Cool, Cool Mountain

Me, getting out of bed in the morning

Mercy, its cold. Whilst I have a nice view of the snow-smothered Sackville Park from the window of the flat, and the minus temperatures have driven the assorted hobos, teenage yobbos and their hoop-earring future-sows from their normal late-night drinking spots amongst the benches and AIDS beacon, the slippy surfaces and toe-killing temperatures are taking their toll on me. Combine said temperature with Adam's night-shifts and his understandable requirement to have all the blinds down so he can get some sleep in a morning and you have a situation where, upon waking up in bed, my newly-engaged senses are faced with a battle between the luxurious warmth of a double bed and a pitch black chamber of icy darkness. The pros and cons of snooze come to the fore.

For more reasons not to get out of bed, see the recent passing of Leslie Nielson. Sure, he was eighty-four but still not good when a dry comedy genius slips off the mortal coil. Instead of sticking some random clip from Youtube I will direct you to an excellent Guardian article with a biography as well as some great clips, including a kung-fu film - who knew?

The final blow has been the death of Adam's (nee, our) Playstation 3, which decided to kill itself and take the newly-bought copy of Fallout New Vegas with it. Why they don't have a manual drawer-release button like every other disc drive I don't know, so I am now faced with smashing the defunct console open to get the game back even though I can't play it (like smashing a coconut open to get the milk whilst being allergic to coconut milk), ask a shady friend of a friend to have a stab at repairing it and getting the disc out, or paying Sony £131.00 to get it all back but lose all saves, memories and digital good times that may be residing on the little fella's hard drive. This has also removed the ability to watch blurays from the Dance-Fisher compound, so a replacement must be found - somehow.

However, the Christmas markets are open (cheese soup not withstanding), hotdogs and tia-maria hot chocolate crap all over the rest of this miserable babble. Booyah.

Monster Mash

Sadly I have failed to report on this...













And this...













It isn't me in the second photo by the way, though given my theatrical penchant for dressing up you would be forgiven for assuming. As a result of playing Monster Mash last evening - gather a team of alcohol-fueled costumed hobos, take it in turns counting from from one, replacing any numbers divisible by three with the word Monster and those divisible by five with Monster Mash, any divisible by both with "It was a Monster Mash!" in your best hammy Boriss Karloff voice, when someone gets it wrong they drink and it begins afresh - and falling into slumber sat curled on a chair before wandering home at about 5.30, I have what can be described as a 'trick back' which is pinging at me when I stand up and felt drained of all humour when I woke up.

However, my good feeling is back, as a result of television and ready meal carbonara. This advert is funny, The Walking Dead starts tonight in the US which will be amazeballs, and Derek Jacobi must take some of the responsibility for my improvement of mood due to his incredible Ebeneezer Scrooge impression. In a Sony advert. So things are looking up. Noel Edmunds dressed as Pan on Halloween Deal or No Deal is amazing and visible to your left, reminding me of this Reeves and Mortimer lunacy. This week's Harry Hill was comedy genius, and it had an advert for his new album featuring the single I Wanna Baby which is, as expected, totally bizarre. Dragnet is now on which is a corker of a film, but what to do this evening? Sadly due to my solitude I am asking questions to this blog to imitate having a conversation, but you can't reply, can you? Can you? No. Ah well.

Wet-Dry World

Possibly as a result of the slight Biblical tones in the previous post, and most certainly an attempt to wipe away the hedonism and depravity of the previous evening's party in honour of the birthday of Adam Dance (almost definitely some kind of old world deity trapped in human form), a vertical deluge of brown water attacked the flat early the following morning.

Starting innocently with a few slow drips - much like the previous evening's party - it had soon become an experimental music installation consisting of approximately a dozen water-holding receptacles, from plastic champagne flutes to large two-handed saucepans, creating a rhythmic, subterranean sound wall of dripping water. Thankfully the brownness of the liquid was due to it seeping through the wood in the ceiling, not particles of decay leeching from the rotting body of our unknown neighbour in the flat above. Which was a relief I can tell you.












A photo of me taken early Tuesday morning, surveying the damage to the mezzanine (to be sent to our realty agent)



The apocryphal waters flowed for six days and six nights, during which I assumed the persona of a navvy on ye old man o' war, furiously slooshing out belowdecks in a desperate attempt to keep the sea at bay - well, emptying out pans and full cups in the sink - before Adam ingeniously used a plastic storage box as an impromptu water bucket and the whole thing became a lot more managable. And according to a telegram received just this morning, he is to be awared the Mario Mario Luigi Mario Green Pipe award for unrivaled ingenuity in the field of home plumbing, so along with his birthday he has had a great week.

















The additional cash prize for further research was also well-received


As is write this, the ordeal has been over for two days and the recovery process has started (i.e. I have picked up some of the plastic cups). Isn't it remarkable how life finds a way to survive?

Phoenix from the Flameface

REBIRTH

Guess whos back - back again? Simon's back - tell your friends. Guess who's back, guess who's back, guess who's back, guess who's back, guess who's back, guess who's back, guess who's back - and so forth.

Expect more cheap puns like the atrocity in the title of the post, because I now possess not only the capability but the intention of putting more drivel on this page until neither me nor you can stand to read any more. Why, even whilst typing this I wandered from room to room of my flat - cables harbour no power over me now - so long as I have remember to charge the laptop over night and remember to unplug it, thereby not having it yanked from my hands as the charger cable snaps taut and my baby lies shattered at my feet like so many others.

But enough, here is a quick recap of the year that has passed since I last put finger to keyboard -

- I am now a Box Office Manager at a cinema
- My brother Dave now lives in America with his lovely new wife(?), her two dastardly young kids(??) and the apparently quite large foetus that grows ever-larger inside her(???)
- Sam Bacon of previous mention has returned in a glorious fashion to the UK, living in Manchester with two other classic buddies not ten minutes from...
- My new city-centre flat that I reside in with my flame-haired lover Adam
- The dissolution of my long-term housemate nest stretching back to the university days, with prior housemates dissapating across the globe to (in order of exoticism) India, America, London, Liverpool and Salford

Finally, an apology for the hugh pause between this post and the last, I appear to have indirectly caused a Tory government and a global recession - now, time for payback.