You would have thought that two vasectomies would be enough to stop the little buggers getting through, but no. The first set of tests have come back positive for (frankly quite impressive) swimmers. I’m shortly going to be cracking off with what will be my 10th test since I started this whole thing, and I’m starting to get worried. My palms are all hairy and I now fancy plastic sample pots. Looks like a 3rd vasectomy could be on the cards…
Swimming against the tide
September 15th, 2010I have a dream
August 26th, 2010Mine wasn’t as noble as MLK’s. I dreamed I was sleeping with Bruce Forsythe for his money. It was horrible. He was all wrinkly and smelt of gin.
The ways of the Jedi
July 12th, 2010Got Wibs Star Wars Lego for the PS2 and we had a 2 player game before one
of the controllers broke.
Wibs: “Daddy – why did you kill Jar Jar Binks?”
Me: “Sorry, it was an accident”
Wibs: “Daddy – don’t kill Jar Jar Binks”
Me: “Sorry Wibs, I mistook him for someone else”
Wibs: “Daddy – stop killing Jar Jar Binks”
Me: “Sorry Wibs, my finger slipped”
Wibs: “DADDY! STOP KILLING JAR JAR BINKS”
Me: “Oh go on. Just once more”
Is it a bird? Is it a plane? Is it a dustbin?
June 16th, 2010It’s my new bike. Behold:
My faithless steed
She is a mixture of Taliban (wheels, front brakes, gears), Jedward (seat, pedals, mudguard, handlebars) and the skip-rescue bike, which I called Black Death. In order to commemorate the unholy union of 3 shitty bikes, her name is Jelideath. Let her name ring down through the ages whenever a shit bicycle is mentioned.
A bike called Jedward
June 15th, 2010Sorry, I don’t really have anything much to say about curry at the moment. It’s been ages since I had one and I think I’m beginning to forget what they taste like. Tragic.
But on to Ebay – I just put this advert on there, for Jedward my faithful steed:
A bike called Jedward
He’s called Jedward because he’s crap. When I bought him he was crap. The brakes didn’t really work in the wet – as I hurtled to my doom they made a distant mooing sound, like a cow in the next field. The tyres were falling to bits and both the back and front wheels were buckled. But then I found another bike that was going to be chucked in a skip and, using bits from another junker and Jedward, I managed to cobble together something that was rubbish but wouldn’t actually kill me the next time there was a bit of drizzle in the air. Which leaves Jedward, who was crap at the best of times, and now even crapper than when I bought him because he’s had all the 1/4 decent bits taken off and replaced with the 1/8th decent bits from the skip-rescued one.
So what are you bidding on? All the bits that make up a bike are there. All you need to do is tighten everything up and you’ve got yourself a death-trap that no-one in their right mind would ride without the legally-binding promise, signed by at least 4 gods, of 200 virgins waiting for him (or her) on the other side. Seriously, you don’t want to ride this one home and I purposely left everything loose so he’s un-rideable. What’s good about him? Well, the frame and forks aren’t too bad and the dust covers on the tyre valves are in tip top condition. Other than that, he’s crap.
No panic bidding please.
In 20 years…
June 2nd, 2010Jimbo will have turned into some sort of terrifying super villain:
Yay! Go Jimbo!
What now?
May 17th, 2010I feel I should write something but I lack inspiration. The first person to reply with a suggestion gets a blog entry written about it.
Beer Hutch!
January 15th, 2010Young William and James were the luckiest boys in Cambridge. Their father, a brilliant inventor, had built them their very own beer hutch! Fun and adventure was never far away, thanks to their thermostatically heated shelter which was large enough to hold a pressure keg and lots of bottles. Actually, fun and adventure were some considerable distance away, and not getting any closer, thanks to their father not giving it to them and putting his beer in it instead. They would only have used it to have zany adventures with an ironic twist at the end anyway, and I’d rather drink beer thanks.
But why a beer hutch? Home brew needs to be stored at the correct temperature, which is less than the inside temperature of a house, but more than the bloody freezing temperature it currently is outside; I don’t want to suck it like a lolly. An outside cupboard or garage would normally be fine but unfortunately, at some point in its life, our Victorian terraced house had had its outside toilet and coal bunker knocked down and turned into a big kitchen. With no thought as to how future residents would store their homebrew at the correct temperature – not very forward-thinking, eh? For a while my beer lived outside, wrapped in a heated underblanket (found in a skip – very few stains on it but a broken switch), with its temperature controlled by a home-made (mainly from scrapped parts) thermostat:
There she is, huddled under her green blanket. Just above is the control electronics and hanging on the fence is the temperature readout:
10.5 Degrees – just right.
This is all very well and good, but it’s a right pain actually getting the beer out – you have to lift up all the layers to get to the tap and take everything off to give her a puff of CO2. Also, what do I do when I’ve got 40 bottles of beer as well as the keg? So I needed a little beer hutch to keep the precious liquid at the optimum temperature. Luckily, they were chucking out a load of under-bench cupboards from one of the labs at work:
Pretty tatty, but it’s built like a brick shithouse and it just needs a top, door, stronger back, insulation (walls and door are a chopped up Tesco Value duvet with skip-found insulated board top and bottom) and the heater blanket. A couple of nights later…
Lots of insulation and the heated blanket installed. What does it look like from the outside? In a word – tasty.
The sharp-eyed might notice that the door is a) the wrong colour, b) the wrong size, c) hung wonky and d) upside down, but when you are hanging upside down by your feet from the edge of a skip, you can’t be choosy about the colour, type or which side door it is. It shuts. It opens. It fulfills its purpose.
And now my beer is in her lovely new, hand-crafted home. The end result:
Night night precious beer.
A Grand Day Out
August 4th, 2009The nightmare journey of a what seems like a thousand miles begins with me saying “why don’t we go and see Thomas the Tank Engine at the Nene Valley Railway?” I blame Jen. My record for organising things isn’t good; I once booked a seaside holiday in what I was told was a “lovely chalet”, which turned out to be a damp shed at the bottom of someone’s garden. She should know better than to agree to one of my ideas, especially when I’m organising it too. There was a lot riding on this trip – Thomas is a very firm favourite of Wibs so failure was not an option.
The plan was simple. Take the train to Peterborough, walk to Railworld and Nene Valley Railway station, see Thomas, have a quick ride, a bite to eat, a look around and head back home. What could possibly go wrong? Jen, Wibs, a buggied-up Jimbo and I set off confidently.
“Can I see Thomas yet?” asked Wibs. No, not yet. Just a short walk, a train ride, another walk and then you can see him.
Once we were aboard the train to Peterborough and the buggy was safely wedged in the doorway, the kids’ excitement of riding on a train lasted almost up to the point when it started moving. Wibs and Jimbo amused themselves by kicking the seats of the poor bastards in front of us, banging on the seats of the poor bastards in front of us and ignoring our orders to stop kicking and banging the seats of the poor bastards in front of us.
Peterborough. Here we are! Shit! Why is the only way off this platform up a huge flight of stairs to a bridge? Young Jimbo was violently bounced around in his buggy as a kindly stranger and I sweated and aarghed it up the stairs. I could hear my vertebrae screaming as we carried him down the other side, but Jimbo seemed to be enjoying the ride.
“What do the directions say about getting to Railworld?” asked Jen as we reached the exit. Now, only a complete fool would forget to print out the directions to Railworld and the Nene Valley railway station. “Don’t worry, there will be signs to it” I guessed optimistically, and just this once, I was correct.
“Can I see Thomas yet?” asked Wibs. No, not yet. Just a short walk and then you can see him.
We followed the signs. The looming towers of car parks provided an interesting counterpoint to the scary dinginess of the subways and underpasses but, as we doggedly trudged on, they were replaced by the hustle and bustle of a busy dual carriageway, the concrete splendour of the Asda car park and then a bridge with fine views of tramps in their natural habitat; the special wasteland you only get next to bridges, shouting and throwing bottles at each other. The path now went alongside a river and we walked past someone apparently fishing for turds.
“Can I see… yuck, what is that horrible smell?” asked Wibs as we walked under a urine-soaked railway bridge. “It’s Thomas piss” I replied. Well, I would have, had I not just been stunned into silence by the huge swan from the depths of hell which blocked our path, stretching out its 12 foot wingspan and baring its huge razor-sharp teeth. OK, it didn’t have teeth but it wasn’t any less scary for lacking them. “I think we should take a different path” whispered Jen, as I left her standing and ran past the swan, courageously using Jimbo and the buggy as a shield between my delicate body and hissing, feathered death. “Thanks for waiting” sarcasmed Jen, as she and Wibs joined us from the longer but safer path. Our tempers were back in the Asda car park somewhere.
“Can I see Thomas yet?” asked Wibs. Soon. We are almost there.
We arrived at Derelict Rusting Portakabin World, which turned out to be Railworld. The decaying boxes had all the charm of a vandalised toilet but weren’t as pretty. A spherical bloke informed us it was £10 each to see whatever foulness lurked within the quite scary-looking Portakabins. We were lucky it was still there, he told us sadly, it’s all going to be knocked down in a couple of weeks. “Well, a pile of rubble will be an improvement” I just about managed to stop myself saying. We declined and asked directions to Thomas. “He’s not here” laughed spherical bloke, “he’s at the other end of the line. You’ll have to get the train.” Of course.
“Can I see Thomas yet?” asked Wibs. Sorry Wibs, it’s just another train journey and then you can see Thomas. “You’ve just missed the train” said spherical bloke cheerfully, “it’s an hour until the next one”. Sorry Wibs, it’s an hour’s wait, a train journey and then you can see Thomas.
Never mind, at least we could have some lunch. Squatting next to Rusting Portakabin World was 70’s Yellowing Melamine Nightmare Cafe World. There were staff in it, but it didn’t look very open. A cafe would have to be mad to be closed in the middle of summer at lunchtime, surely? It was closed. Luckily, the Nene Valley Railway ticket office was open to provide the boys with a healthy, nutritious lunch of muffin and crisps. They ate to the howls and screeches of pneumatic paintstripping tools, eminating from the train scrapyard next to Derelict Rusting Portakabin World. This was actually a good thing because the hideous racket obscured the shouty fuckbastarding of the local Community Service yobs painting the station fence.
Jen went back to the ticket office to inquire about tickets to go up the track to see Thomas, and almost fainted when she found out it would cost £21. I took a deep breath and went in to buy them. There was a loud thump as I discovered that she had been told the wrong price and it was actually £35 to travel about 5 poxy miles up the line. But failure was not an option. I thought of Wibs, climbed to my feet and handed over all my money.
“Can I see Thomas yet?” asked Wibs. Soon. The train will be here soon and then it’s just a short ride and then you can see Thomas. And everyone will be happy.
The old rolling stock of the Nene Valley Railway provided enough room for the kids to wander about and annoy everyone in the whole carriage. On modern ones, they can only torment those poor sods in the immediate vicinity, unless I take them for a scream and a shout in a different carriage.
We arrived at the other end of the line. It had taken about four hours from leaving home and I had been wallet raped, but by god we had finally reached the station where Thomas was supposed to be.
“Can I see Thomas yet?” asked Wibs. He should be at this station. Christ. What is that over there? It’s blue and there is steam coming out of the top! It’s Thomas! He’s going to be coming in to the station! On the other platform! That you can only get to by going up the stairs to a bridge! Fuck! Run! Never mind about Jimbo, just get the fucking buggy up the stairs before Thomas pisses off again. Come on! Hurry! Get out of my fucking way kids! Eat buggy, granny! We’re coming through!
“Have you got the camera?” asked Jen. Oh come on – what do you think? “I’ll take some pictures on my phone’s camera” I replied. And I would have done if the battery hadn’t been flat.
“Can I see Thomas yet?” asked Wibs. Yes you can. Look. Here he comes, puffing in to the station in all his glory. Peep peep! The huge beaming smile on Thomas’ cheery face is nothing compared to the wonderful grin on Wibs’. This is the moment that makes it all worthwhile.
But then there was a slight frown.
“Why is he not talking?” asked Wibs.
Yipes. “Errrr… well, he’s saying ‘wheesh’ and ‘peep'”
“But why is Thomas not talking to me?”
“But he is sort of talking by saying wheesh and well, you know he’s very tired from going peep, pulling the trains and” other pathetic excuses that cut no ice with a disappointed four year old. All Wibs knew was that Thomas didn’t want to talk to him.
We had just spent 60 pounds, spent all day travelling on trains, walked miles, seen the seedy underbelly of Peterborough (the fluffy top part isn’t that great), been threatened by the wildlife and driven the kids mad with boredom, all for Wibs to have his dreams ruined by discovering that Thomas is some sort of elitist bastard who won’t talk to him. Yes, that’ll be a day out organised by me then.
I’ll shorten the return journey; buggy back over the bridge, train back to Derelict Rusting Portakabin World station. I swear that if that swan comes near me I’ll break it’s fucking neck. Trudge back to Peterborough station and drag the buggy back over yet another bridge. Kids get very, very loud and screamy on the train to Cambridge while everyone else in the carriage fantasises about chucking us out of the window. Jimbo bites me twice on the shoulder, almost drawing blood. Wibs sulks because Thomas hates him. We arrive at Cambridge, where Wibs accidentally drops his favourite car off the platform. We have to leave it on the tracks and he cries for most of the walk home.
When we finally got back, I promised never to suggest anything again, ever. Jen promised never to listen to me again, ever.
My daily bread
July 24th, 2009Apropos of nothing, here is my recipe for bread that I use with my Panasonic SD254 bread maker.
- 300g Good quality strong flour (Hovis Strong bread flour)
- 175g Cheapo strong flour (Tesco strong bread flour)
- 5ml Tesco fast acting yeast
- 7.5ml Sugar
- 5ml Salt
- 1/4 Tsp Ground ginger
- 20g butter
- 2.5ml Vinegar
- 315ml Water
Put the yeast in first and cover with the flour. Then bung all the other ingredients on top, making sure that the water can’t get to the yeast. I use the measuring spoon I got with the bread maker to measure out the quantities, except for the water, where I use the scales and measure out 315g of water.
Yeast likes a slightly acidic environment, which is why some people add ascorbic acid. I find that acetic acid (vinegar) works as well, making the bread springier but not affecting the taste. The other additive – ginger, helps keep the bread fresh.
Other handy hints: cheapo flour is about 1/2 the price of the good stuff, but never works as well, producing heavy, stodgy bread. As long as you don’t use too much, adding a certain amount of cheap flour to the good stuff doesn’t have any discernible affect but saves a few pennies every day. I find 300/175 good to cheap works well.
It’s best to give the bread at least an hour to cool and dry out slightly before hacking inexpertly at it with the bread knife. If you can’t wait that long, you can make cutting over-fresh bread easier by cleaning the blade of the knife every other slice and keeping it nice and sharp. Electric knives are not worth the money unless you’ve got something wrong with your wrist.
That’s it. Here is a picture of one of the many failures that I created before I got this recipe right.