-spanking new job . . . should probably have mentioned that . . . oh well.

It's more than just a surname . . .

Right.  I have directed my impotent rage at this many times before, but seriously, this saying makes absolutely no sense;

"you can't have your cake and eat it."

Why? Why?  What other reason would one 'have' a cake without the intent of consuming it?  Cake is something not widely known for it's versatility of uses.  Yes, before anyone starts, I know the message this saying is meant to convey (before anyone gets all tetchy) but if you think about it . . . I'm 100% right and it makes absolutely no sense whatsoever.

. . . what?

Oh I get it . . . this is all because I rage-quit blogging just like I do when I fail both miserably and frequently on Black Ops, isn't it? But I did say that my last one was 'likely' to be my last ever blog . . . but wasn't.  Before I continue waffling on, I'd also like to highlight that in my last one I declared an end to the six-month single challenge, so technically I haven't failed on either of these accounts.

Bearing that in mind, the cat - or Kittie - is out the bag (oh you saw what I did there).  Yes indeed folks . . . 

I AM NO LONGER FOREVERALONE.JPEG

Yus, me and Kittie together for just over four weeks now, and as I am currently touching wood (not like that! Cheesus!) I do said things are going rather marvellously.  In fact, it almost surprises me that she hasn't gone running to the hills yet; it transpires that I have an awful lot of annoying habits which she points out both loudly and often.  One being that I fidget and waggle my feet when I'm in bed, two being that I - apparently - fiddle with my nipples a lot, and three being that me trimming my limited facial hair on the sofa is disgusting . . . and yet her trimming her toenails on my sofa and making all the clippings into some form of burial mound on my coffee table is allegedly socially acceptable.   But still, ain't she purdy?

. . . what?  It's pure coincidence that she has red hair on that picture . . . <.<     >.>

Worse still is how I've managed to cram in a fair few biological faux-pas in the past few weeks (don't worry Gareth, you still have exclusive rights to your own new years 'celebration').  In chronological order;

1) She thought I was having an emo-rage over something or other because I hadn't text her for a while. Well, it had been a long day for me, walking around Derby doing something so productive and memorable that I forget the details, but I was listening to music on my BlackBerry via headphones.  As I was walking home, I became more and more aware that my bladder was rather full, and by the time I got to my door, I had to do the -desperately-needing-toilet-gallop-up-two-steps-at-a-time sprint.  Upon reaching the bathroom, I wrestled with my belt - earphones still in, BlackBerry in jeans pocket - and thought I deserved a good sit-down after a long days walking, to take the weight off my feet.  What I didn't foresee is that, with the lowering of my trousers, my BlackBerry was left dangling by the earphones, and as I sat down it . . . sort of hung in front of me and . . . . well . . . basically I pee'd on my BlackBerry and it completely broke.

2) 'Those' burgers.  After declaring that Mosh was awesome for quite some time (something Adam agrees with . . . I think) Tim decided to sample the finer points of Derby living and came along.  After a few drinks in the Bless, we headed to Mosh, and typically of Tim we left at 12:30.  As is tradition amongst me and Adam, we hit McDonna's.  This time, however, Kittie and I opted for a veggie burger each.  Now baring in mind we had only been together for one week at this point, we spent the next day severely leaking from a place only customs men bare to venture, and I was the same the day after that as well.  To such an extreme, was I unwell, that I actually managed to crap myself unconscious, which is very nearly worthy of going on my CV.  Kittie, bless her, shouted up the stairs after I'd been MIA for around forty minutes if I was okay . . . and got the groaned reply of;

"Yeah . . . . I crapped myself unconscious but I'm okay now."

                                               Michael Silk, May 2012

3) A casual stroll through Nottingham. The two of us were holding hands, and because I'm just such a gent I was holding her jacket in my free arm.

T'was at this very moment, in fact, whilst reflecting on just how much of a gent I am, that I had a-tinglin' in my nasal cavity, and instinctively raised my arm not holding Kittie's hand towards my nose . . . I basically used her coat as a massive handkerchief . . . twice . . . and then tittered like a Japanese school-girl about it for the next twenty minutes.

And yet she is still here!

Now, with m'dear Kittie being a keen reader of my blog, I realise that I've probably just made her question quite why she is with me, but because she likes my blog, I had to do something pretty bloody awesome in order to ask her out (since she obviously read about the gummi-bear thing with Melissa.)  I sort of shot myself in the foot Shy Ronnie-style with my own awesome-ness, because I had to top the sifting of the gummi-bears.

Now, along with a mutual love of Flight of the Conchords, Red Dwarf, Studio Ghibli, Backyard Babies, Game of Thrones, The Walking Dead, and Supernatural (and a hatred of Jessie J and Forrest Gump) me and Kittie are keen Pokemon connoisseurs; we regularly bitch about how pathetic Ash Ketchum is, and hotly debate who is stronger in between Poliwrath (my favourite) and Lucario (her favourite).  We sit playing pokemon together too, because we are just that cool.

So, here is how I asked Kittie to be my girlfriend.

Silk isn't a sir name.  It's a lifestyle.

Shortly after this, we had a battle, and there was much hilarity when she beat my Roselia and it came up with a message on her Nintendo DS that "the foes Girlfriend has fainted"

Zone Of The Frienders

When you feel so tired, but you can't sleep . . . . no Chris Martin, I am not requesting your voice that is startlingly reminiscent of livestock being mutilated to "fix me", I am merely referring to my current state of condition.

Err, sorry for hurting your feelings but . . . well, you just offend
all of my senses . . . err, except 'taste'

And so, with a void of actually having a (a) a reliable job, (b) a chance to socialise and make friends, and (c) a meaningful worthwhile existence, I took a step that is cataclysmic in both how harshly I shall be judged by my friends for admitting it, and that I haven't done so already.

I downloaded all 15 Pokemon movies.

Oh yes ladies and gents; whilst I might never get to catch 'em all, I can at least watch 'em all.

And especially for Adam and Gareth, who will no doubt be storing up the abuse right now, by now you should realise that  . . .

Now, far be it from me for telling Ash Ketchum he is doing it all wrong but . . . he's doing it all wrong.  Considering it's his dream to catch all the pokemon, he does a pretty lame job.  In Pokemon 11 (which has a terrifyingly catchy them-tune) Ash encounters FOUR legendary pokemon in the first half-hour . . . but doesn't throw a single poke-ball.  Moreover, in Pokemon 12, Ash only encounters two legendary pokemon, and at seperate points they are very close to death . . . AND STILL NO POKE-BALLS!  To make it even worse, he actually carries Shaymin all the way to a pokemon centre . . . and let's it change to 'skyform' and fly away completely uncaptured.

What the fudge Ash . . . just what the fudge?

Who's with me on my poke-rant?  Anyone?  What about you over there in the background . . . no?

And onwards . . .

With the amount of time on my hands, I've had a lot to puzzle on with my puzzler, and came to a ground-breaking conclusion.  Oh yes people, lock up yo' daughers/mothers/pokemonz/anything-but-males, because I officially declare an end to the whole "Six Month Single Challenge!"

Croagunk saw this coming and is subsequently bemused.

Again!  I can hear Gareth gloating that he is "always right" - which he isn't, as he boldly stated that damp causes more damage to a house than a hurricane (which means Tim and Claire's sofa is well and truly obliterated!) - as he openly declared "bullsh*t" on it when I made my grand sweeping statement. 

But alas, let me explain . . .

Now let's go back-a-ways.  When me and Melissa were getting together, me and Claire had a heart-to-heart about how I shouldn't lump what happened with Poppy onto her, and she was right and I trusted Melissa completely and had a happy thirty-seven days . . . even if it was filled with one-way abuse (but then I'm a wee bit dysfunctional and take abuse and harsh banter as a sign of affection, and affection and niceness as a sign that something is very very wrong).  Again, you may recall my 'emo-phase' of being miserable because Melissa ended things around the time of Lyla's birthday so it all snowballed into one giant heap of misery, and in all honesty, as much as I liked Melissa, she was a metaphorical plaster over the wound Poppy made, and when she went it was like taking a plaster off and finding an infected wound.

So the six month single challenge was to get some time to myself and let things heal, or so I thought . . .

But then, in one of those bolt-up-wide-awake-at-4am moments, I had to question myself whether the reason was to sort myself out, or whether it was to leave a massive gap from March until September - with the main point of our falling out happening in August - for her to re-materialise in.  True, I maintain that I doubt she ever will, and Lyla along with her, but then again at the time I was missing Lyla terribly, so it might have been it.  I ran this by both Claire and Grace; the latter agreed with me, the former said "f*ck Poppy", which I assume means it got her blessing as well.

Anyway, with regards to the "Six Month Single Challenge" . . .

. . . because we all hear things in Duncan Bannatyne's voice.

Unfortunately however, this saw me end up on perhaps the most awkward experience of my life . . . and as I have recountered, I get into a few.

So I shall fill you in on the background to this tale of woe.  In August 2010, I had my tragus pierced by my friend, who we shall call 'Bobbins', who was an apprentice piercer at a body art studio in Derby, and needed to puncture people to pass the grade (which she didn't, and the fact my tragus got hideously infected is testament to that . . . but I digress). 

With her living in Derby, and me recently moving to Derby and yet not knowing anyone, I asked if we could meet up for a drink and a catch-up sometime, which we did.  When we met, she brought along her friend, who we will call 'Buttons', and all three of us had a merry ol' time.  Bobbins, being a kind-hearted soul, suggested that me and 'Buttons' go on a date together, which we both sort of agreed to if for no other reason than we got each others humour.

The day of this 'date' arrived, and the two of us said that we'd just go and play a bit of pool and have a few drinks, and did so we did.  There was absolutely nothing flirtatious or any sort of attraction to one another, we were just two friends playing pool.  "You're really bad at pool," Buttons exclaimed whilst sniggering.

I said something back at this point, but for the life of me I can't remember what it was, but for some reason she . . . she walked up to me with her phone out, said she had a video to show me and made me hold her phone, and pressed play.

. . . . . . . . . . it was a sex-video of her and some chap.

I can only imagine my face looked like this at the time.

I mean why? Why . . . . . . . just why?  Why would anyone do that?  She looked at my face the entire time whilst I stood there, with someone I considered a sort-of-friend, on a Saturday afternoon, in a pub, with a load of football fans, watching the person I'm on a date with having sex with someone . . . why?

And the worst part - the absolute worst part - was that she didn't turn the sound down.

. . . and this video clip went on for three minutes . . and it was clearly the man holding the phone at the time because . . . well I won't go into the logistics, but it was not great.  What sort of response was she hoping for?  "Well that look nice for the both of you . . . seems like you're having fun." 

AND-SHE-LOOKED-ME-IN-THE-EYE-FOR-THE-FULL-THREE-MINUTES

Y'know the beginning of Fight Club, where Cornelius is tied to a chair with a gun in his mouth, and he thinks to himself "how did my life come to this?" and we get a big flashback to catch up with the present situation?  Well I genuinely did this whilst I was trying to maintain a neutral expression (I imagine neutral isn't what she was hoping for, but it was the closest to 'inoffensive' I could muster at the time) and had a very dull flashback of my life; summers frog-collecting in the forests, scoring the last goal my year ever scored in P.E before we left secondary school, re-enacting scenes from The Holy Grail with Gareth in college, the first and last Lategates gig in Manchester, my many bumbles (such as moving to Derby) and then "BHAM!" - back in the pub with male genitals worryingly close to my face.

. . . . . just why?

I really genuinely wish I could remember what I retorted with when she said I was bad at pool; perhaps if the conversation went like this;

. . . but it didn't, I probably just replied with "well you have a truly dreadful haircut" or something to this effect. 

So I made my excuses - I realised I'd left my iron on (no I fobbed her off with that my mum was visiting) - went home, and did what rape victims seem to find most comforting; sitting in a shower, fully clothed, sobbing, and possibly listening to Evanescence.

A few days later, I was still very much . . .



. . . so I went to a friend, hoping for a consoling word.

Alas, I got told that I should be more liberal-minded.

More liberal-minded?!  Duuuuuude, now I am no hit with the ladies, I don't go on many dates, and I suppose I am a bit of a prude, but surely it is something so obvious, not letting your date see you having sex with someone else, that it is almost an unspoken rule, along with a thorough tooth-brushing and lotsa aftershave.

But of the three people who knew of this, I was the one with odd principles.



As a final note, I should say that this is quite likely to be my last ever blog, or at least one for some time.  The truth is that I have a great many things on my mind to worry over right now and I'm not in a particularly good place. I need to get myself sorted, but if this is indeed my last ever blog, I'd like to thank you all for reading and t he many nice comments, and I'm glad I amused you in some way.

I've been saving this picture up for ages, may as well use it.

*bows respectfully*

You Can't Escape Tim's Biology

In my last blog post, I said I would not indulge anyone in the drunken tom-foolery that my companions and I generally partake in, mainly because no one would find it entertaining other than the few people I have any form of interaction with.

Well, a recent development has created some absolute comedy gold.

Before I begin, I'll put out a disclaimer: Sian and Anna, given your phobia . . . you might be in for a bumpy ride . . .

T'was a few months ago when I mentioned the 'hot Corp twins' (I've even hyperlinked that to the reference; check me and my bad self!) On Friday eve, whilst I am nonchalantly ambling up Division Street to the Green Room (where everyone else was already merry-making) I was about to enter when said 'hot Corp twins' exited.  Now, one of them has an incredibly hard-looking boyfriend, and the other ALWAYS stares at me.  This brief encounter was no different; she was crossing the road and yet kept turning around to look at me . . . t'is a bit intimidating in all honesty.

Casting this to the back of my mind, I pushed through the Green Room crowd towards where everyone was (even though it was packed, it's never a challenge to spot Tim from a fair distance, given his height) and so we all convened and the insults began.  

Standard.

And so, we went to Corporation.  The night was flying by without much a snag.  and whilst me and Adam were having our own little side story in the smoking area involving the telling of some truly appalling jokes to someone called Charlotte (mine were better . . . or worse, whichever the case may be) and Gareth was with his new found friend, it seems all was not well with Tim and Syd.  

On mine and Adam's return, Tim regailed us with a story of how he was not feeling all too good, and said as much to Syd.  Syd, showing her compassionate and caring side, slugged Tim in the stomach.

To quote Lyla-Mae, "oderrrrrr"

At this point, Tim informed us that even though he tried to stop the outpouring of biological matter from his mouth by placing a hand over it, all he had in fact succeeded in doing is making his projectile range greater (like when you put your thumb over a hose-pipe) and fountained vomit over "around twenty people". Whilst most got away with little splatterings, one girl in particular got absolutely covered.

Can you see where this is going?

What should crop up in my facebook newsfeeds, other than this?

That's right folks!  My good friend vomited upon one of the hot Corp twins!  Perhaps both, as I imagine his vision was somewhat impaired . . . and they are identical.

Gripped, are you not, by the cliff-hanger I created there?  Well, t'is at this point where he have two different accounts of what ensued.

The hot Corp twins' friends account (and typing that is a plural-based nightmare which I assume I've made a mistake somewhere)

Interesting . . .

Tim's account

After his bile explosion, Tim went to the toilets to clean himself up, and was followed by a group of the victim's friends who - and I quote Tim - 'were all "you what you what?"'.  At the time, Tim was leaning over the urinal, and others in the toilets were saying that "he was only sick and it happens to everyone".  Still they persisted, and then Tim stood upright, unfolding his 6 foot 5 inch frame . . . and t'was at this moment that the chaps backed down, washed little flecks of vomit off of themselves, and skulked off.

I know which version of events I believe, and t'is the latter.


In other news, what a contrast in weather we've had!  Last week I was out in the sun with Anna at Devonshire Green plotting our next project together - we've settled on it being about a mischevious mermaid.  With me actually encountering sunlight (it's not something we see much of in Derby) I dug out my denim shorts, and check this out, because I am actually impressed!



Me in June 2011, notice the lack of belt . . . but please turn a blind eye to the pink shoe-laces.

Same shorts, tried them on the other day . . .

Err, sorry about the amount of undercrackers on display >.<

But c'mon, that's fairly impressive!

However, I am now presented with a dilemma; there is just something not right about paying £16 for a pair of shorts, so now I am toying between the idea of which will be a better investment.

[A] £16 worth of shorts which I will never need to wear in Derby,

or

[B] £16 worth of custard creams so I can fit back into my current pair of shorts.

. . . I think we all know the asnwer to that.

Just to highlight how I will never need shorts, I woke up this morning to find snow outside . . . snow, in April.  It's a good job that homeless chap who resided on my street moved up the social scale and found somewhere better to live.  Derby is always cold and glum, and snow just made the entire city look that little bit more Soviet.  Additionally, there are some weird people here; just ask Melissa - the two of us were walking through the city centre to my house on an average day (which, in Derby, means bloody Baltic) where we saw a gentleman stood shouting "F%*KING COLD!!!" at the heavens whilst he slammed his bike up and down in a fit of weather-rage.

Needless to say, we exchanged a quick glance and walked passed him, eyes focussed on the floor.

Still, I do have one good thing to say about Derby as a place, and I've created it in the form of a postcard.

*generic witty title*

"Hey Picard."

"Yes?"

"You'll never believe it, but I have actually met someone - a female, I might add - who actually likes me and won't lump me into the 'quirky slightly camp male friend' category."

". . . go on."

"Hah, of course I haven't!  April Fool's Jean-Luc!"

"Yeah, How d'you like them apples Picard . . . if that is your real name?"

Jean-Luc Picard. Not liking 'them apples' since July 13th, 2305

And onwards . . .

Obi-Wan Kenobi once said of Mos Eisley spaceport that "you will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy".   Clearly, he never met my next-door neighbours.  The other day - as usual - they were having a rather vocal disagreement, until the gentleman delivered the following pearler of a line.

"I F%$KING WORK ALL F%$CKING DAY AND I COME HOME AND YOU'VE MADE A SH#T DINNER.  YOU CAN'T COOK FOR SH#T . . . . BECAUSE YOU'RE A SCHLAAAAAAGGGG!!!"

Now, I have a few questions . . .

1) If you've been out to work 'all day', how come I hear you arguing at all hours?

2) Please could you elaborate on how being a 'schlaaaaaagggg' would impair one's cooking ability?

I did an absolute peach of an impression to my neighbours bold statement to Adam on a rather eventful evening . . . one in which we were sat in my house at 20:00 on a Saturday evening, and then complained it was a bit cold.  So, being a good host, I turned the heating up and suggested we go for a quiet half and some dry roasted peanuts . . . 


Six hours later, we returned home in a non too-good state.


I won't fill you in on our drunken antics - mainly because most of which are a mystery to me - but boy were we pulling some shapes!  Such shapes were we pulling, in fact, that this one girl did not stop looking at the two of us.


Our collective thoughts at 04:30am;

. . . and at 10:00am;

I've said it before and I will say it again; hindsight is a wonderful thing.  I mean, with hindsight, would Hitler have invaded Russia? Nope.  Well, my 'hindsight' moment is less world-changing than that, but with hindsight, it probably was not the best idea to crumble to Turner's demands of "let's have it large then" when we had to be up at 10:00am for a long car journey to London to watch a football match.

Just to highlight, sitting in a stadium full of 50,000 shouting fans is not the place to be with a cracking hang-over.  No matter how much I asked them all nicely, they just wouldn't tone it down.

That Saturday night at Mosh (in Derby - brilliant!) was the cherry on top of a good week; this whole single malarky is actually awesome!  It was also a week in which two new entries came for the best insult I've ever received.

Adam - Yeah the reason you always get ID'ed is because you look like you're fourteen . . . and a fourteen year old girl at that.

Claire - One day you'll find someone and have the whole marriage and children thing . . . or more likely a civil partnership and an adoption.

Still, I think the ultimate best came from one of Claire's friends, Becky.  T'was a night where we nearly got "shanked" in an alleyway, but once the altercation had died down Becky turned to me, completely serious and sobbing, and said;

"Oh Michael I'm so glad they didn't do anything to you to ruin your beautiful face."

. . . I'M A 25 YEAR OLD MAN!

Recently, I've had people seeking my advice a lot over relationships and these fancy womenfolk in general . . . . I know! Me?  Relationship advice?  Excuse me while I lolwut.  I doubt there is anyone less suited to giving out relationship advice; christ, I asked my last girlfriend out over a bag of gummy bears, clearly this highlights at just how bad I am at such things.  This happened to me a few years ago - I swear it's purely due to having 'Silk' as a last name that people come to me - where someone had a massive crush on a girl and asked me what to do.  My reply?

"Erm . . . . why not try writing her a letter?"

In the end, this chap got the girl, but through no usage of letters.  In fact, he went to another friend who told him to make sure "he is never the last one to text" and "leave massive gaps before texting back".

Hmph!  I'll keep the letters and gummy bears to myself!

Oh to be a pencil-pusher again . . .

Well as usual, I'm in a terrible mood . . . mainly because I've managed to do something to my laptop and now it types really slowly and makes a clicking noise, and freezes if I press the same key twice too quickly (this also applies to the 'backspace' button, which is infuriating!)

Additionally, these last two weeks or so, I can't help shake the feeling that . . .

. . . perhaps it's part of my education as a History graduate, but I tend to reflect on past events, and eventually dig out things I missed when the occurance -erm - occured (what?! It's late and I am feeling unimaginative in my utilisation of vocabulary) and so it is fair to say that I am momentarily somewhat riled. I keep being told that I am 'a really nice person'; the truth is, I'm actually not, I can just disguise it incredibly well; cutting remarks, bitchiness and downright petulance are just three of the services I offer, and I do so hate attempting to take the moral high ground at times - it clashes horribly with my never-ending mission to get the last word in.

Anyway, since Gareth claimed earlier that I have 'gone all weird' recently, I suppose I shall cease my grumblings and lighten the mood which I have worked so hard to darken thus far.

Like most people, I loathe my job . . . I mean really loathe my job.  True, I was once told by my boss to spend four hours doodling because there wasn't much work for me to do, but when I compare that to the cushy job I had at Durham County Council, I pretty much had two years worth of being paid to doodle and invent ever more productive ways to be unproductive with my existence. 

Alas, t'was not just me that had this issue, but everyone in the office . . .

On a bright day in the North East of England (which obviously means that the sun held absolutely no warmth) I arrived at work, turned my computer on . . . and turned the Metro newspaper I picked up to the 'Puzzles' section. T'was at this precise moment, when I reached for my trusty chewed Biro, that I realised that not all was as it should be in my domain, and there was an evil presence.  Everything on my desk had gone; my stationary, my pile of papers (which I was relatively pleased with at the time) my foot stool, even my football boots from the drawer had all gone missing.

Because nothing says you're bemused more than a Togepi armed with a banana . . .

In a state of puzzlement, I raised my newspaper, half expecting to find all of my missing possessions underneath it. Alas, there weren't there, but I did find something of great importance to unravelling this spiralling conspiracy (for there was an awful lot of poker-faces around the office.) The note conveyed the following message;

"At 09:30, go to the fax machine."

I checked my watch; 08:46. It was here that I began to realise the full extent of the malevolent goings-on surrounding me; this was no simple "oh let's hide all 'le Silk's' stuff". No, this was on a par with the Da Vinci Code. I waited tentatively, and even had to sacrifice my 09:30 scone time (oddly, in Durham you are considered 'la de dar' if you pronounce 'scone' properly, for it is allegedly a 'sconn', which in Derbyshire is considered the 'la de dar' terminology for said bread-based product).  At 09:31, the fax machine began to violently hum it's distress call of having a function, so I sprang into action, hoping for my next clue to retrieving my Biro (for I do enjoy chewing my Biro's to buggery) and I suppose my football boots weren't particularly cheap either.

I received what I can only describe as a treasure map . . . directing me into the ladies toilets.

With the evident look of mortification on my face, there was a ripple of sniggering, and then a suspicious lack of eye-contact.

After what I can only describe as a sinister amount of time to be waiting outside the opposite gender's restroom, I was confident that the coast was clear . . . so in I went.

My stapler awaited me inside, with a stapled treasure map lodged in it's unforgiving jaws.

And so the trend continued; I followed the treasure map down two flights of stairs to a meeting room and found my calculator hideously tangled with my sellotape reel with another treasure map. Now, the Council building was fairly sizeable; 12 floors, if I remember correctly, and I was being forced to spirograph my way through it's maze to find my possessions. The last item to be retreived were my football boots, which were in the room directly above mine (according to the crude drawings I was presented) and it was here where I uncovered the mastermind of the hideous ploy, beaming with smug satisfaction.

That Rebecca from upstairs . . . I shook

my fist in her general direction.

However, this was not my favourite memory of working in an office, no.  That came nearly a year later, when I was working in Mansfield.  T'was the day of the Royal wedding, and some jester at work decided that it would be brilliant if everyone came to work as if they were going to the Royal wedding . . . for some reason.  Well, no one out-jests me . . . no one!

You need security at a Royal wedding.  Oh yes ladies and gents, I'm not just a freakishly girly face.

Please not that I am sat down, and whilst I'm doing my best to look like I'm deep in thought (as it was my boss who took this photo) that folder spent most of the day lying across my lap.

Why, you ask?

Well, it was the first time I had donned such a costume, and unfortunately it was only about twenty minutes in to my nine hour shift when my co-worker Mark noticed that my trousers . . . how to say . . . were somewhat unforgivingly tight around the crotchal region.  Being the first to notice, he seemed to delight in spreading this information to everyone else in the office . . . and then asked me to come over to his desk (which was greeted with much cackling).  

It turns out that, on this occasion, I was out-jestered . . . TWICE!

Michala, the manager of the sales team, was wiping her tears away at the . . . unfortunate show I inadvertedly put on, and declared "oh I can't take it" whilst she weeped feebly.  Mark's riposte?

So I slinked off to my desk, placed a folder over my lap, and rued the day I got a 'good idea' whilst on eBay.  Still, the torment was not over; at lunch-time, Hollie came over to my fortress . . . 

Hmph, last time I try and do anything novel and a bit quirky . . . in theory.