The rain coming at your from three directions. Andrew Castle - aka the most pointless of pointless people - on the television. Strawberries up a pound a punit in Tescos. Lots of photos of young Eastern European girls in short white dresses. Union Jacks fluttering from newspaper stalls. Lots of photos of Boris Becker coming out of cupboards in restaurants..sorry restaurants....oh bollocks. It's Wimbledon again.
And, as predictable and inevitable as the annual return of the tournament, Tim Henwoman dragged out his first match with the tenacity and determination and vile wig hairdo that we have come to expect of this particular national treasure. The four times Wimbledon semi-finalist - do I really need to go on? - has been all over the media talking about his 'epic' first round match against some beaner. And he (Henwoman) will go on to beat some French bloke in on a wild card, struggle to win another five set 'epic' against a butch Spanish woman who accidentally got put in the men's tournament, keep us all baying for Britain like Billy Bragg as he flounders and flukes his way past some Dutch dude who is better known for his doubles, and then finally get drummed by a real tennis player despite the protesting whistles and screams from Henman Hill. (I can think of nothing worse than being on Henman Hill when Henwoman is playing, apart from maybe having to listen to Cliff Richard sing the crowd through the rain with a few of his 60s hits - or both together...I'm moving to Poland.)
It wouldn't bother me so much if it wasn't quite so achingly inevitable. Tim Henman is never ever ever going to win Wimbledon. He was never going to either. Am I making it up, or did Boris Becker say this last year? Maybe it was a dream? You know, the one where me and mrs househusbandnot win the lottery and Neil Young asks me to play lead guitar live with him and then Beatrice Dalle whispers to me that she really fancies mrs househusbandnot and I can talk to animals and Daniel Craig gets turned down for the lead role in hhn The Movie because he is not buff enough in his swimming cossie and I feel in my jacket pocket and it is full of magic beans and Andy Warhol turns to me and says "I just have so many of these Mao portraits. Why don't you take a few of them hhn?"
Thankfully - or interestingly - our TV stopped working last night, so we can't actually watch any Wimbledon until we get a new one. (mrs hhn thinks that either she or I have some sort of weird electrical energy that fuses electrical appliances. Few too many gins there me thinks.) So hopefully by the time we do get a new TV little Timmy's valiant struggle will be over, and we can watch some real men (and women) play some decent tennis rather than the rather half-arsed effort that Henperson makes of every point and game and set and match. Talk about laboured.
Anyway, in other sporting news off to the 20 20 cricket at The Oval with Styx this afternoon. Will report back.
Jun 26, 2007
Jun 25, 2007
Slap That Bass Whitey
Returned home last night after a long day of househusbandnotnoting aka being at work to a seemingly innocent pencil written note on a pad on the kitchen table from mrs househusbandnot asking me to 'feed the wormies if you have time darling'.
Now, to you (and the other five of you who read this blog), this note may have seemed innocent, polite, sweet even. But I knew, and mrs hhn knew, that I have been ignoring the wormery for a week or so because last time I looked in there I was attacked by a swarm of insects straight out of the early parts of The Old Testament, an assault I responded to by throwing half a loaf of bread and a bowl of rice into the cavernous hell that is the worm-inhabited bit of the wormery, and running for cover into the sitting room hoping that the whole wormery/Hades thing would just disappear. (And here mrs hhn's colleague who I have often judged for leaving a live wormery when you left your last house, I applaud you for your sense and courage.)
But, being the trooper/sucker that I am, I responded to mrs hhn's leadened note, and ventured out onto the balcony clutching my worm stick (don't ask) in one hand and a large glass of scotch in the other. I took off one layer (imagine three or four large perforated hat boxes each stacked on top of each other, the idea being that as the worms breed you encourage them to move further up the boxes until you start over by putting the top layer back into the bottom [the sort of thing people used to get burned at the stake for in the middle ages]) to reveal not only an appalling Parfume Du Somme but also a whole layer of rotting food that the worms had not ventured up into. So I had to empty that layer of food out into a bin liner, drain three full buckets of worm juice aka Satan's Death Oil into buckets, and then rake out the layer that the worms were still in and then feed the fuckers. hhn + wormery - attention to wormery + this experience = a need to die. I spent most of the rest of the evening lying in the bath trying to rid myself of the Parfume Du Somme and the thought of those worms just a few feet away on the balcony, and that oh so innocent note from mrs hhn.
I know in the end of the day the chores do get divied up within a relationship, but why do my chores always involve dirt and shit and decaying things? And I should have known something was up when mrs hhn called me during the day, before I'd got home to the note/order, and sweetly told me she had taken a steak out of the freezer for my supper since she was going out for supper. I should have cut my losses and fed the worms the steak, drained the scotch into my mouth via the bucket, written mrs hhn a similarly pencilled note asking her to 're tile the roofey-oofey if you have time when you get back from supper darling', and spent the evening with my new chums on facebook.
In other news, off to a breakfast meeting this morning. Can't fuckin' wait. Like people wearing trainers with their suits to work, I refuse to embrace this American idea. The theory is that we are all so busy and keen that we are happy to get up at a berzillion o'clock and tramp off to some crowded coffee house to juggle our note pads over the milky coffees and stale pastries. The practice is tired people looking tiredly at each other trying to work out why we could not have met later for lunch.
Incidentally, watched The Departed this weekend. Can someone explain to me why Marky Markkk had to shoot the bloke at the end? (Great live version of Comfortably Numb by Van The Man on the soundtrack btw.) And loving Sons And Daughters too, if a little distracted by the memory of that terrible Level 42 song of the same name.
Now, to you (and the other five of you who read this blog), this note may have seemed innocent, polite, sweet even. But I knew, and mrs hhn knew, that I have been ignoring the wormery for a week or so because last time I looked in there I was attacked by a swarm of insects straight out of the early parts of The Old Testament, an assault I responded to by throwing half a loaf of bread and a bowl of rice into the cavernous hell that is the worm-inhabited bit of the wormery, and running for cover into the sitting room hoping that the whole wormery/Hades thing would just disappear. (And here mrs hhn's colleague who I have often judged for leaving a live wormery when you left your last house, I applaud you for your sense and courage.)
But, being the trooper/sucker that I am, I responded to mrs hhn's leadened note, and ventured out onto the balcony clutching my worm stick (don't ask) in one hand and a large glass of scotch in the other. I took off one layer (imagine three or four large perforated hat boxes each stacked on top of each other, the idea being that as the worms breed you encourage them to move further up the boxes until you start over by putting the top layer back into the bottom [the sort of thing people used to get burned at the stake for in the middle ages]) to reveal not only an appalling Parfume Du Somme but also a whole layer of rotting food that the worms had not ventured up into. So I had to empty that layer of food out into a bin liner, drain three full buckets of worm juice aka Satan's Death Oil into buckets, and then rake out the layer that the worms were still in and then feed the fuckers. hhn + wormery - attention to wormery + this experience = a need to die. I spent most of the rest of the evening lying in the bath trying to rid myself of the Parfume Du Somme and the thought of those worms just a few feet away on the balcony, and that oh so innocent note from mrs hhn.
I know in the end of the day the chores do get divied up within a relationship, but why do my chores always involve dirt and shit and decaying things? And I should have known something was up when mrs hhn called me during the day, before I'd got home to the note/order, and sweetly told me she had taken a steak out of the freezer for my supper since she was going out for supper. I should have cut my losses and fed the worms the steak, drained the scotch into my mouth via the bucket, written mrs hhn a similarly pencilled note asking her to 're tile the roofey-oofey if you have time when you get back from supper darling', and spent the evening with my new chums on facebook.
In other news, off to a breakfast meeting this morning. Can't fuckin' wait. Like people wearing trainers with their suits to work, I refuse to embrace this American idea. The theory is that we are all so busy and keen that we are happy to get up at a berzillion o'clock and tramp off to some crowded coffee house to juggle our note pads over the milky coffees and stale pastries. The practice is tired people looking tiredly at each other trying to work out why we could not have met later for lunch.
Incidentally, watched The Departed this weekend. Can someone explain to me why Marky Markkk had to shoot the bloke at the end? (Great live version of Comfortably Numb by Van The Man on the soundtrack btw.) And loving Sons And Daughters too, if a little distracted by the memory of that terrible Level 42 song of the same name.
Theme Tunes
A predictably entertaining evening with The Waunch and mrs househusbandnot on Friday night, including discussion of what three songs we would have played at our respective funerals. As The Waunch was muttering darkly into his scotch about an Otis Redding song that summed up his life, mrs hhn - who, unknown to me or her, was about to spend a good part of the weekend nursing me with bad man flu - came up with Strange Relationship by Prince. Good choice. Quirky, ironic - what a funeral needs really. All I could think of was Discreet Music because it lasts 30 odd minutes, and I thought that would be long enough for you all to have a big old weep about me.
Mind you, last time mrs hhn and I discussed tunes was the closest we ever got to leaving each other, well her leaving me. We foolishly decided to do our own music at our wedding, and we got all the songs together and mixed them up which took weeks, and then the night before the future mrs hhn went off to prepare becoming the future mrs hhn I pressed the wrong button on itunes and rearranged all our chosen songs by length rather than as the groovy mix that we had put together. (We don't really talk about that evening very often round hhn HQ. It was a dark one, saved - only just - by the love of a good woman.)
Anyway, all sounds a bit serious for a Monday morning. In other news, was sitting having my morning coffee in Russell Square this morning when a really respectable middle aged woman walked past me and went into a trot into a flock of pigeons. She must hate or love those nasty birds. Very entertaining. She looked very happy with the bird chaos she had created.
I notice btw no suggestions for how to do a campaign without a budget. Come on people.
In final snore-worthy news, Wimbledon starts today. As someone was just saying here in the office, this event epitomises the really snobby side of England, and also that vain hope/fantasy that a Brit will ever win this event ever again. Is Andy Murray fit to play? Who cares? He is just the latest in a long long (looooooong) list of fairly pointless British men who feel they have some right to the Wimbledon title despite being about as competitive and aggressive enough to actually win it as a lazy Koi Carp.
Mind you, last time mrs hhn and I discussed tunes was the closest we ever got to leaving each other, well her leaving me. We foolishly decided to do our own music at our wedding, and we got all the songs together and mixed them up which took weeks, and then the night before the future mrs hhn went off to prepare becoming the future mrs hhn I pressed the wrong button on itunes and rearranged all our chosen songs by length rather than as the groovy mix that we had put together. (We don't really talk about that evening very often round hhn HQ. It was a dark one, saved - only just - by the love of a good woman.)
Anyway, all sounds a bit serious for a Monday morning. In other news, was sitting having my morning coffee in Russell Square this morning when a really respectable middle aged woman walked past me and went into a trot into a flock of pigeons. She must hate or love those nasty birds. Very entertaining. She looked very happy with the bird chaos she had created.
I notice btw no suggestions for how to do a campaign without a budget. Come on people.
In final snore-worthy news, Wimbledon starts today. As someone was just saying here in the office, this event epitomises the really snobby side of England, and also that vain hope/fantasy that a Brit will ever win this event ever again. Is Andy Murray fit to play? Who cares? He is just the latest in a long long (looooooong) list of fairly pointless British men who feel they have some right to the Wimbledon title despite being about as competitive and aggressive enough to actually win it as a lazy Koi Carp.
Jun 22, 2007
Free Launches
Topping and tailing the week with posts. Sorry that the daily posts regime has gone quite so far out of the window, but have been rather busy with various attempts at getting work, doing work, working, being at work, going to work, boring mrs househusbandnot about work, dreaming about work, working out (well swimming), working out how to work, and other work-related stuff.
Am launching a web-based campaign (at work) next week, which is proving interesting, not least of all because I have a budget of approx four pence to run the campaign. So am off to take photos of the Anthony Gormley statues wearing a campaign tshirt early Sunday morning. Any other £ lite suggestions for publicity welcome. To date have failed to secure interest of celebrities (A-E list anyway) about the campaign, and have not yet written the campaign site which needs to be launched next week. But will get there, with or without the Cheeky Girls. Who said there was no such thing as a free launch? (To those of you who know about this campaign, please don't share it with other hhn readers. The campaign website has an open discussion area, much to the consternation of my (work) colleagues who were telling me about some woman who has had an injunction taken out on her because she called The Samaritans something like 170,000 times last year - and I don't want Madame B getting any similar stalky ideas.)
Actually, the campaign involves interviewing a bunch of people to include their case studies on the site. I may - or may not - have mentioned in the past an odd reaction that some people have to me which is the need for them to tell me everything about themselves. I sat for an hour yesterday morning listening to the most intimate of details about one interviewee's life. Unusable on the site, but fascinating none the less. I misses a trick somewhere along the line by not becoming an investigative journalist. ( "Well hhn, I've not told anyone else, but I was on the grassy knoll, and I wasn't alone...")
In other news, am on a diet, so have been spending long minutes day dreaming about cheese and onion crisps and chocolate biscuits and mini baby bells and pints of soothing lager. So far have managed to loose approx nil weight, probably because I ate a cheese and coleslaw sandwich yesterday when I thought no-one was looking. (My partner in diet is mrs househusbandnot, and here I confess to her about said sandwich. Sorry babe, but it just looked so good. Just could not face another round of tired sushi.)
Re tumble weeding, thanks for the interest, and am deeply trying to fit in hhn where I can. Will try harder next week.
Anyway, have The Waunch over for supper this evening so must get my ass out to the shops to purchase relevant supplies.
Am launching a web-based campaign (at work) next week, which is proving interesting, not least of all because I have a budget of approx four pence to run the campaign. So am off to take photos of the Anthony Gormley statues wearing a campaign tshirt early Sunday morning. Any other £ lite suggestions for publicity welcome. To date have failed to secure interest of celebrities (A-E list anyway) about the campaign, and have not yet written the campaign site which needs to be launched next week. But will get there, with or without the Cheeky Girls. Who said there was no such thing as a free launch? (To those of you who know about this campaign, please don't share it with other hhn readers. The campaign website has an open discussion area, much to the consternation of my (work) colleagues who were telling me about some woman who has had an injunction taken out on her because she called The Samaritans something like 170,000 times last year - and I don't want Madame B getting any similar stalky ideas.)
Actually, the campaign involves interviewing a bunch of people to include their case studies on the site. I may - or may not - have mentioned in the past an odd reaction that some people have to me which is the need for them to tell me everything about themselves. I sat for an hour yesterday morning listening to the most intimate of details about one interviewee's life. Unusable on the site, but fascinating none the less. I misses a trick somewhere along the line by not becoming an investigative journalist. ( "Well hhn, I've not told anyone else, but I was on the grassy knoll, and I wasn't alone...")
In other news, am on a diet, so have been spending long minutes day dreaming about cheese and onion crisps and chocolate biscuits and mini baby bells and pints of soothing lager. So far have managed to loose approx nil weight, probably because I ate a cheese and coleslaw sandwich yesterday when I thought no-one was looking. (My partner in diet is mrs househusbandnot, and here I confess to her about said sandwich. Sorry babe, but it just looked so good. Just could not face another round of tired sushi.)
Re tumble weeding, thanks for the interest, and am deeply trying to fit in hhn where I can. Will try harder next week.
Anyway, have The Waunch over for supper this evening so must get my ass out to the shops to purchase relevant supplies.
Jun 20, 2007
Office Life Not
Ahh, the busy office life. Trying to decide what to have for lunch, wearing matching socks, wondering if I can do a quick fart while the office is empty, snooping around the office for a hole punch (why do hole punches still exist in this day and age?), trying to think of something to go and talk to my boss about so she knows I am in, sitting in meetings (wondering when the world will end they are so boring), fart-arsing around with our head of finance about my tax status, trying to avoid going to get any water from the water cooler thing because I know it is empty and can't be arsed to put a new bottle on it, googling stuff, facebooking other stuff, checking my office mobile to see if I have missed any important calls, chewing gum, sending emails to everyone around the office about a meeting I have organised for tomorrow so they know I am in, tidying my desk tidy, trying (and failing) to have knowing IT chats with the head of IT, getting annoyed with my squeaking chair, wondering what time it is, getting a cold call about a lobbying service for the European Parliament, being told off by the girl on reception for using the wrong loo, eating sushi, picking my teeth, emailing mrs househusbandnot, waiting for mrs hhn to respond, taking completely random notes when talking to colleagues to try and freak them into thinking I am thinking in a better/more strategic/cleaner/fitter way than they are about the organisation we work for, listening to my boss talking about the difficulties of buying swimwear, trying to impress the younger members of staff by telling them I have a facebook account, emailing anyone...anything...that emails me (have bought four bottles of viagra this morning already), and wondering WHAT does it all mean.
I went to a meeting at the House Of Commons this morning. In theory - in my what does it all mean state - I should have been impressed with the seat of Government and all those important parliamentarians and policy brokers and lobbyists doing their thang. But they are just the same as us, just trying to get through the day having impressed their bosses and not been caught out picking their noses or searching for the six month birthday photos of that polar bear in the German zoo.
I went out to get my sushi just now, and it is all like a slowed down version of 28 Days/Weeks Later. We are all wandering around like zombies from home to office to water cooler to desk to boss's office to Pret A Manger to office to desk to water cooler to head of IT's desk to desk to stationery cupboard to desk to bus stop to home...
What does it all mean?
I went to a meeting at the House Of Commons this morning. In theory - in my what does it all mean state - I should have been impressed with the seat of Government and all those important parliamentarians and policy brokers and lobbyists doing their thang. But they are just the same as us, just trying to get through the day having impressed their bosses and not been caught out picking their noses or searching for the six month birthday photos of that polar bear in the German zoo.
I went out to get my sushi just now, and it is all like a slowed down version of 28 Days/Weeks Later. We are all wandering around like zombies from home to office to water cooler to desk to boss's office to Pret A Manger to office to desk to water cooler to head of IT's desk to desk to stationery cupboard to desk to bus stop to home...
What does it all mean?
Jun 15, 2007
Networking (Social Or Otherwise)
Off to see some people today about a prospective piece of writing. I sent them all the usual stuff, and then they asked if I had a blog and could I send that to them too. I was not sure about this. Would anyone really want to employ someone called househusbandnot who spends most of his time talking about sandwiches and animals? But I sent hhn anyway. But thinking about it, I am now off to meet three strangers who know more about me than some of my best friends (many of whom don't bother reading hhn). Could be an interesting meeting ("How do you feel your recurring dreams about talking to wolves will help us in our campaign?" "Does Madame B come with the package, or do we have to pay her separately?" "Actually, we don't want you. You can't spell. Do you have a contact for The Waunch?" "You are obviously nuts. We bought you this Easter Egg." etc.)
On other news, mrs househusbandnot set me up a facebook account last night. Seems most of the people in her office are into this new social networking site, and mrs hhn thought I should get in on the act too. I checked it out this morning. What is it actually for? Is this really socialising? Isn't it just about finding pictures of strangers to look at? (Mind you, mrs hhn did admit that it is fun if you are nosey.) Is it just a dating site for nice people? Do people really get work through it? Too many questions, and one too many photos of me on it if you ask me.
Although the people I am seeing today are very much into the whole Web 2.0 thang, and looking to find people who can reflect the whole inclusion/involvement/networking agenda on their various websites. So maybe mrs hhn wsa right to try and drag me someway into this century with a facebook account. (I actually just went into facebook and tried to change my page/space or whatever it is called from my real name to hhhn, but it wouldn't let me do it. And anyway there was all that stuff about Madame B and photos a while back which got a little weird, so maybe it is better to keep the two separate [which kinda defeats - and certainly duplicates - some of the the purpose of networking or socialising or talking or writing on the net, but what the *&^^].)
In other other news, off to the in laws again this weekend. They are having a big party for their 40th anniversary. Being eager planners, my in laws have allocated me tasks, including doing the BBQ - well one of them. They did own a BBQ which was about the size a large sofa, but they decided that this was not enough and have bought a second even bigger one. So if you are driving around the New Forest this weekend, and see flames licking the tops of buildings and trees, it could be me at work with one of these weapons of mass destruction. (I know about as much about cooking on a BBQ as I do braille.)
In other x 3 news, I went to this scruffy off licence last night - the sort of place you go to when you can't be arsed to find an Oddbins because you are late for your friends' supper party and it is just there and you think there is bound to be some someway decent wine in there and you go in and think you are going to be killed by the gang of kids hanging around trying to get the owner to sell them a bottle of Thunderbird and you do find some okay wine and but it costs 14 squid - and I was buying a couple of bottles of wine hoping the manager would not kill me, and he said "You have been blessed" looking at my groin. Very fuckin' weird. (And I now have to work out if those people I am seeing today will have read this in the next hour before our meeting, and consider whether or not to stuff a pair of socks down my pants for the interview. Sometimes there is just too much information out there.)
Incidentally, apologies to The Waunch for calling him a star fucker. If in any way I was implying that he is prepared to drop anything in order to go and hang out with unfunny comedians and moderate Canadian rockers, I apologise.
Hv a gd w'end...
On other news, mrs househusbandnot set me up a facebook account last night. Seems most of the people in her office are into this new social networking site, and mrs hhn thought I should get in on the act too. I checked it out this morning. What is it actually for? Is this really socialising? Isn't it just about finding pictures of strangers to look at? (Mind you, mrs hhn did admit that it is fun if you are nosey.) Is it just a dating site for nice people? Do people really get work through it? Too many questions, and one too many photos of me on it if you ask me.
Although the people I am seeing today are very much into the whole Web 2.0 thang, and looking to find people who can reflect the whole inclusion/involvement/networking agenda on their various websites. So maybe mrs hhn wsa right to try and drag me someway into this century with a facebook account. (I actually just went into facebook and tried to change my page/space or whatever it is called from my real name to hhhn, but it wouldn't let me do it. And anyway there was all that stuff about Madame B and photos a while back which got a little weird, so maybe it is better to keep the two separate [which kinda defeats - and certainly duplicates - some of the the purpose of networking or socialising or talking or writing on the net, but what the *&^^].)
In other other news, off to the in laws again this weekend. They are having a big party for their 40th anniversary. Being eager planners, my in laws have allocated me tasks, including doing the BBQ - well one of them. They did own a BBQ which was about the size a large sofa, but they decided that this was not enough and have bought a second even bigger one. So if you are driving around the New Forest this weekend, and see flames licking the tops of buildings and trees, it could be me at work with one of these weapons of mass destruction. (I know about as much about cooking on a BBQ as I do braille.)
In other x 3 news, I went to this scruffy off licence last night - the sort of place you go to when you can't be arsed to find an Oddbins because you are late for your friends' supper party and it is just there and you think there is bound to be some someway decent wine in there and you go in and think you are going to be killed by the gang of kids hanging around trying to get the owner to sell them a bottle of Thunderbird and you do find some okay wine and but it costs 14 squid - and I was buying a couple of bottles of wine hoping the manager would not kill me, and he said "You have been blessed" looking at my groin. Very fuckin' weird. (And I now have to work out if those people I am seeing today will have read this in the next hour before our meeting, and consider whether or not to stuff a pair of socks down my pants for the interview. Sometimes there is just too much information out there.)
Incidentally, apologies to The Waunch for calling him a star fucker. If in any way I was implying that he is prepared to drop anything in order to go and hang out with unfunny comedians and moderate Canadian rockers, I apologise.
Hv a gd w'end...
Jun 14, 2007
The Thing Is...Over There
I've written before about rules of engagement with famous people, but was amused what a pickle I got into the other day when I found myself standing next to that American actor Michael Chiklis who plays The Thing in The Fantastic Four. (He was also in that fine American cop show The Shield.)
The trouble is that Londoners - or maybe it is just me - are just too urbane and polite and rude and clumsy and British and world-weary to really understand what they are supposed to do when put face to face with an famous person. I imagine in Hollywood there are some very clear rules of engagement, since the fame thing is the only show in town (unless I am doing LA a disservice as the world's largest producer of tomatoes or box files or something). But here, we don't know what to do, because we (well I) get to thinking "Oh there's so and so, he/she's famous, oh fuck I'm walking towards them, it is him/her isn't it, and I liked that film they were in, but I don't want to look like a freak or a stalker, and - shit, still moving towards them: feet stop it, they are looking at me, they look freaked out, is that their wife/husband, she/he must get so fed up with people going up to their husband/wife, and I am now technically a stalker because I have no control of what I am doing in the presence of fame, and I'm breathing, should I say hello, seems churlish not to, and I could write about it on hhn I guess, do people still ask for autographs, or is that really old fashioned, and trying not to look too mad, and....oh, they've gone..."
So I didn't get The Thing's autograph, and I felt bad about it because The Shield was a really excellent show, and I think Chris (for he is my new best friend now that I've seen him across a hotel lobby) never got to find out that I (me) thought he was a great actor way before he got into big Hollywood super-heroing.
All the above was much trumped by my mate Dezzo on Tuesday night when he punched Ian Wright in the face in a pub. It was accidental. Dezzo was putting his jacket on in a crowded bar, and Wrighty had slipped in to the seat next to us right behind Dezzo's elbow. For a split second I did think Wrighty was going to retaliate when Dezzo caught him on the head with his fist. But Dezzo was deeply apologetic, although he did come out of the bar saying "Bit of an attitude that bloke. It wasn't exactly pleasant for me having to touch his bald head." He was deeply, sweetly oblivious to Wrighty's fame. As far as he was concerned, Wrighty was just another bloke in the pub. Which - in the end of the day - I guess he was. (Although in deeply embarrassing hhn star fuck mode, when Wrighty saw me (I'm a bit taller than Dezzo) and said "Well, I'm glad it wasn't you", I batted my eyelids, said "Not my style dude", and magnanimously shook his hand. What a tosser. Me, not Wrighty.)
This hhn versus celebrities remains an occasional series, since you can't really get around London any more without having to decide what to do when faced with the famous. The Waunch, who is perhaps the biggest star fucker that we know (known as he is to travel the length of the land in order to be seen having a drink with D list celebs) may have further tales to report? Me? Fame means nothing to me, although I remain hopeful that somehow, somewhere in August, I will become Prince's new best friend.
The trouble is that Londoners - or maybe it is just me - are just too urbane and polite and rude and clumsy and British and world-weary to really understand what they are supposed to do when put face to face with an famous person. I imagine in Hollywood there are some very clear rules of engagement, since the fame thing is the only show in town (unless I am doing LA a disservice as the world's largest producer of tomatoes or box files or something). But here, we don't know what to do, because we (well I) get to thinking "Oh there's so and so, he/she's famous, oh fuck I'm walking towards them, it is him/her isn't it, and I liked that film they were in, but I don't want to look like a freak or a stalker, and - shit, still moving towards them: feet stop it, they are looking at me, they look freaked out, is that their wife/husband, she/he must get so fed up with people going up to their husband/wife, and I am now technically a stalker because I have no control of what I am doing in the presence of fame, and I'm breathing, should I say hello, seems churlish not to, and I could write about it on hhn I guess, do people still ask for autographs, or is that really old fashioned, and trying not to look too mad, and....oh, they've gone..."
So I didn't get The Thing's autograph, and I felt bad about it because The Shield was a really excellent show, and I think Chris (for he is my new best friend now that I've seen him across a hotel lobby) never got to find out that I (me) thought he was a great actor way before he got into big Hollywood super-heroing.
All the above was much trumped by my mate Dezzo on Tuesday night when he punched Ian Wright in the face in a pub. It was accidental. Dezzo was putting his jacket on in a crowded bar, and Wrighty had slipped in to the seat next to us right behind Dezzo's elbow. For a split second I did think Wrighty was going to retaliate when Dezzo caught him on the head with his fist. But Dezzo was deeply apologetic, although he did come out of the bar saying "Bit of an attitude that bloke. It wasn't exactly pleasant for me having to touch his bald head." He was deeply, sweetly oblivious to Wrighty's fame. As far as he was concerned, Wrighty was just another bloke in the pub. Which - in the end of the day - I guess he was. (Although in deeply embarrassing hhn star fuck mode, when Wrighty saw me (I'm a bit taller than Dezzo) and said "Well, I'm glad it wasn't you", I batted my eyelids, said "Not my style dude", and magnanimously shook his hand. What a tosser. Me, not Wrighty.)
This hhn versus celebrities remains an occasional series, since you can't really get around London any more without having to decide what to do when faced with the famous. The Waunch, who is perhaps the biggest star fucker that we know (known as he is to travel the length of the land in order to be seen having a drink with D list celebs) may have further tales to report? Me? Fame means nothing to me, although I remain hopeful that somehow, somewhere in August, I will become Prince's new best friend.
Jun 11, 2007
Allergies And Ipods
In true - real? honest? actual? literal? - househusbandnot style, am sitting at home waiting for someone to come and service the boiler. As I was staring aimlessly out of the kitchen window waiting for the kettle to boil, I noticed a man in full white anti-germ suit entering the block of flats over the road.
Having recently seen 28 Weeks Later, I got to wondering what particular deadly virus he was there to clean out, this drama somewhat tempered by a really annoying Observer supplement on allergies and kids that I read yesterday. Maybe the suited up bloke was just going in to see his nephew who has a severe nut allergy. (Apparently some people are allergic to tomatoes. I don't see how this works since tomatoes - although the devil's work - are just a big round glob of water aren't they? It would be like having an allergy to cucumber or apples. Are some people really allergic to water nowadays? Although I read somewhere that the water in and around London is so full of stuff that it can act as an effective contraceptive for women if drunk regularly. Maybe that's a myth, because people are still having kids nut allergy-full or otherwise. )
Mind you, one of the many pieces of informal research being conducted here at hhn HQ is the long term effect of things on people. Stuff like diet coke, and Starbucks coffee, and dry cleaned clothes, and ipods, and mobile phones, and rom coms (to which mrs househusbandnot is clinically addicted). All those things we have only been exposed to for a few decades and no-one really knows what effects they might have on us long term. (Funding for this research is limited btw, but I will be bringing the results to you one day.)
Have also noticed a lot of ladybirds around this summer. Are they going to take over the planet?
In other, not entirely unrelated news, my mate *&^ came over last night to sort out my itunes. In the process he downloaded pretty much his entire cd collection onto my computer. Amazing that this can be done so easily and quickly. I now own his hours of collecting and listening and living and loving of music, all at a click or two of a few computer keys. Which reminds me of my marketing idea for ipod, which would involve swap station (iswaps?) where you could take along your music-stuffed ipod and swap it for a week with someone else's, and have a whole new library of music to listen to for that week. I guess there would have to be matches to the sorts of music you liked, and also the actual amount of music you had on your ipod. It would be kind of annoying to take along your ipod with 10,000 songs and leave with someone else's which only had I Love Music 54 on it. I like this idea. It is kind of pro-individual choice, and sort of social networking and personal, and pro music. Although Styx is on an interesting why have music all the time gig at the moment, arguing that this whole move towards having access to as much music as possible all the time on the smallest possible gadget doesn't give anyone any space or real time to sit and actually enjoy music. It is more about the collection and storage than the actual pleasure you get from it. He has a (typically obtuse but interesting) point. I sometimes find the transition from listening to music and not listening to music difficult. One minute you are wigging away, the next you are taking off your earphones and saying good morning to everyone in the office and sitting down and turning on your computer and trying to stop wishing you were in a band, or on the road or at Glastonbury or something. And I'm not sure that greater access creates greater pleasure- although am deeply looking forward to tucking into *&^'s collection in the coming weeks.
Having recently seen 28 Weeks Later, I got to wondering what particular deadly virus he was there to clean out, this drama somewhat tempered by a really annoying Observer supplement on allergies and kids that I read yesterday. Maybe the suited up bloke was just going in to see his nephew who has a severe nut allergy. (Apparently some people are allergic to tomatoes. I don't see how this works since tomatoes - although the devil's work - are just a big round glob of water aren't they? It would be like having an allergy to cucumber or apples. Are some people really allergic to water nowadays? Although I read somewhere that the water in and around London is so full of stuff that it can act as an effective contraceptive for women if drunk regularly. Maybe that's a myth, because people are still having kids nut allergy-full or otherwise. )
Mind you, one of the many pieces of informal research being conducted here at hhn HQ is the long term effect of things on people. Stuff like diet coke, and Starbucks coffee, and dry cleaned clothes, and ipods, and mobile phones, and rom coms (to which mrs househusbandnot is clinically addicted). All those things we have only been exposed to for a few decades and no-one really knows what effects they might have on us long term. (Funding for this research is limited btw, but I will be bringing the results to you one day.)
Have also noticed a lot of ladybirds around this summer. Are they going to take over the planet?
In other, not entirely unrelated news, my mate *&^ came over last night to sort out my itunes. In the process he downloaded pretty much his entire cd collection onto my computer. Amazing that this can be done so easily and quickly. I now own his hours of collecting and listening and living and loving of music, all at a click or two of a few computer keys. Which reminds me of my marketing idea for ipod, which would involve swap station (iswaps?) where you could take along your music-stuffed ipod and swap it for a week with someone else's, and have a whole new library of music to listen to for that week. I guess there would have to be matches to the sorts of music you liked, and also the actual amount of music you had on your ipod. It would be kind of annoying to take along your ipod with 10,000 songs and leave with someone else's which only had I Love Music 54 on it. I like this idea. It is kind of pro-individual choice, and sort of social networking and personal, and pro music. Although Styx is on an interesting why have music all the time gig at the moment, arguing that this whole move towards having access to as much music as possible all the time on the smallest possible gadget doesn't give anyone any space or real time to sit and actually enjoy music. It is more about the collection and storage than the actual pleasure you get from it. He has a (typically obtuse but interesting) point. I sometimes find the transition from listening to music and not listening to music difficult. One minute you are wigging away, the next you are taking off your earphones and saying good morning to everyone in the office and sitting down and turning on your computer and trying to stop wishing you were in a band, or on the road or at Glastonbury or something. And I'm not sure that greater access creates greater pleasure- although am deeply looking forward to tucking into *&^'s collection in the coming weeks.
Jun 7, 2007
Alphabet Street: It's A List Return People
Well thanks (kinda) for your various comments while I have not been at househusbandnot HQ, and rather ignoring my duties to you kind (six still?) hhn readers. Apologies but have been busy...well bolloxing around. Since we last spoke I have:
Accepted that I truly will never really understand the difference between a website visit and a website page view (it would not matter so much if the (*&^ing discussion didn't come up so much, mostly because I am sitting near to head of IT - aka The Growler - in my new job)
Been along to x2 to try and get into the Antony Gormley show on the South Bank (but on getting there on both occasions seen that I had to queue to get in and - in a similarly imperious manner that The Waunch and I feel insulted whenever we are expected to pay on trains for our brief forays outside London - refused to queue for a show [any show] , and also reminded myself and mrs househusbandnot who was along for the ride that Gormley is a bit of a one trick pony and not worth waiting for/on)
Cooked a three course vegetarian meal (almost as dull cooking it as it was eating it, although worms in hhn wormery were well fed that evening - sorry blokewhoiassumeisstillavegeterian but pulses and stuff still ain't rocking my sausage-craving boat)
Deeply Defeated mrs hhn at Scrabble (on our first game since our marathon scrabble sessions in Greece a few weeks ago after which I was forced to design a new Olympic logo encapsulating the vision of the fact that I was much much stupider than mrs hhn)
Enjoyed the fact that mrs hhn finally admitted to me that she was missing hhn posts (and this was unsolicited)
Fought and won a battle with itunes and my ipod (although I recognise it was only a battle rather than a full blown war/campaign)
Googled myself (hey, I said I had been busy, not necessarily productive)
Held back the urge to go and shake hands with Whispering Bob Harris when I was in a room with him last week (anyone under the age of 35, please ask your mum or dad about this one)
Ignored a lot of advice from horoscopes (although I did have an idea for a book once about someone who lived their lives by horoscopes, but then Dave Gorman did his show about it before I had a chance to write the book)
Judged myself to have been too harsh on Madame B when she sent that nice comment about spending quality time with her son (and then gone straight back to the Madame B Is Dirty Old Slapper camp as a result of her more recent comments and suggestions)
Knowingly and enjoyably met for lunch with Styx at the restaurant Roast (which involved much important discussion of all things important including bread sauce, wives, city tossers, parents, the bright future of English wine, J Mascis, Vinderama@weloveu.com , annoying art dealers, Bob Geldof, the cricket, and the true - and not necessarily so media palatable - definition of 'organic' chicken)
Loving and continuing to love a very beautiful picture that a much loved and much missed friend left me in their will some few days ago (I though long and hard about mentioning this in the hhn context, but it is something I have been really thinking about)
Managed to not get my hair cut (and therefore resorted to brylcreemed comb back which makes me look more like Ray Winston than usual, although on celeb lookalikey I found myself sitting next to Johnny Vegas the other day and was reminded of going to a party a few years ago and a girl starting a sentence with "You need to take this the right way, but you look like a much better looking..." [I asked her to stop at this point but she felt the need to finish the sentence] )
Neglected to call the boiler repair man (even though we have some weird new nanny state boiler that has a built in timer that does a count down of the days before your next boiler check is overdue and then turns itself off)
Organised a lazy summer evening in July when me and Bad go out lobster potting on his boat in Suffolk (for which I have earned hhn prospective relaxation points 5, and mrs hhn whenwillthosedrugsthatmyhusbandsmokedatuniversityeverleavehissystem points 0)
Planted some mint (which has failed to materialise above the soil surface so far: any hints from Mr B The Gardener Mrs B without reference to priapism and vegetables/fruit?)
Quizzed (pretty unsubtly) mrs hhn on what she wants for her birthday next week (all I've had so far is pretty emphatic regulation on what I can't buy her, including clothes and CDs and meals in restaurants other than in the ones I have asked her to name but she says I should know which ones they are if I have even listened to her since we got married...)
Realised with some interest that I have an entirely irrational but active hatred of Sebastian Coe (I think it may still be the judo thing with William Hague)
Sat quietly in Russell Square in the mornings trying to enjoy a quiet coffee and few tunes on the isquad before going to the office (only to be - EVERY morning - disturbed by the freaks and fools and felons and fellow Londoners who trawl the Square at that time in the morning, the latest of whom approached me for money yesterday because he could not believe that "the police man, they took all my skunk off me", begging the question as to what he had been expecting them to do with it: gift wrap it for him? vacuum pack it for him? give it back with a product endorsement? )
Trudged briefly and slowly up and down the pool a few times (like daily hhn posts, my languorous, long swims have fallen victim to actually having to get up and wear matching shoes and go to an office and think and be and exist in the real world)
Understood with some relief that I have no idea what the last comment to hhn before I sent this post out - "if u were Mrs Hhn, then I know what you reaction would have been to finding such a spectacle.So if you are, what did yo do next?I will know if it is she?Similarly if you are not Mrs hhn, you agree that old hhn is a big lad (picture he sent you), so that particular act of self mutilation would prove a bit difficult practically.Mrs hhn can be that vulgar,even uses the C word, but she wouldn't be unnecessarily, so I think you are not.But I have other questions that could prove it.I like this game" - is about ( nothing to report in this bracket)
Veered inexplicably and with deep regret towards tapping my foot to a Razorlight track playing in the pub last night (I can only beg forgiveness here people)
Wondered briefly about the true identity of Madame B (although I can categorically confirm that I think - can you categorically think? - that she/he/it is not mrs hhn)
Xcited the interest of The Sun sufficiently for them to print a favourable article about the organisation I am working for this morning (I rock)
Yawned idly and often at my PC's screen (rather than written an hhn post)
And
Zoo-watched (with a recurring dream where me and mrs hhn and others are on a ledge at a zoo looking down at lions attacking really random prey like turkeys and oil-slicked porpoises and old people, and then suddenly some of the loins have figured out how to climb up onto the ledge and we have to lay back on our backs and time our movements to their leaps at us so that we can kick them back down the ledge)
I sometimes wish I was making this shit up....x
Accepted that I truly will never really understand the difference between a website visit and a website page view (it would not matter so much if the (*&^ing discussion didn't come up so much, mostly because I am sitting near to head of IT - aka The Growler - in my new job)
Been along to x2 to try and get into the Antony Gormley show on the South Bank (but on getting there on both occasions seen that I had to queue to get in and - in a similarly imperious manner that The Waunch and I feel insulted whenever we are expected to pay on trains for our brief forays outside London - refused to queue for a show [any show] , and also reminded myself and mrs househusbandnot who was along for the ride that Gormley is a bit of a one trick pony and not worth waiting for/on)
Cooked a three course vegetarian meal (almost as dull cooking it as it was eating it, although worms in hhn wormery were well fed that evening - sorry blokewhoiassumeisstillavegeterian but pulses and stuff still ain't rocking my sausage-craving boat)
Deeply Defeated mrs hhn at Scrabble (on our first game since our marathon scrabble sessions in Greece a few weeks ago after which I was forced to design a new Olympic logo encapsulating the vision of the fact that I was much much stupider than mrs hhn)
Enjoyed the fact that mrs hhn finally admitted to me that she was missing hhn posts (and this was unsolicited)
Fought and won a battle with itunes and my ipod (although I recognise it was only a battle rather than a full blown war/campaign)
Googled myself (hey, I said I had been busy, not necessarily productive)
Held back the urge to go and shake hands with Whispering Bob Harris when I was in a room with him last week (anyone under the age of 35, please ask your mum or dad about this one)
Ignored a lot of advice from horoscopes (although I did have an idea for a book once about someone who lived their lives by horoscopes, but then Dave Gorman did his show about it before I had a chance to write the book)
Judged myself to have been too harsh on Madame B when she sent that nice comment about spending quality time with her son (and then gone straight back to the Madame B Is Dirty Old Slapper camp as a result of her more recent comments and suggestions)
Knowingly and enjoyably met for lunch with Styx at the restaurant Roast (which involved much important discussion of all things important including bread sauce, wives, city tossers, parents, the bright future of English wine, J Mascis, Vinderama@weloveu.com , annoying art dealers, Bob Geldof, the cricket, and the true - and not necessarily so media palatable - definition of 'organic' chicken)
Loving and continuing to love a very beautiful picture that a much loved and much missed friend left me in their will some few days ago (I though long and hard about mentioning this in the hhn context, but it is something I have been really thinking about)
Managed to not get my hair cut (and therefore resorted to brylcreemed comb back which makes me look more like Ray Winston than usual, although on celeb lookalikey I found myself sitting next to Johnny Vegas the other day and was reminded of going to a party a few years ago and a girl starting a sentence with "You need to take this the right way, but you look like a much better looking..." [I asked her to stop at this point but she felt the need to finish the sentence] )
Neglected to call the boiler repair man (even though we have some weird new nanny state boiler that has a built in timer that does a count down of the days before your next boiler check is overdue and then turns itself off)
Organised a lazy summer evening in July when me and Bad go out lobster potting on his boat in Suffolk (for which I have earned hhn prospective relaxation points 5, and mrs hhn whenwillthosedrugsthatmyhusbandsmokedatuniversityeverleavehissystem points 0)
Planted some mint (which has failed to materialise above the soil surface so far: any hints from Mr B The Gardener Mrs B without reference to priapism and vegetables/fruit?)
Quizzed (pretty unsubtly) mrs hhn on what she wants for her birthday next week (all I've had so far is pretty emphatic regulation on what I can't buy her, including clothes and CDs and meals in restaurants other than in the ones I have asked her to name but she says I should know which ones they are if I have even listened to her since we got married...)
Realised with some interest that I have an entirely irrational but active hatred of Sebastian Coe (I think it may still be the judo thing with William Hague)
Sat quietly in Russell Square in the mornings trying to enjoy a quiet coffee and few tunes on the isquad before going to the office (only to be - EVERY morning - disturbed by the freaks and fools and felons and fellow Londoners who trawl the Square at that time in the morning, the latest of whom approached me for money yesterday because he could not believe that "the police man, they took all my skunk off me", begging the question as to what he had been expecting them to do with it: gift wrap it for him? vacuum pack it for him? give it back with a product endorsement? )
Trudged briefly and slowly up and down the pool a few times (like daily hhn posts, my languorous, long swims have fallen victim to actually having to get up and wear matching shoes and go to an office and think and be and exist in the real world)
Understood with some relief that I have no idea what the last comment to hhn before I sent this post out - "if u were Mrs Hhn, then I know what you reaction would have been to finding such a spectacle.So if you are, what did yo do next?I will know if it is she?Similarly if you are not Mrs hhn, you agree that old hhn is a big lad (picture he sent you), so that particular act of self mutilation would prove a bit difficult practically.Mrs hhn can be that vulgar,even uses the C word, but she wouldn't be unnecessarily, so I think you are not.But I have other questions that could prove it.I like this game" - is about ( nothing to report in this bracket)
Veered inexplicably and with deep regret towards tapping my foot to a Razorlight track playing in the pub last night (I can only beg forgiveness here people)
Wondered briefly about the true identity of Madame B (although I can categorically confirm that I think - can you categorically think? - that she/he/it is not mrs hhn)
Xcited the interest of The Sun sufficiently for them to print a favourable article about the organisation I am working for this morning (I rock)
Yawned idly and often at my PC's screen (rather than written an hhn post)
And
Zoo-watched (with a recurring dream where me and mrs hhn and others are on a ledge at a zoo looking down at lions attacking really random prey like turkeys and oil-slicked porpoises and old people, and then suddenly some of the loins have figured out how to climb up onto the ledge and we have to lay back on our backs and time our movements to their leaps at us so that we can kick them back down the ledge)
I sometimes wish I was making this shit up....x
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
