We're off to Berlin today, for a short holiday we've both been looking forward to enormously. We get up at 5.30 and after quickly finishing packing we head out and jump on the Piccadilly Line towards Heathrow Terminal 5. It's quite nice that we can walk down the road to Turnpike Lane station and not have to change trains or even move before we're inside the terminal we're flying from - but it is a bloody long journey and takes around an hour and a quarter to negotiate the 30-odd stops out to West London.
We pass the time by reading, though, and soon we're in the impressive Terminal 5, breezing through check-in and security. We're nice and early for the flight, so we grab an uninspiring and overpriced baguette from Pret a Manger and take our seats. Since both of us are regularly budget airline types, it's quite a thrill to be flying BA and not have to worry about scrambling for seats - and even getting food and drinks on the plane. What a treat! No matter that the food we end up getting this morning is a ham and tomato roll the size of a fag packet - we're just pleased to be on our way.
We land at Berlin Tegel airport at around 11.30, where a nice man helps us buy a day ticket for the Berlin transport system and we get a short bus into the city centre. We arrive at Alexanderplatz, the touristy/shopping centre of old East Berlin, and, since we have a couple of hours to kill before we can check into our hotel, get stuck right in by sitting down with a beer and a portion of currywurst (the local specialty) each. We take in the area for a wee while before heading towards our hotel, which is further south of the centre. It's getting hot here already - and after checking in and getting rid of our heavy bags we set out to explore the city a little, as well as finding a decent bar to watch the England game in.
We head due north and the first place we come across is Potsdamer Platz. A literal no-man's land during the Cold War, it's spent the last 20 years becoming a collection of impressive skyscrapers and restaurants, as well as an audaciously designed U-Bahn stop. There is also a small preserved section of the Berlin Wall, with markings showing the line the rest of the wall would have followed. This is our first real encounter with Berlin's history - and while this particular section of the wall is overshadowed by a massive iPad advert, it's exactly what I was hoping to find.
Next we head further north and stumble across both the huge Holocaust memorial - a grid of concrete coffins that's truly impressive and utterly claustrophobic to walk through - and the Brandenburg Gate. It's weird to be standing next to something so famous when you hadn't been looking for it, but especially when you're just trying to find a bar with a TV where the beer doesn't cost 5 euros a pint!
We eventually find a small, deserted roof terrace (it is 3pm on a Wednesday after all) and take our seats in front of a sunlit TV to watch the England v Slovenia match and rest our legs a bit. There are only a couple of other people here, but our waitress is English and spends some time suggesting areas of the city to visit to find bars and markets and suchlike.
After the game (which England win 1-0 in a much improved performance, albeit failing to win the group thanks to a late USA winner over Algeria) we jump on the U-Bahn and head further into East Berlin in search of fun. We quickly come across a large beer garden, which instantly looks exactly how I had imagined Berlin - grafitti-covered, crumbling concrete walls, gravel on the ground and long benches full of people eating bratwurst and drinking lager. Tonight it's even more exciting, though, as people are starting to gather for the Germany v Ghana World Cup match with flags and vuvuzelas in tow.
It gets busy quickly, and we move on after a single beer. The sun is starting to go down, but it's still hot as we hit the north bank of the Spree, and the East Side Gallery - the longest and most recently decorated stretch of preserved Wall. Painted up by a series of graffiti artists to celebrate 20 years since the fall of Communism, it's pretty stunning, though walking it's length is a hot and tiring affair.
By the time the sun's gone down, we're in a small pub in amongst some fairly residential streets. I had led us here having picked out a particular U-Bahn station which would take us home later, but it had been a very long walk, and we are both happy to sit and have a few drinks and relax.
The relaxation doesn't last long, however, as the final whistle in the Germany match goes - they have won 1-0 - and people in the flats above the pub start throwing firecrackers off their balconies. It's a huge noise, amplified by the tight square we're sat on, and fearful of getting hit by fireworks on our first night in Berlin we scuttle into the pub to finish our drinks along with the old people and the shaking, terrified dogs.
On the way home the German fans are out in the street in force, beeping horns and waving flags - it honestly seemed like a bit of an over-reaction; you'd think they'd won the bloody tournament.
We eventually get back to the hotel after midnight, slightly drunk but utterly exhausted; with pounding feet and aching limbs. Our 'gentle' first day in the city had turned into a 17-hour walk - and we reluctantly set our alarms for tomorrow's exploring.
Wednesday 30 June 2010
Tuesday
It's getting really rather warm in London, to the extent that I'm actually rather glad to be getting out of the country tomorrow with temperatures looking set to rise to the point where work in our office is nigh on physical torture. The day passes nicely, despite the heat, particularly as I help to set up the projector and laptop for tomorrow's England game and get to watch a little of South Africa humiliating an imploding French squad by two goals to one - sending the French home in fourth place and Uruguay and Mexico through.
Another amusing incident comes when the MD gets back from lunch having apparently taken a drink and decides to start moving the office furniture around. It's not a productive day - but it has that nice 'last day of term' feel before we head off on holiday.
In the warm of the evening K and I walk over to Ant's house to pick up a memory card for our new digital camera and to drop some CDs off with Tim. It's nice to have a stroll in the evening, especially as we're looking to knacker ourselves out ahead of an early night, but it is still really, really hot and we get home totally puffed out.
An 'early night' tonight actually involves us staying up past midnight watching old movies and eventually we make our way to bed, excitably eager to pass the five hours before we get up again.
Another amusing incident comes when the MD gets back from lunch having apparently taken a drink and decides to start moving the office furniture around. It's not a productive day - but it has that nice 'last day of term' feel before we head off on holiday.
In the warm of the evening K and I walk over to Ant's house to pick up a memory card for our new digital camera and to drop some CDs off with Tim. It's nice to have a stroll in the evening, especially as we're looking to knacker ourselves out ahead of an early night, but it is still really, really hot and we get home totally puffed out.
An 'early night' tonight actually involves us staying up past midnight watching old movies and eventually we make our way to bed, excitably eager to pass the five hours before we get up again.
Tuesday 22 June 2010
Monday
Today I need to pop out of work to go and pick up some Euros for our trip to Berlin on Wednesday. This involves walking halfway home down Wood Green High Street to a First Choice travel agent (the only open bureau de change in the borough, it seems) - the sort of grubby, old-fashioned, pre-internet place where people used to actually come and browse through catalogues to find their perfect holiday.
Do people really still do that? Apparently they must - though instead of searching for a lovely summer cruise I instead find myself standing in a queue behind a woman who is probably about 40 but has the sunbed-ruined skin of a 90-year-old and is trying to haggle a better deal on her unspent holiday Euros. After listening to her spend 10 minutes whining about how exchange rates aren't fair because they change - probably expecting the 18-year-old girl behind the till to put a call in to the treasury - I finally get to the front of the queue. Annoyingly I have to take less than I wanted, because they've only got a few notes left. If the stupid woman in front of me had accepted the fickle nature of international finance I could have had all the Euros I could have ever wanted. Ah well.
I get back to work to catch the end of Portugal annihilating North Korea 7-0 on the BBC live text and later head home to keep an eye on Spain v Honduras (in which the favourites finally grab a 2-0 win which, by all accounts, could well have been as one-sided as Portugal's earlier effort). The second round of group games is now finished and the groups as a whole will be done by Friday - it's all whipping by far too fast for my liking; and the end of the groups marks the sad end of there being at least one game on every day. How will we survive?
Do people really still do that? Apparently they must - though instead of searching for a lovely summer cruise I instead find myself standing in a queue behind a woman who is probably about 40 but has the sunbed-ruined skin of a 90-year-old and is trying to haggle a better deal on her unspent holiday Euros. After listening to her spend 10 minutes whining about how exchange rates aren't fair because they change - probably expecting the 18-year-old girl behind the till to put a call in to the treasury - I finally get to the front of the queue. Annoyingly I have to take less than I wanted, because they've only got a few notes left. If the stupid woman in front of me had accepted the fickle nature of international finance I could have had all the Euros I could have ever wanted. Ah well.
I get back to work to catch the end of Portugal annihilating North Korea 7-0 on the BBC live text and later head home to keep an eye on Spain v Honduras (in which the favourites finally grab a 2-0 win which, by all accounts, could well have been as one-sided as Portugal's earlier effort). The second round of group games is now finished and the groups as a whole will be done by Friday - it's all whipping by far too fast for my liking; and the end of the groups marks the sad end of there being at least one game on every day. How will we survive?
Monday 21 June 2010
Sunday
Determined to make today at least slightly more productive than yesterday, I hop out of bed at around 10.30 and, after watching some old Lee & Herring videos on YouTube, wander up to Wood Green to visit Wilkinson's. Now that our back garden has weeds in it that are over six feet tall and with stalks as thick as my arm, I thought it might be time to tool up and hack away at some of it before it develops it's own separate, ungodly eco-system or something.
Happily, I find a large pair of fairly devastating-looking shears for the fairly devastatingly low price of £2.97, some gloves for 97p and a big roll of garden rubbish bags for 98p. Good old Wilkos. The weather isn't great so I plan to do a little bit of trimming before the inevitable rain, but it actually brightens up and I spend a good hour and a half hacking away at the ridiculous garden. To give an idea of the scale of the problem, I give up with about a third of it cleared. I do manage to rescue the 'lawn furniture' and a deckchair full of rusty water, however, so there is a certain amount of satisfaction to be had.
After all this manly outdoor work I'm a bit sweaty and bored, so I retire to the living room to watch the Italy v New Zealand match, while Alex comes round for a quick visit. After the match I get on the tube to South London once again in order to meet the boys and finally record the podcast we had meant to get done on Wednesday night. It turns out to be a really fun and unusual one as we manage to get Seb on the line via Skype, all the way from Soccer City in Johannesburg, where he is working for ITV throughout the World Cup. We spend the first 20 minutes of the podcast interviewing Seb about his experiences and generally getting rather jealous - especially when he informs us that he is about to walk down to the stadium to watch Brazil v Ivory Coast, which we can only watch on TV. Hmmph.
Happily, I find a large pair of fairly devastating-looking shears for the fairly devastatingly low price of £2.97, some gloves for 97p and a big roll of garden rubbish bags for 98p. Good old Wilkos. The weather isn't great so I plan to do a little bit of trimming before the inevitable rain, but it actually brightens up and I spend a good hour and a half hacking away at the ridiculous garden. To give an idea of the scale of the problem, I give up with about a third of it cleared. I do manage to rescue the 'lawn furniture' and a deckchair full of rusty water, however, so there is a certain amount of satisfaction to be had.
After all this manly outdoor work I'm a bit sweaty and bored, so I retire to the living room to watch the Italy v New Zealand match, while Alex comes round for a quick visit. After the match I get on the tube to South London once again in order to meet the boys and finally record the podcast we had meant to get done on Wednesday night. It turns out to be a really fun and unusual one as we manage to get Seb on the line via Skype, all the way from Soccer City in Johannesburg, where he is working for ITV throughout the World Cup. We spend the first 20 minutes of the podcast interviewing Seb about his experiences and generally getting rather jealous - especially when he informs us that he is about to walk down to the stadium to watch Brazil v Ivory Coast, which we can only watch on TV. Hmmph.
Saturday
I wake up late and feeling like shite. This is to be expected, though what is nice is that since K is off to Cardiff for the weekend she is up early to make me scrambled eggs on toast and give me a nice kiss goodbye. Lovely. When she leaves, I have barely the energy to contemplate anything other than collapsing on the sofa and gazing blankly at Sky Sports News.
Later I grab the external hard drive and plug it into the Xbox so I can, for no good reason other than I know that it's long, slow and quiet (and good), stick There Will Be Blood on. I get around an hour in before feeling distracted and actually dragging myself out of the front door towards Tesco to get the makings of a bit of lunch. The next part of the day, meaning the hours between 12.30 and 9.30, are spent alternately/concurrently watching Holland v Japan, Ghana v Australia and Denmark v Cameroon and playing Angry Birds on my iPhone. I learn two things from this endeavour: one, that watching three football games in a day can cause them to blur into one and render your field of vision mostly green; and two, that Angry Birds is literally impossible to stop playing. Just when you think it's bored you or that it's too difficult, you complete the level and have to carry on. It's pure, touchscreen evil.
When the football is all finally over and my iPhone battery has run out for the second time, I finish a couple of cans of beer and watch an episode of The Wire to soothe me to sleep.
Later I grab the external hard drive and plug it into the Xbox so I can, for no good reason other than I know that it's long, slow and quiet (and good), stick There Will Be Blood on. I get around an hour in before feeling distracted and actually dragging myself out of the front door towards Tesco to get the makings of a bit of lunch. The next part of the day, meaning the hours between 12.30 and 9.30, are spent alternately/concurrently watching Holland v Japan, Ghana v Australia and Denmark v Cameroon and playing Angry Birds on my iPhone. I learn two things from this endeavour: one, that watching three football games in a day can cause them to blur into one and render your field of vision mostly green; and two, that Angry Birds is literally impossible to stop playing. Just when you think it's bored you or that it's too difficult, you complete the level and have to carry on. It's pure, touchscreen evil.
When the football is all finally over and my iPhone battery has run out for the second time, I finish a couple of cans of beer and watch an episode of The Wire to soothe me to sleep.
Friday
Tonight is England v Algeria - time for the team to make good after a dodgy-but-promising opener and all set up perfectly for a 7.30 kick off on a Friday night. Christ, you wouldn't want to be working behind a bar tonight - or at least I wouldn't.
The plan, as was arranged on Wednesday night, is to head to Clapham Common to watch the game in the Alexandra with some of the podcast boys. By the time I get home from work, I'm not particularly enthused by the idea any more, mainly because it involves travelling to South London for the third night in a row but also because I'm always slightly apprehensive about watching England in pubs anyway, particularly during the World Cup. I'm far from being some sort of football snob, I think, but during a major tournament there's bound to be an unhealthy mixture of ignorant meathead football fans and completely clueless non-football fans who are along for the ride. There's nothing wrong with this second group, really - it's the extra interest that gives the World Cup its buzz and makes it a truly 'world' event - as long as they keep their mouths shut in busy pubs. That's all I ask; just don't make banal comments and attempt to analyse something when you have no frame of reference. Or if you do, do it quietly, to a friend - rather than shrieking your giddy ignorance across a crowded room. OK?
Anyway, I decide to head to Clapham after all, as Joe has informed me that the place isn't too busy. This is probably true when we speak, but after a 45 minute journey south I find myself having to talk my way past the bouncer who has stopped letting people into the pub, such is its fullness. The atmosphere is OK, though - everyone is optimistic and we even manage to get a small round of imaginary vuvuzelas going briefly at the back of the room.
That's probably the last positive bit of the evening, though. England are - crushingly - totally abject tonight. No one plays well; and Rooney plays worse than I think I've ever seen him play before. Expectation seems to be hanging over the squad and not one man looks happy or comfortable with the job he's been asked to do. As a result, the game ends 0-0 without ever looking like being any other scoreline. Algeria don't want to score; which should spur a team of £30m players like England on to scoring - but somehow, inexplicably, it doesn't. At half time some of us are still hopeful, many of us furious. By full time, though, we're all angry. The atmosphere in the pub is actually quite ugly; the frustration and confusion really rather tangible.
We pour out of the doors and dejectedly grab a couple of cans and head to Tom's house to debrief. There's not much appetite for football chat, but we have a fairly nice time and get well on our way to being totally hammered before heading out again towards a vague bar with vague purpose. Before I sense that the last tube might have left, I say my goodbyes and shamble up the road.
The next thing I am conscious of is consciousness itself - returning suddenly on an outdoor tube platform. The sign above me says 'High Barnet', and I know instantly what's happened. Instead of changing trains at Kings Cross St. Pancras, my comatose, idiotic body continued on to the very northern outpost of the Northern Line. Daft prick that it is.
I ask bystanders for advice and they all suggest heading up the road towards a bus stop. It's 1.30am and I have little chance of finding a useful nightbus. At the stop there is a man lying on the floor, unconscious, in a pool of vomit. Before I'm able to process the information, an ambulance turns up and the paramedics try to wake him up. I have to get out of this weird, cold place, I reason - and head for the taxi office. A stupid night ends expensively - and, eventually, at home.
The plan, as was arranged on Wednesday night, is to head to Clapham Common to watch the game in the Alexandra with some of the podcast boys. By the time I get home from work, I'm not particularly enthused by the idea any more, mainly because it involves travelling to South London for the third night in a row but also because I'm always slightly apprehensive about watching England in pubs anyway, particularly during the World Cup. I'm far from being some sort of football snob, I think, but during a major tournament there's bound to be an unhealthy mixture of ignorant meathead football fans and completely clueless non-football fans who are along for the ride. There's nothing wrong with this second group, really - it's the extra interest that gives the World Cup its buzz and makes it a truly 'world' event - as long as they keep their mouths shut in busy pubs. That's all I ask; just don't make banal comments and attempt to analyse something when you have no frame of reference. Or if you do, do it quietly, to a friend - rather than shrieking your giddy ignorance across a crowded room. OK?
Anyway, I decide to head to Clapham after all, as Joe has informed me that the place isn't too busy. This is probably true when we speak, but after a 45 minute journey south I find myself having to talk my way past the bouncer who has stopped letting people into the pub, such is its fullness. The atmosphere is OK, though - everyone is optimistic and we even manage to get a small round of imaginary vuvuzelas going briefly at the back of the room.
That's probably the last positive bit of the evening, though. England are - crushingly - totally abject tonight. No one plays well; and Rooney plays worse than I think I've ever seen him play before. Expectation seems to be hanging over the squad and not one man looks happy or comfortable with the job he's been asked to do. As a result, the game ends 0-0 without ever looking like being any other scoreline. Algeria don't want to score; which should spur a team of £30m players like England on to scoring - but somehow, inexplicably, it doesn't. At half time some of us are still hopeful, many of us furious. By full time, though, we're all angry. The atmosphere in the pub is actually quite ugly; the frustration and confusion really rather tangible.
We pour out of the doors and dejectedly grab a couple of cans and head to Tom's house to debrief. There's not much appetite for football chat, but we have a fairly nice time and get well on our way to being totally hammered before heading out again towards a vague bar with vague purpose. Before I sense that the last tube might have left, I say my goodbyes and shamble up the road.
The next thing I am conscious of is consciousness itself - returning suddenly on an outdoor tube platform. The sign above me says 'High Barnet', and I know instantly what's happened. Instead of changing trains at Kings Cross St. Pancras, my comatose, idiotic body continued on to the very northern outpost of the Northern Line. Daft prick that it is.
I ask bystanders for advice and they all suggest heading up the road towards a bus stop. It's 1.30am and I have little chance of finding a useful nightbus. At the stop there is a man lying on the floor, unconscious, in a pool of vomit. Before I'm able to process the information, an ambulance turns up and the paramedics try to wake him up. I have to get out of this weird, cold place, I reason - and head for the taxi office. A stupid night ends expensively - and, eventually, at home.
Saturday 19 June 2010
Thursday
Today is our annual meeting with the company who designed and maintain our company's website, so Claire and I are heading to Manchester for the day to see them. I head out of the door to go to Euston, and at that exact moment I get a text from Claire telling me that she thought her wallet had been nicked, and that I should just go to the office. No more than 30 seconds later I get a second text telling me that she's found it. Panic over - and what is already a stuttering journey north no more than foot from my front door can continue.
The wallet-finding has delayed Claire, so I wait for her at Euston and we end up running for the train with a minute to spare. It's not too busy on board and the 2-hour trip to Manchester Piccadilly goes quickly as we collaborate to defeat my iPhone at Scrabble and discuss the issues we need to go over with the web people.
On arrival at Piccadilly we're told by phone that the best way to get to their office in Deansgate is to get the tram - which is rather exciting as, despite having been to Manchester many times in the last few years, I haven't been on the tram since I was much younger. We probably get a couple of looks as we show ourselves to be the hapless Londoners adrift from the familiarity of the tube - staring blankly at the ticket machine and the list of meaningless stops. Luckily my vague local knowledge gets us through and soon we're on our way towards G-Mex and the meeting.
The meeting itself goes well, although the lunch they regularly provide isn't nearly as good as it used to be (I get over this, though, and manage to put away several little sandwiches in the 3 hours we're there). We stay a little longer than we should and miss our stop back on the tram - meaning that once again we have to run to get the train and I take my seat a slightly harrassed, sweaty mess. Luckily Claire knows the remedy - and gets the beers in. She's a pretty great boss at times like this!
We get back to Euston at around 6, and, despite the slightly surreal feeling of having made a 400-mile round trip to stay in Manchester for 3 hours, I get on the tube and head to Wandsworth to meet Kathryn from work. She's not had the best day so we take a seat at a pub on the river bank and have a couple of pints, before getting a call from Tim to tell us that he and his girlfriend are in The Cock on Great Portland Street.
Another short train ride and tube ride later and we're with them, supping the much cheaper Sam Smith's pints and gradually getting rather drunk. Neither of us have had anything to eat yet so we leave at a decent hour - stopping to pick up an unwise bottle of red wine on the way - and grill up some lovely quarter pounder burgers for a boozy dinner.
The wallet-finding has delayed Claire, so I wait for her at Euston and we end up running for the train with a minute to spare. It's not too busy on board and the 2-hour trip to Manchester Piccadilly goes quickly as we collaborate to defeat my iPhone at Scrabble and discuss the issues we need to go over with the web people.
On arrival at Piccadilly we're told by phone that the best way to get to their office in Deansgate is to get the tram - which is rather exciting as, despite having been to Manchester many times in the last few years, I haven't been on the tram since I was much younger. We probably get a couple of looks as we show ourselves to be the hapless Londoners adrift from the familiarity of the tube - staring blankly at the ticket machine and the list of meaningless stops. Luckily my vague local knowledge gets us through and soon we're on our way towards G-Mex and the meeting.
The meeting itself goes well, although the lunch they regularly provide isn't nearly as good as it used to be (I get over this, though, and manage to put away several little sandwiches in the 3 hours we're there). We stay a little longer than we should and miss our stop back on the tram - meaning that once again we have to run to get the train and I take my seat a slightly harrassed, sweaty mess. Luckily Claire knows the remedy - and gets the beers in. She's a pretty great boss at times like this!
We get back to Euston at around 6, and, despite the slightly surreal feeling of having made a 400-mile round trip to stay in Manchester for 3 hours, I get on the tube and head to Wandsworth to meet Kathryn from work. She's not had the best day so we take a seat at a pub on the river bank and have a couple of pints, before getting a call from Tim to tell us that he and his girlfriend are in The Cock on Great Portland Street.
Another short train ride and tube ride later and we're with them, supping the much cheaper Sam Smith's pints and gradually getting rather drunk. Neither of us have had anything to eat yet so we leave at a decent hour - stopping to pick up an unwise bottle of red wine on the way - and grill up some lovely quarter pounder burgers for a boozy dinner.
Wednesday
The plan tonight is to get a Football Basement podcast done, taking in the first few days of the World Cup, with a few more of us on board than there were for last week's one. So after work I gather up my podcasting tools - the external hard drive to save the files on, a notepad and pen so I can thrash out a running order while I'm on the tube and a couple of quid to buy the requisite 3 cans of lager - and jump on the tube heading towards Borough.
I meet Joe, Matt, Dave and Warren in The Ship, where South Africa v Uruguay is on the TV. We watch a little of it, then go and sit in the beer garden to enjoy a little of the warm evening and smoke a cigarette. I haven't seen Joe for ages so it's good to catch up; and we both realise this every time we get together - we've been mates for a good 9 years now and it's silly how little we actually get to meet up.
Just before half-time in the football we make a move toward Warren's house to record in his basement, and watch the end of the first period in HD on his impressively massive new telly. By this time, though, most of us just want to watch the rest of what is an engrossing Group A match, meaning that it would be a little late to start a podcast afterwards. So it is that we have a couple of drinks and watch South Africa lose 3-0, before all heading home around 9.30.
Even though we didn't get a recording done - and rescheduled for Sunday - it's nice to hang out with the South London guys for an evening just for the sake of it, and when Joe suggests I come down to Clapham to watch the England game with Algeria on Friday, I happily agree.
I meet Joe, Matt, Dave and Warren in The Ship, where South Africa v Uruguay is on the TV. We watch a little of it, then go and sit in the beer garden to enjoy a little of the warm evening and smoke a cigarette. I haven't seen Joe for ages so it's good to catch up; and we both realise this every time we get together - we've been mates for a good 9 years now and it's silly how little we actually get to meet up.
Just before half-time in the football we make a move toward Warren's house to record in his basement, and watch the end of the first period in HD on his impressively massive new telly. By this time, though, most of us just want to watch the rest of what is an engrossing Group A match, meaning that it would be a little late to start a podcast afterwards. So it is that we have a couple of drinks and watch South Africa lose 3-0, before all heading home around 9.30.
Even though we didn't get a recording done - and rescheduled for Sunday - it's nice to hang out with the South London guys for an evening just for the sake of it, and when Joe suggests I come down to Clapham to watch the England game with Algeria on Friday, I happily agree.
Wednesday 16 June 2010
Tuesday
Things are hectic at work - especially since I have to take a day out of the office on Thursday to pay a visit to our web developers in Manchester, meaning that all this week's deadlines are pushed forward by a day. I focus on finishing the writing work I have to do and then crack on with creating this month's order form; and it's at times like this that Microsoft Office 2007 shows itself to be the unbearable, ill-thought out steaming heap of dogshit that it really is. There's nothing intuitive about it at all - and it's full of inexplicable bugs and errors; not the sort of thing you expect from a company who have dominated software production for well over 20 years, is it? Or maybe it is.
So needless to say fannying around with Word and Excel slows my day down - so much so that I end up having to take work home, which I plan to leaf through in front of the Brazil v North Korea game. Back at home I stick a couple of jacket potatoes on for K and I while doing a bit of writing and another half hour on the Wii Fit. Once nice thing about doing the Wii Fit is that it gives me time to catch up with a lot of podcasts I've gotten behind with in recent weeks - at the moment a mixture of The Football Ramble and Richard Herring's As It Occurs to Me are my exercise soundtrack.
Later on K fiddles with some sewing while I get on with some FIFA manager mode games, then we flick through our Berlin travel guides looking for things to see when we get out there next Wednesday. It's very soon and we're getting more and more excited; though having never been before it's hard to get a handle on just what it is we want to go and see. I propose finding our bearings on the Wednesday, while also finding a bar in which to watch England v Slovenia in an unusual setting; then doing a culture/history day on the Thursday - taking in the Brandenburg Gate, the Reichstag and so on. As with any travel, though, we really won't know until we get there.
So needless to say fannying around with Word and Excel slows my day down - so much so that I end up having to take work home, which I plan to leaf through in front of the Brazil v North Korea game. Back at home I stick a couple of jacket potatoes on for K and I while doing a bit of writing and another half hour on the Wii Fit. Once nice thing about doing the Wii Fit is that it gives me time to catch up with a lot of podcasts I've gotten behind with in recent weeks - at the moment a mixture of The Football Ramble and Richard Herring's As It Occurs to Me are my exercise soundtrack.
Later on K fiddles with some sewing while I get on with some FIFA manager mode games, then we flick through our Berlin travel guides looking for things to see when we get out there next Wednesday. It's very soon and we're getting more and more excited; though having never been before it's hard to get a handle on just what it is we want to go and see. I propose finding our bearings on the Wednesday, while also finding a bar in which to watch England v Slovenia in an unusual setting; then doing a culture/history day on the Thursday - taking in the Brandenburg Gate, the Reichstag and so on. As with any travel, though, we really won't know until we get there.
Tuesday 15 June 2010
Monday
Getting to bed so early means I'm surprisingly bright and bushy this morning. I hop out of bed before 8 (profoundly unusual on a weekday) and catch up on some blog writing while K potters around making lunch and so on. The lack of a weekly shop having been completed this weekend means that there's not a lot of food in the house, so I swing by Tesco on the way in to work to stock up on a couple of choice items.
At work, there's so much to do - and it's so hard to resist just keeping a constant eye on the World Cup. I write tons of AIs today though, and feel that I'm effectively chipping away at what is a massive pile of shit-to-get-done.
After work I come home and stick half an hour's worth on the Wii Fit, having neglected it for absolutely ages and missing it's vague benefit, and run the hoover around before walking down to Sainsbury's to get started with the shopping and meet K off the tube. In need of something to watch for the evening, we pick up District 9 on Blu-Ray which is, happily, in the Father's Day promotion at a very reasonable £10. We also pick up a hot roast chicken from the deli counter, with plans to combine it with new potatoes and broccoli - I can hardly wait to get home.
The dinner is delicious and the film is highly enjoyable. We saw it at the cinema (albeit at the skanky Holloway Road Odeon) but it's worth a second watch, if only to amuse ourselves by practicing comedy Afrikaans accents.
At work, there's so much to do - and it's so hard to resist just keeping a constant eye on the World Cup. I write tons of AIs today though, and feel that I'm effectively chipping away at what is a massive pile of shit-to-get-done.
After work I come home and stick half an hour's worth on the Wii Fit, having neglected it for absolutely ages and missing it's vague benefit, and run the hoover around before walking down to Sainsbury's to get started with the shopping and meet K off the tube. In need of something to watch for the evening, we pick up District 9 on Blu-Ray which is, happily, in the Father's Day promotion at a very reasonable £10. We also pick up a hot roast chicken from the deli counter, with plans to combine it with new potatoes and broccoli - I can hardly wait to get home.
The dinner is delicious and the film is highly enjoyable. We saw it at the cinema (albeit at the skanky Holloway Road Odeon) but it's worth a second watch, if only to amuse ourselves by practicing comedy Afrikaans accents.
Sunday
We sleep in fairly late and get up to find that breakfast is over - and that plenty of folks are already up at the showfield for the start of the Summer Fayre. After a quick bite of toast we pile into K's mum's car and head up there ourselves. The sun is out already, and after dropping K's entry for the pudding competition off at the appropriate tent, we start helping arrange chairs for the band (The Mangled Wurzels, who are exactly how you'd imagine them to be at at Summer Fayre in Dorset - silly, cider-obsessed and entirely apt). Next we're instructed by K's capable but visibly put-upon father to jump in his hire van and deliver plastic bins to the parts of the showfield that most need them. Not for the first time, it feels a little like playing Theme Park - keeping the guests happy while trying not to run any of them over. I refrain from mentioning this reference to K or her little brother, being too female and too young respectively to really appreciate what I'm on about.
By the time we're done, it's time to get on with enjoying ourselves, which we do buy eating a way-overpriced bacon roll each and meeting up with K's older brother, who has arrived with his wife, son and 6-week old baby daughter, Hattie, who we're meeting for the first time. The three-year-old son, Ollie, is loads of fun - we take him to the bouncy castle and the huge inflatable slide and buy him a pinwheel and all the other stuff you're supposed to do at this sort of thing.
Another obligatory thing to do is test out the local cider - which I do with gusto but within my meagre budget. I don't get drunk, just a little apple-y. By 6pm we're both exhausted and head back to K's parents' house and make plans to head back up to London. The train back is busy but we both get headphones on and books out - but mostly we both feel like sleeping for a year or so.
We get home and I knock together some pasta for dinner, which keeps us awake until 10.30 - and even that is pushing it. A mixture of heat, travel, young children and fresh country air has absolutely wiped us out this weekend, much fun though it has been.
By the time we're done, it's time to get on with enjoying ourselves, which we do buy eating a way-overpriced bacon roll each and meeting up with K's older brother, who has arrived with his wife, son and 6-week old baby daughter, Hattie, who we're meeting for the first time. The three-year-old son, Ollie, is loads of fun - we take him to the bouncy castle and the huge inflatable slide and buy him a pinwheel and all the other stuff you're supposed to do at this sort of thing.
Another obligatory thing to do is test out the local cider - which I do with gusto but within my meagre budget. I don't get drunk, just a little apple-y. By 6pm we're both exhausted and head back to K's parents' house and make plans to head back up to London. The train back is busy but we both get headphones on and books out - but mostly we both feel like sleeping for a year or so.
We get home and I knock together some pasta for dinner, which keeps us awake until 10.30 - and even that is pushing it. A mixture of heat, travel, young children and fresh country air has absolutely wiped us out this weekend, much fun though it has been.
Monday 14 June 2010
Saturday
We get up early and after a hearty breakfast of scrambled egg on toast and a spot of tidying we jump on the tube and head to Waterloo. We're on our way to Gillingham in Dorset - K's home town - for a wee visit and to make ourselves known at the Gillingham and Shaftesbury Fayre, which is run by K's dad and takes place tomorrow.
We get to the station pretty early and amuse ourselves by pottering around M&S grabbing lunch for the 2 hour journey and a couple of drinks - but by 11.30 we're on our way out of London and into the lush countryside of southern England. When I've spent a few unbroken weeks in the city it really registers when I'm out of it again. It's sometimes worryingly easy to forget that there's other stuff going on outside of the M25 - but always nice to be reminded that the world of underground trains, kebab shops and Shopping City is not all there is.
On the journey I pull out some proofing I hadn't had time to do at work yesterday, which is a drag but also quite good to get out of the way, then crack on with reading Alan Warner's new novel The Stars in the Bright Sky - the sequel to his excellent The Sopranos. I feel like I'm flying through it, perhaps because I haven't read fiction for a long time and find it so much easier to flick through than some of the denser non-fiction stuff I've been involved with in recent months - but also because Warner is one of my favourite authors and an absolute joy to read.
We arrive in Gillingham to a sort of second lunch laid on by K's mum - which is thankfully light enough that it doesn't seem like too much on top of what we munched on the train - then head up to K' dad's show field to lend a hand with the setting up process. After numerous sun-baked and cack-handed attempts to build fences and hang signs on tents like the foolish city-folk we have inevitably become, we leave K's dad behind and drive across country to visit her Nan - who happens to live on a dairy farm. I'm not sure I've ever properly set foot on a farm I hadn't paid to visit, so to see it in action is quite a treat, even though I'm sure the cows are staring at me. We get a tour around K's grandmother's well-stocked vegetable garden and check out the impressively old parts of the house and the moat it once had.
By 6.30 we're exhausted and make our way back to the house, where K and her sister get a barbecue going while me and her little brother grab a beer and prepare to watch the England game (my full thoughts on which, and all other World Cup matters, can be found here).
Having been delivered delicious sausages, burgers and beers throughout the football like some terrible chauvinist, after the football it seems that the girls should get to choose what's on telly - so we settle down with a few drinks and watch American Beauty, which I realise I haven't seen for years, but don't end up having the stamina to watch all the way through.
We get to the station pretty early and amuse ourselves by pottering around M&S grabbing lunch for the 2 hour journey and a couple of drinks - but by 11.30 we're on our way out of London and into the lush countryside of southern England. When I've spent a few unbroken weeks in the city it really registers when I'm out of it again. It's sometimes worryingly easy to forget that there's other stuff going on outside of the M25 - but always nice to be reminded that the world of underground trains, kebab shops and Shopping City is not all there is.
On the journey I pull out some proofing I hadn't had time to do at work yesterday, which is a drag but also quite good to get out of the way, then crack on with reading Alan Warner's new novel The Stars in the Bright Sky - the sequel to his excellent The Sopranos. I feel like I'm flying through it, perhaps because I haven't read fiction for a long time and find it so much easier to flick through than some of the denser non-fiction stuff I've been involved with in recent months - but also because Warner is one of my favourite authors and an absolute joy to read.
We arrive in Gillingham to a sort of second lunch laid on by K's mum - which is thankfully light enough that it doesn't seem like too much on top of what we munched on the train - then head up to K' dad's show field to lend a hand with the setting up process. After numerous sun-baked and cack-handed attempts to build fences and hang signs on tents like the foolish city-folk we have inevitably become, we leave K's dad behind and drive across country to visit her Nan - who happens to live on a dairy farm. I'm not sure I've ever properly set foot on a farm I hadn't paid to visit, so to see it in action is quite a treat, even though I'm sure the cows are staring at me. We get a tour around K's grandmother's well-stocked vegetable garden and check out the impressively old parts of the house and the moat it once had.
By 6.30 we're exhausted and make our way back to the house, where K and her sister get a barbecue going while me and her little brother grab a beer and prepare to watch the England game (my full thoughts on which, and all other World Cup matters, can be found here).
Having been delivered delicious sausages, burgers and beers throughout the football like some terrible chauvinist, after the football it seems that the girls should get to choose what's on telly - so we settle down with a few drinks and watch American Beauty, which I realise I haven't seen for years, but don't end up having the stamina to watch all the way through.
Saturday 12 June 2010
Friday
I wake up, as K reliably informs me, like a little boy on Christmas morning. My eyes crack open and the realisation that the World Cup starts today hits me in a glorious wave - and I jump out of bed.
It doesn't make too much sense, really - I won't be able to watch any of it (other than sneaked glances at websites during the day) until tonight's game, but the fact that it's actually here creates a very real buzz in my head. How do I concentrate on work!?
But concentrate I must - as with Jess away I'm getting her share of fiddly little jobs passed down to the marketing team from the bosses. It's incredibly frustrating when you know you have a certain job to do and that you could do it in great time, if only you were left alone to get on with it. As it happens, I'll end up taking work home this weekend - something I am profoundly politically opposed to. Still, I genuinely don't want to let Jess down or dump her in the shit the minute she gets back from holiday - so I'll just do it.
One nice thing about work today happens as I walk back into the office from a cigarette break, only for our IT guy to spot me and beckon me over to where he's fiddling with a brand new, mega-widescreen Dell monitor - which he says I can sneak onto my desk if I fancy it. Oh, the tiny joys of being an office walker! After spending two years peering at my work through a grubby, square, dim window I can sit back and have my eyes assaulted by literally thousands of sexy widescreen pixels. The whole thing even rotates 90 degrees to the right for reasons that I will never fully appreciate at this desk - but it's really rather sexy altogether. I know, I know - it's a PC monitor.
After work I head home via the shops to pick up beers and snacks for tonight's mini-World Cup party. I also use the brief window before people arrive to shave my head and beard, realising that as the weather heats up I'm also getting hairier and less equipped to deal with my environment.
Soon, Alex, Will, K and I are sat watching Uruguay vs France (which I've written about on Who Are Ya?! as part of my new World Cup dailyblog attempt) and munching on a ridiculous amount of nachos, mini sausage rolls, pizza and garlic bread. By the time the football finishes we're all stuffed and a little pissed - with passion only for a lazy, boozy game of Scrabble which, predictably, Will absolutely romps. I don't know why I play games with him, I really don't.
It doesn't make too much sense, really - I won't be able to watch any of it (other than sneaked glances at websites during the day) until tonight's game, but the fact that it's actually here creates a very real buzz in my head. How do I concentrate on work!?
But concentrate I must - as with Jess away I'm getting her share of fiddly little jobs passed down to the marketing team from the bosses. It's incredibly frustrating when you know you have a certain job to do and that you could do it in great time, if only you were left alone to get on with it. As it happens, I'll end up taking work home this weekend - something I am profoundly politically opposed to. Still, I genuinely don't want to let Jess down or dump her in the shit the minute she gets back from holiday - so I'll just do it.
One nice thing about work today happens as I walk back into the office from a cigarette break, only for our IT guy to spot me and beckon me over to where he's fiddling with a brand new, mega-widescreen Dell monitor - which he says I can sneak onto my desk if I fancy it. Oh, the tiny joys of being an office walker! After spending two years peering at my work through a grubby, square, dim window I can sit back and have my eyes assaulted by literally thousands of sexy widescreen pixels. The whole thing even rotates 90 degrees to the right for reasons that I will never fully appreciate at this desk - but it's really rather sexy altogether. I know, I know - it's a PC monitor.
After work I head home via the shops to pick up beers and snacks for tonight's mini-World Cup party. I also use the brief window before people arrive to shave my head and beard, realising that as the weather heats up I'm also getting hairier and less equipped to deal with my environment.
Soon, Alex, Will, K and I are sat watching Uruguay vs France (which I've written about on Who Are Ya?! as part of my new World Cup dailyblog attempt) and munching on a ridiculous amount of nachos, mini sausage rolls, pizza and garlic bread. By the time the football finishes we're all stuffed and a little pissed - with passion only for a lazy, boozy game of Scrabble which, predictably, Will absolutely romps. I don't know why I play games with him, I really don't.
Thursday 10 June 2010
Wednesday
I've decided today that from Friday I'm going to try and up the ante and do two daily blogs. This'll be tricky as I'm finding keeping this one updated every day can sometimes elude me - and inevitably there will be days where it just can't be done; but having an entry for each day is an achievable goal, even if it means a few days of catch-up in one go every now and again.
The reason is that, of course, the World Cup starts on Friday and I want to have as good a record of my experience of it as possible. I also want to revive Who Are Ya?! which has been ignored in the last 3 months in favour of thinking about my Book Project which is coming along as slowly as ever. So in order to keep this blog and the World Cup separate, I'm going to try and update both every day for the duration of the tournament. Should be fun.
Anyway, today sees me attempt to get started on the writing portion of the sales kit, become constantly hamstrung by a printer who likes to eat its own insides - forcing me to fanny around opening Unit 6 doors and sector 3a and turning knob 9b and trying manfully to convince the thing that it hasn't, in fact, got a jam any more and should bloody well get on with the job of printing - and generally find time slipping away faster than I could really do with.
Back at home, I get on with editing last Wednesday's podcast. I'm getting concerned that it's been a long time (relatively speaking) since we record it, but other than the fact that Rio Ferdinand is out of the squad with injury, none of the facts will become dated before I put in online (hopefully) tomorrow night. It was, it is clear now, a rambling, unstructured podcast - and it shows in how long it's taking to edit down. It might also end up being longer than the hour I try to aim for, but then I suppose it is a bumper end-of-season review and World Cup preview effort.
K gets back at around 9 and, after playing a bit more of the surprisingly addictive Blur on the XBox, we sit down to watch Youth in Revolt, which appears to be yet another super-indie Michael Cera vehicle. And that's what it is - though the writing is clever and the unfortunately typecast Cera gets to flex his skills a little more than he has in the endless series of gawky-teenager indie movies he's done over the last 3 or 4 years. I do wonder how much longer we have to buy that he's 16, however.
The reason is that, of course, the World Cup starts on Friday and I want to have as good a record of my experience of it as possible. I also want to revive Who Are Ya?! which has been ignored in the last 3 months in favour of thinking about my Book Project which is coming along as slowly as ever. So in order to keep this blog and the World Cup separate, I'm going to try and update both every day for the duration of the tournament. Should be fun.
Anyway, today sees me attempt to get started on the writing portion of the sales kit, become constantly hamstrung by a printer who likes to eat its own insides - forcing me to fanny around opening Unit 6 doors and sector 3a and turning knob 9b and trying manfully to convince the thing that it hasn't, in fact, got a jam any more and should bloody well get on with the job of printing - and generally find time slipping away faster than I could really do with.
Back at home, I get on with editing last Wednesday's podcast. I'm getting concerned that it's been a long time (relatively speaking) since we record it, but other than the fact that Rio Ferdinand is out of the squad with injury, none of the facts will become dated before I put in online (hopefully) tomorrow night. It was, it is clear now, a rambling, unstructured podcast - and it shows in how long it's taking to edit down. It might also end up being longer than the hour I try to aim for, but then I suppose it is a bumper end-of-season review and World Cup preview effort.
K gets back at around 9 and, after playing a bit more of the surprisingly addictive Blur on the XBox, we sit down to watch Youth in Revolt, which appears to be yet another super-indie Michael Cera vehicle. And that's what it is - though the writing is clever and the unfortunately typecast Cera gets to flex his skills a little more than he has in the endless series of gawky-teenager indie movies he's done over the last 3 or 4 years. I do wonder how much longer we have to buy that he's 16, however.
Wednesday 9 June 2010
Tuesday
The monthly new titles meeting is upon us again, which involves sales, marketing and the bosses sitting around discussing which books are important, which aren't, and which are just funny. It's not terrible, just long - today it comes in at just under 2 1/2 hours, which isn't bad. The main problem is that it starts at 11am each time and runs over my regular lunchtime. It's no fun getting down to the alphabetically-later publishers having to cough or talk to cover my stomach rumbling.
The rest of the day is spent preparing for the writing part of the sales kit - which I decide to begin by tidying my desk up a bit. It's nice throwing away the stuff that's been cluttering my desk, particularly when I had mistakenly worried that it might important.
In the evening I catch up with some writing in between watching YouTube videos and chatting to Alex on the phone and Jamie on Facebook - who has just found out the school he'll be teaching in from next term; the madness of my little brother being a teacher now - before K gets home armed with a new video game for us to play.
I had asked her to try and blag a copy of Blur since I saw its Mario Kart-baiting advert on YouTube, having half-hoped it would finally be the next-gen successor to the superb Mashed on the XBox/PS2. It's not - but it's good fun. Made by Project Gotham developers Bizarre Creations, it's effectively a cross between Burnout, Mario Kart and Wipeout - and while not a classic like any of those, it's fast, chaotic, carnage racing. K and I take turns at the races until I get upset that she's better than me and we switch it off some time after midnight. That's just not on - I'll have to get some practice in while she's out swimming tomorrow night.
The rest of the day is spent preparing for the writing part of the sales kit - which I decide to begin by tidying my desk up a bit. It's nice throwing away the stuff that's been cluttering my desk, particularly when I had mistakenly worried that it might important.
In the evening I catch up with some writing in between watching YouTube videos and chatting to Alex on the phone and Jamie on Facebook - who has just found out the school he'll be teaching in from next term; the madness of my little brother being a teacher now - before K gets home armed with a new video game for us to play.
I had asked her to try and blag a copy of Blur since I saw its Mario Kart-baiting advert on YouTube, having half-hoped it would finally be the next-gen successor to the superb Mashed on the XBox/PS2. It's not - but it's good fun. Made by Project Gotham developers Bizarre Creations, it's effectively a cross between Burnout, Mario Kart and Wipeout - and while not a classic like any of those, it's fast, chaotic, carnage racing. K and I take turns at the races until I get upset that she's better than me and we switch it off some time after midnight. That's just not on - I'll have to get some practice in while she's out swimming tomorrow night.
Tuesday 8 June 2010
Monday
The heat breaks once again and it's back to the office in much milder climes - having resolved, naturally, never to drink or stay up late again til the weekend - and to a sizeable amount of work. Jess heads off to New York for a couple of weeks on Wednesday so I have a fair amount of responsibility over this month's work; time to get serious it is.
I manage to get plenty done while still keeping up to date on the minute details of the build-up to the World Cup. The excitement is gripping me tighter and tighter with each minute - and my new-and-improved Observer World Cup 2010 wallchart is filled in with my predictions when I get home. For the record I've got Spain to win, Brazil runner-up - though that may not actually be feasible - England to reach the semis and Torres to top-score. It's a boring, safe prediction (apart from England, probably) but these things tend to have a few shocks and twists along the way, while still ending up with predictable champions. I hope I'm wrong.
I make chili con carne for dinner and manage to burn the fuck out of the roof of my mouth on it - impairing my complete enjoyment somewhat - but recovering with an ice cream and chilling out with K on the sofa for the rest of the evening.
I manage to get plenty done while still keeping up to date on the minute details of the build-up to the World Cup. The excitement is gripping me tighter and tighter with each minute - and my new-and-improved Observer World Cup 2010 wallchart is filled in with my predictions when I get home. For the record I've got Spain to win, Brazil runner-up - though that may not actually be feasible - England to reach the semis and Torres to top-score. It's a boring, safe prediction (apart from England, probably) but these things tend to have a few shocks and twists along the way, while still ending up with predictable champions. I hope I'm wrong.
I make chili con carne for dinner and manage to burn the fuck out of the roof of my mouth on it - impairing my complete enjoyment somewhat - but recovering with an ice cream and chilling out with K on the sofa for the rest of the evening.
Sunday
Wow. This is not a fun morning to wake up to. I didn't think I was too drunk last night, but my head and guts violently disagree - and I get out of bed sluggishly at best. Unfortunately it seems that I had also promised to take the twins out for breakfast too - something, admittedly, I'm looking forward to having not been out for breakfast since the Finsbury Park days - so by 11am we are on our way up Hornsey High Street to a nice-looking cafe we've walked past a few times.
I order the full breakfast and find that it improves my mood and bearing in that way that only the greatest meal man has ever invented can do. But it's not permanent - and by the time we get home I'm happy just to veg out on the sofa for the rest of the afternoon, watching first Le Donk and Scor-Zay-Zee (nice improvised film by Shane Meadows) then Semi-Pro (watchable Will Ferrell sports comedy) before, unbelievably, K and her sister have cracked on the beers again. I can't face it - yet.
I can't stay on the sofa all day because tonight is the Rage Against the Machine victory concert in Finsbury Park - the gig arranged to celebrate the band's song beating the X-Factor to Christmas number one as a result of a Facebook campaign. I was never interested in the campaign particularly beyond finding it quite funny and an interesting experiment in the power of the online mob, but I was definitely interested in a free gig, down the road from my house, which would let me see a band I always slightly regretted never having seen when I was a teenager.
After a spell in the sun in the Faltering Fullback's wonderful beer garden, we assemble a large group and head up to the park. Swarming with people, it's even stranger than yesterday and feels like a proper festival site. The weather is odd - very warm but then suddenly raining for a bit - and I'm glad I brought my coat.
During the afternoon we watch the supports - Gallows (OK-ish old-fashioned punk band), Roots Manuva (someone I've liked for a long time, but only gets a reaction during Witness) and Gogol Bordello, who are 'wacky' and do absolutely nothing for me. Never mind - as Rage come on just as the sun goes down. Inevitably, every song is exciting to hear live and a reminder of what a great fun band they always were. They also seem to be enjoying themselves and revelling in the silliness of the Simon Cowell-baiting, particularly before coming on to perform Killing in the Name as their sole encore.
We walk home (what a treat - take that tube-idiots) up Green Lanes and grab a nasty burger before finally collapsing for the weekend. It has been, it must be said, another heavy one.
I order the full breakfast and find that it improves my mood and bearing in that way that only the greatest meal man has ever invented can do. But it's not permanent - and by the time we get home I'm happy just to veg out on the sofa for the rest of the afternoon, watching first Le Donk and Scor-Zay-Zee (nice improvised film by Shane Meadows) then Semi-Pro (watchable Will Ferrell sports comedy) before, unbelievably, K and her sister have cracked on the beers again. I can't face it - yet.
I can't stay on the sofa all day because tonight is the Rage Against the Machine victory concert in Finsbury Park - the gig arranged to celebrate the band's song beating the X-Factor to Christmas number one as a result of a Facebook campaign. I was never interested in the campaign particularly beyond finding it quite funny and an interesting experiment in the power of the online mob, but I was definitely interested in a free gig, down the road from my house, which would let me see a band I always slightly regretted never having seen when I was a teenager.
After a spell in the sun in the Faltering Fullback's wonderful beer garden, we assemble a large group and head up to the park. Swarming with people, it's even stranger than yesterday and feels like a proper festival site. The weather is odd - very warm but then suddenly raining for a bit - and I'm glad I brought my coat.
During the afternoon we watch the supports - Gallows (OK-ish old-fashioned punk band), Roots Manuva (someone I've liked for a long time, but only gets a reaction during Witness) and Gogol Bordello, who are 'wacky' and do absolutely nothing for me. Never mind - as Rage come on just as the sun goes down. Inevitably, every song is exciting to hear live and a reminder of what a great fun band they always were. They also seem to be enjoying themselves and revelling in the silliness of the Simon Cowell-baiting, particularly before coming on to perform Killing in the Name as their sole encore.
We walk home (what a treat - take that tube-idiots) up Green Lanes and grab a nasty burger before finally collapsing for the weekend. It has been, it must be said, another heavy one.
Saturday
We decide to head down to Harringay for the shopping early today as it's supposed to be a sticky 30C and it's already feeling muggy by 10. It's so nice, though, that we decide to swing by Finsbury Park on the way - mostly to take a look at the stage going up for tomorrow night's free Rage Against the Machine gig.
It's weird walking this way again as I realise we haven't done it since we moved away from Finsbury Park and it seems ages since last summer when we'd walk the 30 seconds around the block to be sat reading in the sunshine here. We cross the park from north to south and catch a glimpse of the massive, festival-standard stage that's been erected, along with the usual mix of Carling-branded temporary bars and dubious-looking Curly Fries stands. It's slightly surreal to see a park you know well instantly transformed into a very believable 'festival'-type sight - so K takes some pictures and we look forward to coming back tomorrow afternoon.
After lugging the shopping back and ending up a ridiculous sweaty mess, I head out to meet Alex in Islington for a bit. We walk down Upper Street and through the market in Camden Passage, spending as little time as possible in the horrifically sweaty shops. Alex has known me for a long time - she has Starbucks napkins ready to pass over when I look like I'm going to literally drown in sweat.
I get home at 5, just in time to get off the tube and get caught in a brief but fairly massive summer rainstorm - reducing my already less-than-pristine appearance to something basically unsalvageable. I am forced to pop in the shower before K's sister arrives from Cardiff for tonight's gig.
After a few drinks at home the three of us head into town as we have tickets to see Aidan Moffat at the Borderline. It's been two years since I've seen him live, and it's nice to be taking K to a gig she hasn't chosen for a change - usually I'm the clueless one. The Borderline, happily, is air conditioned and oddly empty, but Aidan is on brilliant form and stands alone, playing an autoharp for most of the songs. The set is a mix of songs from his How to Get to Heaven from Scotland album, poems from the I Can Hear Your Heart effort and - to my giddy delight - a couple of beautiful old Arab Strap songs, namely 'Blood' and 'I Would Have Liked Me A Lot Last Night'.
K and her sister seem to enjoy the gig a lot - chuckling along with everyone else at the filthy lines and melting at the drunken-Scottish-poet melancholic romance bits - and afterwards I drunkenly take the pair of them up to meet him, with the opening gambit, "Aidan, you must meet the twins!". I'm an idiot.
It's weird walking this way again as I realise we haven't done it since we moved away from Finsbury Park and it seems ages since last summer when we'd walk the 30 seconds around the block to be sat reading in the sunshine here. We cross the park from north to south and catch a glimpse of the massive, festival-standard stage that's been erected, along with the usual mix of Carling-branded temporary bars and dubious-looking Curly Fries stands. It's slightly surreal to see a park you know well instantly transformed into a very believable 'festival'-type sight - so K takes some pictures and we look forward to coming back tomorrow afternoon.
After lugging the shopping back and ending up a ridiculous sweaty mess, I head out to meet Alex in Islington for a bit. We walk down Upper Street and through the market in Camden Passage, spending as little time as possible in the horrifically sweaty shops. Alex has known me for a long time - she has Starbucks napkins ready to pass over when I look like I'm going to literally drown in sweat.
I get home at 5, just in time to get off the tube and get caught in a brief but fairly massive summer rainstorm - reducing my already less-than-pristine appearance to something basically unsalvageable. I am forced to pop in the shower before K's sister arrives from Cardiff for tonight's gig.
After a few drinks at home the three of us head into town as we have tickets to see Aidan Moffat at the Borderline. It's been two years since I've seen him live, and it's nice to be taking K to a gig she hasn't chosen for a change - usually I'm the clueless one. The Borderline, happily, is air conditioned and oddly empty, but Aidan is on brilliant form and stands alone, playing an autoharp for most of the songs. The set is a mix of songs from his How to Get to Heaven from Scotland album, poems from the I Can Hear Your Heart effort and - to my giddy delight - a couple of beautiful old Arab Strap songs, namely 'Blood' and 'I Would Have Liked Me A Lot Last Night'.
K and her sister seem to enjoy the gig a lot - chuckling along with everyone else at the filthy lines and melting at the drunken-Scottish-poet melancholic romance bits - and afterwards I drunkenly take the pair of them up to meet him, with the opening gambit, "Aidan, you must meet the twins!". I'm an idiot.
Friday
It's stunningly hot today - and it's shorts to work and all fans go in the office. It's a shame there's plenty to be getting on with as it's just far too hot to work or begin to concentrate on anything at all. Instead, I decide to be the one to run the office World Cup sweepstake (since I'm getting too excited about the tournament to do much other than think about it) and email the boss to check if that's OK.
Getting ready though, it seems that one of my colleagues has already prepared it - and shows up with 32 folded flags in a pot and a sheet printed out from some website or other. Fair enough; I offer to take over the running of the sweepstake and she seems all too happy for this to be the case.
Everyone seems keen to get involved - maybe they're just glad of the sticky Friday distraction too - and I collect £2 each from everyone in the office to take a random team out of the pot. This is the only sticking point - people want to choose or have second goes, then start moaning when they get a shit team. I explain that it has to be a random team (because no one's going to choose New Zealand or Honduras, are they?) and that the more people have a go the better. It's just a bit of fun people! Christ.
Later this evening K and I eat a far-too-large curry then attempt to walk it off by wandering up to Sainsbury's in Wood Green to get a couple of bottles of cider. We're soon joined by Tim, Ant and Alex and chat away for a bit over a few cans. One far-too-long game of Scrabble follows (possibly the worst, most closed board ever) and by midnight we're sat in the kitchen nostalgically watching music videos from the fruitful 1998-2002 period, including amazing efforts from Slipknot, Papa Roach, Blink 182, New Found Glory and Sum 41. I think it must be heat affecting our brains.
Getting ready though, it seems that one of my colleagues has already prepared it - and shows up with 32 folded flags in a pot and a sheet printed out from some website or other. Fair enough; I offer to take over the running of the sweepstake and she seems all too happy for this to be the case.
Everyone seems keen to get involved - maybe they're just glad of the sticky Friday distraction too - and I collect £2 each from everyone in the office to take a random team out of the pot. This is the only sticking point - people want to choose or have second goes, then start moaning when they get a shit team. I explain that it has to be a random team (because no one's going to choose New Zealand or Honduras, are they?) and that the more people have a go the better. It's just a bit of fun people! Christ.
Later this evening K and I eat a far-too-large curry then attempt to walk it off by wandering up to Sainsbury's in Wood Green to get a couple of bottles of cider. We're soon joined by Tim, Ant and Alex and chat away for a bit over a few cans. One far-too-long game of Scrabble follows (possibly the worst, most closed board ever) and by midnight we're sat in the kitchen nostalgically watching music videos from the fruitful 1998-2002 period, including amazing efforts from Slipknot, Papa Roach, Blink 182, New Found Glory and Sum 41. I think it must be heat affecting our brains.
Friday 4 June 2010
Thursday
The week's hefty proofing done, I'm free to actually look up at my screen again for a while. It's not a particularly pleasant move, however, as the bosses are back and checking their emails and seemingly forwarding all their nastiest ones on to me. No matter - it's manageable and, I suppose, what they bloody pay me for.
We're at the beginning of another hot spell and as the day heats up to 22 degrees my plan to walk home via Ally Pally is abandoned in favour of Alex's invitation to the Tollgate for a quick half on the way back. It's at times like this you have to love Wetherspoon's - not only do they have Weston's Organic on tap for £2.10 (a full £1.50 cheaper than at the admittedly lovelier Green Man in town), but there is always some live drama to witness. Today it's an ambulance arriving to remove an old man who presumably reasoned that it'd be cheaper than a taxi. There is also a younger but similarly afflicted-looking man lying in the doorway. The paramedics choose to ignore him and he soon gets up again.
Back at home K and I get some home-made potato wedges on the go and settle down to watch Up in the Air with wine and ice-cream. It's a nice film with a good performance from George Clooney; and while at times it drifts into mundane chick flick territory it is full of ideas and kind of makes me want to be an American Airlines frequent flyer. It is also the first film I've seen to engage with the recent global economic crisis and in particular the huge numbers of people in America losing their jobs. It's clear where the Oscar nominations came from - America loves patting itself on the back for dealing with its own hardships, just like everyone else does - but it falls on the right side of sentimentality.
We're at the beginning of another hot spell and as the day heats up to 22 degrees my plan to walk home via Ally Pally is abandoned in favour of Alex's invitation to the Tollgate for a quick half on the way back. It's at times like this you have to love Wetherspoon's - not only do they have Weston's Organic on tap for £2.10 (a full £1.50 cheaper than at the admittedly lovelier Green Man in town), but there is always some live drama to witness. Today it's an ambulance arriving to remove an old man who presumably reasoned that it'd be cheaper than a taxi. There is also a younger but similarly afflicted-looking man lying in the doorway. The paramedics choose to ignore him and he soon gets up again.
Back at home K and I get some home-made potato wedges on the go and settle down to watch Up in the Air with wine and ice-cream. It's a nice film with a good performance from George Clooney; and while at times it drifts into mundane chick flick territory it is full of ideas and kind of makes me want to be an American Airlines frequent flyer. It is also the first film I've seen to engage with the recent global economic crisis and in particular the huge numbers of people in America losing their jobs. It's clear where the Oscar nominations came from - America loves patting itself on the back for dealing with its own hardships, just like everyone else does - but it falls on the right side of sentimentality.
Thursday 3 June 2010
Wednesday
Proofreading is a big part of my job. It's something I've always had a bit of an aptitude for - it probably started when I used to get 10/10 on primary school spelling tests, then get furious with myself if I ever got 9/10. It comes naturally to people who get angry with themselves for being wrong, but more so to people, like me, who get more angry when other people are wrong. I have always had a bit of a passion for correcting people - which does my relationship with K no favours whatsoever, especially when she plays fast and loose with your and you're - as well as, in my head, helping people to be correct. At uni, I became the person who would happily read your essay for you - contentedly making corrections to spelling, grammar, syntax and possibly even suggesting a completely different word you might like to have used instead of the one you did. My CV is impeccable - from a form point of view - and I believe my ability to correctly and fluently compose a letter has got me most of the jobs I've ever had.
It certainly got me this one, as did passing the interview exam, which involved proofreading a long list of blurbs for upcoming books - removing the Americanisms and correcting the rushed fluffs. It can be very satisfying, completing a whole catalogue full of flawless copy; but fuck me is it tedious.
This week, you might be able to tell, has mostly involved proofing catalogues. We have to write these things very quickly in the first instance meaning that, while we're all very capable writers, there are inevitably typos and factual inaccuracies. Today, I manage to get around two thirds of the way through a catalogue containing blurbs for around 250 books. It's mind-numbing, and looking down at the pages in an increasingly hot office it's so, so tempting to drift off to sleep. If I need distraction, I can spend a couple of minutes scraping fluff and bits of Monster Munch out of my keyboard. But that just delays the drudgery of proofing. I think it's safe to say I love it (because I'm fucking great at it) and hate it with comparable fervour.
Eventually, though, it's time to go home - and I rush back to grab a quick dinner before getting on the tube and heading to Putney to record a Football Basement podcast. It's been ages since we did one, and since Seb - the Basementer who happens to work for ITV Sport - is jammily off to South Africa on Saturday, we thought it best to squeeze in a World Cup preview now.
As it turns out, only four of us are able to make it - but this makes for a nice compact chat as we go through the recently announced 23-man England squad and pick out our favourites for the tournament. We also spend a long time getting ourselves (over)excited about the World Cup in general, and the recording time runs to well over 90 minutes. It could be a bit of a bastard to edit, but heading home at around 10.30 I'm glad we did it and completely enthused about the tournament. Only 9 days to go...
It certainly got me this one, as did passing the interview exam, which involved proofreading a long list of blurbs for upcoming books - removing the Americanisms and correcting the rushed fluffs. It can be very satisfying, completing a whole catalogue full of flawless copy; but fuck me is it tedious.
This week, you might be able to tell, has mostly involved proofing catalogues. We have to write these things very quickly in the first instance meaning that, while we're all very capable writers, there are inevitably typos and factual inaccuracies. Today, I manage to get around two thirds of the way through a catalogue containing blurbs for around 250 books. It's mind-numbing, and looking down at the pages in an increasingly hot office it's so, so tempting to drift off to sleep. If I need distraction, I can spend a couple of minutes scraping fluff and bits of Monster Munch out of my keyboard. But that just delays the drudgery of proofing. I think it's safe to say I love it (because I'm fucking great at it) and hate it with comparable fervour.
Eventually, though, it's time to go home - and I rush back to grab a quick dinner before getting on the tube and heading to Putney to record a Football Basement podcast. It's been ages since we did one, and since Seb - the Basementer who happens to work for ITV Sport - is jammily off to South Africa on Saturday, we thought it best to squeeze in a World Cup preview now.
As it turns out, only four of us are able to make it - but this makes for a nice compact chat as we go through the recently announced 23-man England squad and pick out our favourites for the tournament. We also spend a long time getting ourselves (over)excited about the World Cup in general, and the recording time runs to well over 90 minutes. It could be a bit of a bastard to edit, but heading home at around 10.30 I'm glad we did it and completely enthused about the tournament. Only 9 days to go...
Wednesday 2 June 2010
Tuesday
A bad night's sleep involving lots of staring into the orangey gloom of the bedroom and punctuated by odd dreams of iPad testing and an extreme version of the London Eye which only opens at night and spins at 100mph. Everyone is sick on everyone.
Oddly, I feel OK in the morning and not too knackered - though a day in the office which mostly involves wrangling with The World's Most Useless Online Retailer whose name is also a river and thus pushing all the other important stuff I have to do right down the to-do list, especially when I get irate texts from the boss who's in New York, doesn't do much to improve my mood. The weather is also atrocious - making the first of June slightly ridiculous against the last couple of weeks of May.
No matter - the day goes quickly and I come home ready to sort out some dinner and catch up with some writing. K is out meeting a friend so I take my time faffing around on the computer and reading a few blogs, then making my way to the sofa in time for the penultimate episode of Luther. The first of a two-part finale, there's some exciting moments and some top acting from Elba. The problem is still how little of it feels plausible, I suppose - but it's still fun and dark and jumpy, so that's forgivable.
When K gets home we flick around the TV and find Shaun of the Dead on ITV1 which we end up watching despite the fact that I have it on DVD, as neither of us has seen it for a few years and we basically enjoy spotting the locations in Crouch End we can recognise. It's funny that when I first saw it I was living in Edinburgh and had no knowledge or interest in North London at all. In 2004, 6 years hence didn't look like this!
Oddly, I feel OK in the morning and not too knackered - though a day in the office which mostly involves wrangling with The World's Most Useless Online Retailer whose name is also a river and thus pushing all the other important stuff I have to do right down the to-do list, especially when I get irate texts from the boss who's in New York, doesn't do much to improve my mood. The weather is also atrocious - making the first of June slightly ridiculous against the last couple of weeks of May.
No matter - the day goes quickly and I come home ready to sort out some dinner and catch up with some writing. K is out meeting a friend so I take my time faffing around on the computer and reading a few blogs, then making my way to the sofa in time for the penultimate episode of Luther. The first of a two-part finale, there's some exciting moments and some top acting from Elba. The problem is still how little of it feels plausible, I suppose - but it's still fun and dark and jumpy, so that's forgivable.
When K gets home we flick around the TV and find Shaun of the Dead on ITV1 which we end up watching despite the fact that I have it on DVD, as neither of us has seen it for a few years and we basically enjoy spotting the locations in Crouch End we can recognise. It's funny that when I first saw it I was living in Edinburgh and had no knowledge or interest in North London at all. In 2004, 6 years hence didn't look like this!
Tuesday 1 June 2010
Monday
This morning starts very, very late (for me) at some time after 11am. Last night/yesterday was deeply unwise, but Unwise Sundays are surely what Bank Holiday Mondays were invented for. You only get a few a year, after all.
K is due back at some point in the early afternoon, and, aware that I haven't exactly been keeping the house in perfect nick for the last week, I quickly run to Sainsbury's in Wood Green and do some food shopping, before coming home, running the hoover round and giving the kitchen and bathroom the once over.
K gets in at around 1.30 and it's brilliant to have her home - this is, after all, the longest we've been apart in over a year. We celebrate with bacon sandwiches and a slow, tired catch-up walk up to Priory Park and back down Middle Lane.
After lolling around a bit back at home and an early dinner, I head out to catch the tube to Highbury & Islington, where I meet Will for his birthday drinks. As his present I bought tickets to see Michael Legge and Andrew Collins' Edinburgh work-in-progress show at the very nice Hen & Chickens pub/mini-theatre. They're both people I've discovered through the internet and, in particular, Twitter - Collins more so in that I've gone on to read his books and listen to both his podcasts each week more or less without fail. We also meet up with Hillary, whom I haven't seen for almost three years and is still absolutely lovely.
The show is great, with each of them doing half an hour of material to a 50-or-so strong audience (which included comedian/writer Danny Wallace - cue many of the assembled comedy nerds swarming around him afterwards). Michael Legge is brilliant in particular, and Andrew Collins' 'Secret Dancing' piece is really well done.
When they finish, the three of us take a seat outside the pub and natter away about olden times - before the realisation that tomorrow is in fact a work day sends us all home in good time.
K is due back at some point in the early afternoon, and, aware that I haven't exactly been keeping the house in perfect nick for the last week, I quickly run to Sainsbury's in Wood Green and do some food shopping, before coming home, running the hoover round and giving the kitchen and bathroom the once over.
K gets in at around 1.30 and it's brilliant to have her home - this is, after all, the longest we've been apart in over a year. We celebrate with bacon sandwiches and a slow, tired catch-up walk up to Priory Park and back down Middle Lane.
After lolling around a bit back at home and an early dinner, I head out to catch the tube to Highbury & Islington, where I meet Will for his birthday drinks. As his present I bought tickets to see Michael Legge and Andrew Collins' Edinburgh work-in-progress show at the very nice Hen & Chickens pub/mini-theatre. They're both people I've discovered through the internet and, in particular, Twitter - Collins more so in that I've gone on to read his books and listen to both his podcasts each week more or less without fail. We also meet up with Hillary, whom I haven't seen for almost three years and is still absolutely lovely.
The show is great, with each of them doing half an hour of material to a 50-or-so strong audience (which included comedian/writer Danny Wallace - cue many of the assembled comedy nerds swarming around him afterwards). Michael Legge is brilliant in particular, and Andrew Collins' 'Secret Dancing' piece is really well done.
When they finish, the three of us take a seat outside the pub and natter away about olden times - before the realisation that tomorrow is in fact a work day sends us all home in good time.
Sunday
Having got a decent amount of sleep due to staggering home from the pub so early, I rise early and potter about making a fry up for Tim and I. We put away the bacon, fried eggs, beans and toast and watch Zack and Miri Make A Porno - which is more or less excellent all the way through, and always a good casual chucklefest - before preparing to engage with a rather nicer day outside than yesterday.
We walk through Wood Green and past my office up to Alexandra Park Station and on up to Ally Pally to check out the view. It gets warmer and warmer as we climb and by the time we're at the top it's become a really nice day - so we take a seat and pick out various sights; including the relatively new Olympic Stadium now clearly visible in the distance. It looks pretty massive from where we're sitting today - I might suggest a trip to Stratford with K at some point to check out the site's progress.
We eventually head back down to Crouch End, the plan being to watch the England v Japan friendly back at the Hope & Anchor. We arrive just in time for a game of pool before kick-off at 1.15 - and sit down to watch what must be one of the most godawful pre-World Cup friendlies of all time. Capello puts out an experimental team of sorts, who proceed to play as if they've never met before and each man looks barely a shadow of the international he's supposed to be. Japan take an early lead which is levelled after half time - by the same player deflecting a Joe Cole cross into the goal. Later, a second own goal puts England in the lead and Frank Lampard, worryingly, misses his second consecutive penalty. Not the most inspiring affair. Bring on the World Cup!
After the game, Tim leaves to meet friends and eventually head home to Brighton. I stop at home for a bit then decide to go back over to Crouch End, as Mike had mentioned he was in The Queens. A quick phone call when I'm halfway there informs me that he is in fact not there at all - so I phone Alex to recruit a drinking buddy in the hopes of avoiding a wasted trip. After waiting for her for a while and watching the England v Bangladesh cricket match on my phone, we sit happily in the sun discussing things big and small, as ever.
We get hungry, as ever, and Alex offers to treat me to some tapas and a bottle of wine at a restaurant a couple of doors down from the pub - an offer I am unlikely to ever turn down. Afterwards we end up, inevitably, back at the Hope & Anchor chatting to strangers in the beer garden - including one particularly friendly 6'8" Jamaican man who enjoys telling us about the catamaran he would buy if he ever won the lottery.
What started as a walk in the park turns into a particularly heavy Sunday session - and after making it home, somehow, I inexplicably make it to bed.
We walk through Wood Green and past my office up to Alexandra Park Station and on up to Ally Pally to check out the view. It gets warmer and warmer as we climb and by the time we're at the top it's become a really nice day - so we take a seat and pick out various sights; including the relatively new Olympic Stadium now clearly visible in the distance. It looks pretty massive from where we're sitting today - I might suggest a trip to Stratford with K at some point to check out the site's progress.
We eventually head back down to Crouch End, the plan being to watch the England v Japan friendly back at the Hope & Anchor. We arrive just in time for a game of pool before kick-off at 1.15 - and sit down to watch what must be one of the most godawful pre-World Cup friendlies of all time. Capello puts out an experimental team of sorts, who proceed to play as if they've never met before and each man looks barely a shadow of the international he's supposed to be. Japan take an early lead which is levelled after half time - by the same player deflecting a Joe Cole cross into the goal. Later, a second own goal puts England in the lead and Frank Lampard, worryingly, misses his second consecutive penalty. Not the most inspiring affair. Bring on the World Cup!
After the game, Tim leaves to meet friends and eventually head home to Brighton. I stop at home for a bit then decide to go back over to Crouch End, as Mike had mentioned he was in The Queens. A quick phone call when I'm halfway there informs me that he is in fact not there at all - so I phone Alex to recruit a drinking buddy in the hopes of avoiding a wasted trip. After waiting for her for a while and watching the England v Bangladesh cricket match on my phone, we sit happily in the sun discussing things big and small, as ever.
We get hungry, as ever, and Alex offers to treat me to some tapas and a bottle of wine at a restaurant a couple of doors down from the pub - an offer I am unlikely to ever turn down. Afterwards we end up, inevitably, back at the Hope & Anchor chatting to strangers in the beer garden - including one particularly friendly 6'8" Jamaican man who enjoys telling us about the catamaran he would buy if he ever won the lottery.
What started as a walk in the park turns into a particularly heavy Sunday session - and after making it home, somehow, I inexplicably make it to bed.
Saturday
Weatherwise, I wake to a pig of a day. That thing the tabloids like to call 'cuh, typical Bank Holiday weather' seems to have struck and sets about its task of trapping Tim and I in the house for the bulk of the day. There's no real problem with this - we hadn't exactly planned an activity-stuffed day; but the biggest problem seems to be that FIFA10 is rejecting my second XBox controller by crashing as soon as each game starts. This is incredibly frustrating - even though I know the pad hasn't been working perfectly for a long time, it's usually OK as long as you have the battery-charging cable attached at all times. Now, it instead appears to be intent on crashing the console the second it becomes active. We have a fun 20 minutes-or-so of choosing teams, setting up formations and then swearing profusely at the useless fucking thing before trying again. No fun at all.
As it turns out, Tim has never seen The Wire before and, unlike the holidaying K, is keen to give it a try. After nipping out to Tesco in the drizzle to grab some stuff for lunch, we end up watching the first six episodes of season one - which, naturally, takes up six hours of the afternoon. It's great to go back over the first season again and pick up little things I missed when I started watching the series over a year ago - plus I think Tim enjoys it too.
By the late afternoon the rain has eased off, so we wander into Crouch End to look around Prospero's and the Oxfam Bookshop for a bit - before inevitably retiring for a pint in The Queens' new, re-modelled summer beer garden. We then walk up to the Hope & Anchor in the Hope of getting a game of pool, but instead have to settle for darts - which we play with great enthusiasm for a good few hours. Alex joins us too for a few games of three-way 301, before heading off to watch Eurovision at Ant's house. This not being the sort of activity Tim (or I, really) would go for - we head home instead to finish off last night's beers and watch a bit more Wire.
As it turns out, Tim has never seen The Wire before and, unlike the holidaying K, is keen to give it a try. After nipping out to Tesco in the drizzle to grab some stuff for lunch, we end up watching the first six episodes of season one - which, naturally, takes up six hours of the afternoon. It's great to go back over the first season again and pick up little things I missed when I started watching the series over a year ago - plus I think Tim enjoys it too.
By the late afternoon the rain has eased off, so we wander into Crouch End to look around Prospero's and the Oxfam Bookshop for a bit - before inevitably retiring for a pint in The Queens' new, re-modelled summer beer garden. We then walk up to the Hope & Anchor in the Hope of getting a game of pool, but instead have to settle for darts - which we play with great enthusiasm for a good few hours. Alex joins us too for a few games of three-way 301, before heading off to watch Eurovision at Ant's house. This not being the sort of activity Tim (or I, really) would go for - we head home instead to finish off last night's beers and watch a bit more Wire.
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