a) Gin really does clean diamonds really well
b) Pigs are not clean
c) Mick Jagger really is too spooky to look at nowadays. He looks like George Harrison's ghost
d) Is it really true that honey badgers are the most ferocious animals in the world? How do they measure it anyway?
e) Never trust anyone who says "Trust me" or "I have an open door policy" or "I like feedback"
f) Anyone who comes through from another carriage while the train is moving is almost certainly 150% nuts
g) What has happened to Prince Edward?
h) Printers suck (the machines not the people)
i) That thing about getting into the duvet cover to change it if you are on your own doesn't work
j) When I was young, they had a thing on Tomorrow's World about how you could eat your baked beans off a CD and it would still work afterwards. You lie. Just looking at a CD makes it scratch and fail to play
k) Tattoos rock, and tattoos suck
l) That thing about putting a spoon in a bottle of champagne doesn't work either
m) My prediction for 2007 about poetry being the new thing on the block is coming true - and it is only just February
n) The Edge remains the most overrated guitarist in the world, ever, forever, and now and I have found what I was looking for
o) "According to some scientists" does not make something true
p) Anyone who posts a comment to a blog is probably: nuts, single, stoned, employed to do so, wishes they had their own blog but hasn't got round to it yet
q) Constant updates - itunes, Google, Blogger, travel cards, theories on the origins of man etc - make like more rather than less complicated
r) One time - at band camp - I got bitten really hard by a stag beetle. It remains one of the most painful thing that has ever happened to me. (Think on't Mr Harold Oney Badger.)
s)Snakes and sharks are more scared of us than we are of them? I don't think so
t) Has Demi Moore's husband ever actually been in a real movie?
u) How come they have still not taken up Brian Eno's idea about generating energy from treadmills and stuff from gyms?
v) Are people who wear bowties nobbers before they start wearing bowties, or do they become so when they elect to wear them?
w) Rez is the greatest PS game of all time
x) Aubergines are fundamentally inedible
y) Styx's wife told me the other night that she once secured Brotherhood Of Man's autographs
z) (Brian Eno again) We have all become editors
Jan 31, 2007
Sex Tests
"Did he want to have sex with you?" This from mrs househusbandnot in response to my telling her that there had been a man with an erection in the showers at the swimming pool yesterday.
Now, I have a lot of bad character traits. But it was not until I met mrs hhn that I realised quite how unhelpful my inability to lie can be. What I should have said was "No. He didn't. He was after some other bloke". What I did say, having considered the question, was "I don't know." Because I didn't. Other than Erecto Man (EM) , there were three of us in the shower, so there was - theoretically anyway- a 33% chance that EM may have wanted to have sex with me. (Yeah, yeah. I know. But bear with me here.)
"So, did you want to have sex with him?"
I could have got away with it if I hadn't paused. But I did. Because I do think that if mrs hhn asks me a question, I should give her a straight (boom boom) response. I paused because I was considering the question. And then, having taken my time, I put on my extra strength idiot cap, and said: "No. He had a small penis."
The devil will always be in the detail. Now, because I didn't leave a few seconds pause between 'No' and 'He'. Now, because I didn't insert a 'By the way' or 'Did I say' in the same place, mrs hhn thinks I am considering having sex with men I meet at the swimming pool. I'm not mentioning anyone with erections again.
It is weird though. Maybe I'm a little uptight. Maybe I need therapy. (Does this make me a homophobe?) But I don't particularly want to have some dude getting off in the shower next to me at the pool. Sorry, but it just ain't my thing. What about if it was a woman? No, I think I'd feel the same. It's just all a little too public, and pubic. I also deeply regret telling mrs hhn about it. She gave me a different look this morning when I said I was going to go for a swim on the way home tonight. What was once an innocent pastime, is now a test.
And now someone - and its a good theory btw - is suggesting that Madame B [who haunts these pages with her comments about broccoli etc.] - is actually mrs hhn in disguise, testing my fidelity. Sex tests - in all their shapes and forms - appear to be everywhere at the moment. And all I was doing was swimming and blogging.
Now, I have a lot of bad character traits. But it was not until I met mrs hhn that I realised quite how unhelpful my inability to lie can be. What I should have said was "No. He didn't. He was after some other bloke". What I did say, having considered the question, was "I don't know." Because I didn't. Other than Erecto Man (EM) , there were three of us in the shower, so there was - theoretically anyway- a 33% chance that EM may have wanted to have sex with me. (Yeah, yeah. I know. But bear with me here.)
"So, did you want to have sex with him?"
I could have got away with it if I hadn't paused. But I did. Because I do think that if mrs hhn asks me a question, I should give her a straight (boom boom) response. I paused because I was considering the question. And then, having taken my time, I put on my extra strength idiot cap, and said: "No. He had a small penis."
The devil will always be in the detail. Now, because I didn't leave a few seconds pause between 'No' and 'He'. Now, because I didn't insert a 'By the way' or 'Did I say' in the same place, mrs hhn thinks I am considering having sex with men I meet at the swimming pool. I'm not mentioning anyone with erections again.
It is weird though. Maybe I'm a little uptight. Maybe I need therapy. (Does this make me a homophobe?) But I don't particularly want to have some dude getting off in the shower next to me at the pool. Sorry, but it just ain't my thing. What about if it was a woman? No, I think I'd feel the same. It's just all a little too public, and pubic. I also deeply regret telling mrs hhn about it. She gave me a different look this morning when I said I was going to go for a swim on the way home tonight. What was once an innocent pastime, is now a test.
And now someone - and its a good theory btw - is suggesting that Madame B [who haunts these pages with her comments about broccoli etc.] - is actually mrs hhn in disguise, testing my fidelity. Sex tests - in all their shapes and forms - appear to be everywhere at the moment. And all I was doing was swimming and blogging.
Jan 30, 2007
Holding Company
In a bit of a hurry this morning - which I know is a pretty illegal way to start a blog entry. Up there with "Not much to say today", "Man, was I wasted last night", and "Hey, check out this photo of my cat wearing a swim suit".
I have a bunch of stuff to talk about, but it is going to have to wait until later in the week. I'm on a few deadlines, which - whatever way I try and look at it - are more important that househusbandnot. Shocking but true.
Will be back atcha tomorrow.
But quickly, in response to some comments over the last few days: what is wrong with wearing loafers on a Scottish island (unless you are going to be dragged up a mountain to check out an ancient burial mound), and Mrs B if you want to go on a date with my wife, bring it on and send me your email.
And had excellent evening last night with my mate *&^, the one I was worried I didn't see any more because he got all my news and views from hhn. We watched Coronation Street so we would have something to talk about - which we did. So, back on board with that friendship I hope, even if it is based on doing impersonations of Dev who remains the worst actor in the world. (And looking really old nowadays too.)
Also, a little knackered this morning because last night I had a dream that I was the goalkeeper for the Chinese national football team, but I had this dog body. So jumping for high balls was really easy, but actually trying to catch the ball or throw it was harder with my dog paws. Spent at least an hour this morning at 4.00am lying in bed staring at the ceiling and wondering what the hell all that was about. Woof.
I have a bunch of stuff to talk about, but it is going to have to wait until later in the week. I'm on a few deadlines, which - whatever way I try and look at it - are more important that househusbandnot. Shocking but true.
Will be back atcha tomorrow.
But quickly, in response to some comments over the last few days: what is wrong with wearing loafers on a Scottish island (unless you are going to be dragged up a mountain to check out an ancient burial mound), and Mrs B if you want to go on a date with my wife, bring it on and send me your email.
And had excellent evening last night with my mate *&^, the one I was worried I didn't see any more because he got all my news and views from hhn. We watched Coronation Street so we would have something to talk about - which we did. So, back on board with that friendship I hope, even if it is based on doing impersonations of Dev who remains the worst actor in the world. (And looking really old nowadays too.)
Also, a little knackered this morning because last night I had a dream that I was the goalkeeper for the Chinese national football team, but I had this dog body. So jumping for high balls was really easy, but actually trying to catch the ball or throw it was harder with my dog paws. Spent at least an hour this morning at 4.00am lying in bed staring at the ceiling and wondering what the hell all that was about. Woof.
Jan 27, 2007
Le Weekend Etc.
Divided - as we were briefly on Saturday - mrs househusbandnot and I regrouped at Yo Sushi in the evening where we ate our body weight in tempura and sushi and stuff. In this endeavour, we were first watched by two tiny Asian girls who appeared to have shared a Californian roll between them, and then by a couple who took up a Let's Check Out The househusbandnots viewing spot. (As a result of this attention, mrs hhn and I spent some time trying to remember what a hide - as in birdwatching hide - was called.) He looked like a young Hilary Benn. She looked like an edgy librarian. They held hands throughout supper. Very cute, if a little disturbed by me flicking soy sauce all over them when mrs hhn was in the loo. But it didn't stop them staring at us. We left the restaurant as quickly as possible, feeling much spied upon.
In randomly related news, mrs hhn admitted to me this weekend that she thought that Safety Dance by Men Without Hats was actually written AND performed by David Bowie. (Just before Styx gets in there I will give you a brief reminder of the lyrics of this song: "Ah we can dance if we want to, we can leave your friends behind Cause your friends don't dance and if they don't dance Well they're no friends of mine I say, we can go where we want to, A place where they will never find And we can act like we come from out of this world Leave the real one far behind, and we can dance or sing." ) I have a feeling that the last time I was forced to listen to Men Without Hats was on a remote island off the West Coast of Scotland when my host informed me that all we had for supper was a bottle of scotch and some LSD...oh and a few eggs from the farmer up the road. (This island is so remote and quiet that the owls walk down the roads because there is not traffic to bother them into flying.)
Speaking of the real world leaving us behind, this morning I had a dream that that mrs hhn left me and when I refused to accept this development she bought a large snake to force me out of the house. Back in the real world, I appear to have grown a stigmata on my left palm since last night. Hmm. Interesting career option.
Anyway, got to get on with tax return to meet Wed deadline. And on with website, which - as mentioned - has had a total redesign. I was going to share the address of this new site with you lot, but am deeply shocked by the line that Madame B crossed with her comments about my mother in law, and have decided that you can't be trusted not to leave rude comments at the site. Like the naughty little girl that she is, Madame B has ruined it for all of you.
In randomly related news, mrs hhn admitted to me this weekend that she thought that Safety Dance by Men Without Hats was actually written AND performed by David Bowie. (Just before Styx gets in there I will give you a brief reminder of the lyrics of this song: "Ah we can dance if we want to, we can leave your friends behind Cause your friends don't dance and if they don't dance Well they're no friends of mine I say, we can go where we want to, A place where they will never find And we can act like we come from out of this world Leave the real one far behind, and we can dance or sing." ) I have a feeling that the last time I was forced to listen to Men Without Hats was on a remote island off the West Coast of Scotland when my host informed me that all we had for supper was a bottle of scotch and some LSD...oh and a few eggs from the farmer up the road. (This island is so remote and quiet that the owls walk down the roads because there is not traffic to bother them into flying.)
Speaking of the real world leaving us behind, this morning I had a dream that that mrs hhn left me and when I refused to accept this development she bought a large snake to force me out of the house. Back in the real world, I appear to have grown a stigmata on my left palm since last night. Hmm. Interesting career option.
Anyway, got to get on with tax return to meet Wed deadline. And on with website, which - as mentioned - has had a total redesign. I was going to share the address of this new site with you lot, but am deeply shocked by the line that Madame B crossed with her comments about my mother in law, and have decided that you can't be trusted not to leave rude comments at the site. Like the naughty little girl that she is, Madame B has ruined it for all of you.
Jan 26, 2007
Keywords: colds/nudity/motherinlaws/tax
mrs househusbandnot and I woke up with really bad colds this morning - the sort that gets worse every time you move your head. I blame Midget Man from yesterday. Maybe he snuck into our room during the night and snogged both of us to further assert his pint-sized manliness on us. More likely, he left tiny little midget germs on the sofa for us to pick up as we were checking out that new Channel 4 show Skins last night- the main point of which seems to be watching that kid from About A Boy (now grown up) talking about scoring skunk weed and being fancied by women. Weak, very weak. The sort of thing you'd watch if you were single or young or short and or just wanted to see some gratuitous nudity on tv. (Not a patch on its creators' mighty Shameless.) I think I must really be getting old, complaining about nudity on tv. There were times in my life when that was all I needed, or wanted. Speaking of which, I am writing this naked - only kidding.
Seeing the in laws this weekend. They are driving down to see us on Sunday morning with the intention of "really making a day of it". I'm not sure what this means, other than having lunch at approx 11.55 in keeping with my in laws' deep northern-ness. I think it is also an opportunity for them to have a snoop around the flat to assess how I am treating their daughter. (No blood on the walls. Check. Heating on full blast. Check. Fridge so full the door won't shut. Check. 4,000 tea bags in cupboard. Check. Surfaces dusted. Check [my mother in law really does check this]. Cushions on sofa well plumped. Check. Grandchildren. Uncheck etc etc.) And to silently remind us that they don't like South London. mrs househusbandnot moved from Earls Court down to South London when we got hitched/engaged/married. I don't think I have been forgiven yet for moving her from a nice two bedroom, two bathroom flat four minutes away from The Ideal Homes Exhibitions. Years ago, I bought a lithograph called C*&^ at an art fair. The lithograph had normal phrases in white lettering on a black background, except the artist had replaced every third word with the c word. I may have to dig it out and put it up somewhere to see if my in laws approve. (My mother in law does occasionally read hhn, so maybe I should stop there.)
Anyway, have to dig around the flat for the rest of the day for all the paperwork for my tax return. When I was younger, I used to think people talking about having to do their tax returns was rather glamorous. It was like when people said things like "my accountant" or "got a meeting with the family lawyers". It all smacked of big money, and wood panelled rooms and leather chairs. Having done a few tax returns in my life now, I realise they are rather more about missing bank statements, crumpled up taxi receipts, anger about where I should have stored my invoices, and a final mad dash to the end of the tax return form before my head explodes from trying to count - and account for - my life from an April to another April.
(I was feeling a little under pressure about writing hhn this morning because yesterday I got more hits than I have ever had. Writing this today, I was thinking it was dull and not very relevant to anyone but me. But somehow I seem to have addressed some pretty quidditative issues in most people's lives: colds, nudity, mother in laws, and tax. Hit me baby...one more time. )
Seeing the in laws this weekend. They are driving down to see us on Sunday morning with the intention of "really making a day of it". I'm not sure what this means, other than having lunch at approx 11.55 in keeping with my in laws' deep northern-ness. I think it is also an opportunity for them to have a snoop around the flat to assess how I am treating their daughter. (No blood on the walls. Check. Heating on full blast. Check. Fridge so full the door won't shut. Check. 4,000 tea bags in cupboard. Check. Surfaces dusted. Check [my mother in law really does check this]. Cushions on sofa well plumped. Check. Grandchildren. Uncheck etc etc.) And to silently remind us that they don't like South London. mrs househusbandnot moved from Earls Court down to South London when we got hitched/engaged/married. I don't think I have been forgiven yet for moving her from a nice two bedroom, two bathroom flat four minutes away from The Ideal Homes Exhibitions. Years ago, I bought a lithograph called C*&^ at an art fair. The lithograph had normal phrases in white lettering on a black background, except the artist had replaced every third word with the c word. I may have to dig it out and put it up somewhere to see if my in laws approve. (My mother in law does occasionally read hhn, so maybe I should stop there.)
Anyway, have to dig around the flat for the rest of the day for all the paperwork for my tax return. When I was younger, I used to think people talking about having to do their tax returns was rather glamorous. It was like when people said things like "my accountant" or "got a meeting with the family lawyers". It all smacked of big money, and wood panelled rooms and leather chairs. Having done a few tax returns in my life now, I realise they are rather more about missing bank statements, crumpled up taxi receipts, anger about where I should have stored my invoices, and a final mad dash to the end of the tax return form before my head explodes from trying to count - and account for - my life from an April to another April.
(I was feeling a little under pressure about writing hhn this morning because yesterday I got more hits than I have ever had. Writing this today, I was thinking it was dull and not very relevant to anyone but me. But somehow I seem to have addressed some pretty quidditative issues in most people's lives: colds, nudity, mother in laws, and tax. Hit me baby...one more time. )
Jan 25, 2007
Ranty Midgets
My you guys have been having fun on the comments section of hhn. (I actually misread some of the comments - particularly by someone pretending to be me - and was all set to send out a diatribe about people being rude about mrs hhn. But she assures me it is all harmless...not that I'm sensitive about my blog or anything.
Anyway, mrs hhn went out for a drink with an old boyfriend last night. And he ended up staying the night back here because the place he was supposed to be staying fell through. I've never met any of mrs hhn's old boyfriends. This one was a complete surprise. He was tiny (the can of beer we gave him looked like a bucket in his hand), and also quite drunk. So I shouldn't be too mean, but he was really really...well odd, spending quite a lot of time telling me that he knew when he got his wife pregnant. ("You do it more violently. You can just tell." Okey dokey.) And the rest of the time saying people who design Playstation and Xbox games should be recognised as the artists that they are. Apparently he used to smoke a lot of weed. I think some of the flashbacks may have been coming at him last night.
I don't know if the pregnancy thing was for my benefit. I didn't really know what to say. And then he made some comment about me being big, so I just thought fuck you midget boy. I'm off to bed. Strange how men interact, huh? (And, before you ask, no I wasn't jealous or anything like that. Just a little bemused by this ranty midget on my sofa telling me about him having sex with his wife. Actually, thinking about it, I may have dreamed the whole event. Maybe it was just me and mrs hhn here last night.)
In other news, am busy trying to learn a whole new piece of software for the website I am working on. My mentor and guide on this project has re-designed the site, and it looks *&^&ing ace - really cool and modern and Web 2.0ish. I love it. Which is a good incentive to try and not fuck it up with the new software.
In other other news, er...I don't have any today. Happy Burns Night. Mchhn x
Anyway, mrs hhn went out for a drink with an old boyfriend last night. And he ended up staying the night back here because the place he was supposed to be staying fell through. I've never met any of mrs hhn's old boyfriends. This one was a complete surprise. He was tiny (the can of beer we gave him looked like a bucket in his hand), and also quite drunk. So I shouldn't be too mean, but he was really really...well odd, spending quite a lot of time telling me that he knew when he got his wife pregnant. ("You do it more violently. You can just tell." Okey dokey.) And the rest of the time saying people who design Playstation and Xbox games should be recognised as the artists that they are. Apparently he used to smoke a lot of weed. I think some of the flashbacks may have been coming at him last night.
I don't know if the pregnancy thing was for my benefit. I didn't really know what to say. And then he made some comment about me being big, so I just thought fuck you midget boy. I'm off to bed. Strange how men interact, huh? (And, before you ask, no I wasn't jealous or anything like that. Just a little bemused by this ranty midget on my sofa telling me about him having sex with his wife. Actually, thinking about it, I may have dreamed the whole event. Maybe it was just me and mrs hhn here last night.)
In other news, am busy trying to learn a whole new piece of software for the website I am working on. My mentor and guide on this project has re-designed the site, and it looks *&^&ing ace - really cool and modern and Web 2.0ish. I love it. Which is a good incentive to try and not fuck it up with the new software.
In other other news, er...I don't have any today. Happy Burns Night. Mchhn x
Jan 24, 2007
Snow Association Panic
It snowed here in London last night. Getting ready for work, mrs hhn was saying how quiet she had felt it was during the night, which got me into my snow association panic:
Between the ages of seven and twelve, I was at a boarding school in Scotland. Since the school was mostly populated by nice but fairly interbred sons of Scottish farmers, I was judged to be the clever one. As a result, when it came to moving onto the next school, I was put up to do the scholarship exam for this next school, which involved a lot of extra-curricular work on Eng, Hist, Lat and Fr.
My English teacher was a red-faced English drop out of a middle aged man. (More Graham Green than Green ever got round to writing about) Later - much later - I realised that he must have been a huge drinker. But at the time, he was just known as Mr &^% who you should never cross, because he had a terrible temper and was prone to hitting you. Me and Ruary McPhee and Renwick Hamilton once got caught by him mucking around after lights out. He hit us so hard with a gym shoe on the arse, that we went beyond crying straight to hysterical laughing, which got Mr &^% even more annoyed. But he'd done his worst, so just shouted at us until we stopped laughing.
Anyway, because of the scholarship thing, I had to have extra English lessons with Mr &^% twice a week, in his own private rooms since it was after normal school hours. (Incidentally, if you are anticipating me and Mr &^% getting it on together, I'd stop reading this now. Ruary McPhee was the first - and last - boy I have ever seen masturbating, but that's a whole other story. ) We were doing creative writing or something about description one evening. Starting quite reasonably, Mr &^% asked me what it was like when it snowed. I was saying stuff like "wet" and "white" and "cold". And he got more and more incensed with me because these were not the answers he was looking for. And I was getting more and more tense thinking he was going to belt me because I couldn't get the answer right. Eventually, he bellowed at me: "Quiet. It's QUIET you bloody idiot". Ever since that evening, whenever it snows I think about the quiet, and not being able to get the right answer for that terrible, bullying teacher. Thanks for the memory teacher dude.
In unrelated news, I have just been reading a long and beautifully written email from our friends who moved to Kenya a couple of weeks ago. I am tempted to post it up on hhn, but am already in copyright discussions with The Waunch re my advertising revenue, so won't risk it. In contrast to the email, I am also reading a terrible book written by a female film-maker about her times in Africa. ("It was hot". "The food was terrible". "He was very handsome but I realised it was not right for me to date a black man". "I suddenly realised that I was the only woman in the room, and all my clothes had fallen off". Yeah, alright love. Get back behind the camera.)
Right, that's my therapy done for the day. Have a QUIET day out there in the snow.
Between the ages of seven and twelve, I was at a boarding school in Scotland. Since the school was mostly populated by nice but fairly interbred sons of Scottish farmers, I was judged to be the clever one. As a result, when it came to moving onto the next school, I was put up to do the scholarship exam for this next school, which involved a lot of extra-curricular work on Eng, Hist, Lat and Fr.
My English teacher was a red-faced English drop out of a middle aged man. (More Graham Green than Green ever got round to writing about) Later - much later - I realised that he must have been a huge drinker. But at the time, he was just known as Mr &^% who you should never cross, because he had a terrible temper and was prone to hitting you. Me and Ruary McPhee and Renwick Hamilton once got caught by him mucking around after lights out. He hit us so hard with a gym shoe on the arse, that we went beyond crying straight to hysterical laughing, which got Mr &^% even more annoyed. But he'd done his worst, so just shouted at us until we stopped laughing.
Anyway, because of the scholarship thing, I had to have extra English lessons with Mr &^% twice a week, in his own private rooms since it was after normal school hours. (Incidentally, if you are anticipating me and Mr &^% getting it on together, I'd stop reading this now. Ruary McPhee was the first - and last - boy I have ever seen masturbating, but that's a whole other story. ) We were doing creative writing or something about description one evening. Starting quite reasonably, Mr &^% asked me what it was like when it snowed. I was saying stuff like "wet" and "white" and "cold". And he got more and more incensed with me because these were not the answers he was looking for. And I was getting more and more tense thinking he was going to belt me because I couldn't get the answer right. Eventually, he bellowed at me: "Quiet. It's QUIET you bloody idiot". Ever since that evening, whenever it snows I think about the quiet, and not being able to get the right answer for that terrible, bullying teacher. Thanks for the memory teacher dude.
In unrelated news, I have just been reading a long and beautifully written email from our friends who moved to Kenya a couple of weeks ago. I am tempted to post it up on hhn, but am already in copyright discussions with The Waunch re my advertising revenue, so won't risk it. In contrast to the email, I am also reading a terrible book written by a female film-maker about her times in Africa. ("It was hot". "The food was terrible". "He was very handsome but I realised it was not right for me to date a black man". "I suddenly realised that I was the only woman in the room, and all my clothes had fallen off". Yeah, alright love. Get back behind the camera.)
Right, that's my therapy done for the day. Have a QUIET day out there in the snow.
Jan 23, 2007
Friends Un-united By Blog Intrusion
I was reading somewhere over the weekend that the average Briton spends 39 hours of their life lost. Thirty nine years more like. I have spent 39 hours lost in a week. I have a terrible sense of direction. Before I met mrs hhn (who is a nice Northern lass), I had no idea where Birmingham or Liverpool or Cheshire were. And this is not just a North Of Watford from southern ponce thing. I didn't really know where Portugal was until I went there a few years ago. Stuck in Siberia, I was shocked to realise how close I was to Japan. I am still never really sure which is the East and which is the West coast of the USA. And I have a real block about Beijing and Bangkok.
Speaking of being lost or losing things, I am worried about losing touch with one of my best friends. We used to talk at least a couple of times a week, and meet up maybe once every two weeks. But, having not spoken since before Xmas, I called him last night and he confessed that he sees no real need to give me a call anymore. He just reads hhn every day to see how I am doing. I am actually seeing this friend of mine this Saturday, and he is going away to Ireland - that's not far from Kilmarnock, right? - for a wedding today for a few days. So he won't be able to check hhn before we meet. So here's to us having something to talk about on Saturday.
The list about hours spent being lost also included the average Briton spending: 45 hours a year on hold on the phone; being kept awake for 51 minutes a night by your partner's annoying behaviour (it did not specify if this included having sex when you don't want it); eating 35,000 biscuits in your lifetime; and having 14 close friends.
Friendship being on my mind as a result of my lack of contact with my hhn-reading friend above, I thought 14 was a bit small. And a bit sad. Not even really enough to rally a football or cricket team should there ever be that demand. Not enough even to have a decent sized birthday party. (Four wouldn't be able to make it. One would forget. Two would arrive early and leave early. Two would be drunk by the time they got there. One would have the flu. Another a better invitation. Which leaves just billy no mates and only three decent birthday guests.)
(And what is a close friend anyway? Someone you can borrow money from, or go on holiday with, or turn up at their house drunk, or sober? My father had a theory that you could judge a friendship by whether or not they would let you hide at their house if you were a spy whose cover had been blown. See yesterday's post for more on my dad's vague grip on reality.)
Anyway, here's to my mate Jim having a good hhn-free time in Ireland, so we can have a decent natter on Saturday.
Speaking of being lost or losing things, I am worried about losing touch with one of my best friends. We used to talk at least a couple of times a week, and meet up maybe once every two weeks. But, having not spoken since before Xmas, I called him last night and he confessed that he sees no real need to give me a call anymore. He just reads hhn every day to see how I am doing. I am actually seeing this friend of mine this Saturday, and he is going away to Ireland - that's not far from Kilmarnock, right? - for a wedding today for a few days. So he won't be able to check hhn before we meet. So here's to us having something to talk about on Saturday.
The list about hours spent being lost also included the average Briton spending: 45 hours a year on hold on the phone; being kept awake for 51 minutes a night by your partner's annoying behaviour (it did not specify if this included having sex when you don't want it); eating 35,000 biscuits in your lifetime; and having 14 close friends.
Friendship being on my mind as a result of my lack of contact with my hhn-reading friend above, I thought 14 was a bit small. And a bit sad. Not even really enough to rally a football or cricket team should there ever be that demand. Not enough even to have a decent sized birthday party. (Four wouldn't be able to make it. One would forget. Two would arrive early and leave early. Two would be drunk by the time they got there. One would have the flu. Another a better invitation. Which leaves just billy no mates and only three decent birthday guests.)
(And what is a close friend anyway? Someone you can borrow money from, or go on holiday with, or turn up at their house drunk, or sober? My father had a theory that you could judge a friendship by whether or not they would let you hide at their house if you were a spy whose cover had been blown. See yesterday's post for more on my dad's vague grip on reality.)
Anyway, here's to my mate Jim having a good hhn-free time in Ireland, so we can have a decent natter on Saturday.
Jan 22, 2007
Pillow Talk
In true - rather than half-hearted - househusband style, was dispatched by mrs househusbandnot on Saturday to buy new pillows. The brief was pretty straight forward: don't fuck it up. There was, I later discovered, a whole other agenda to this agenda about mrs hhn worrying that she is too directive about stuff around the house. But I didn't get that nice message until after the event. So I headed up into town desperately worried that I was going to buy the WRONG pillows.
So I wandered around the pillow department of John Lewis looking at pillows that varied wildly in price and design and construction, eventually - having not been able to get mrs hhn on the phone to check my pillow choices - picking out a couple of decently priced pillows that felt nice. I checked with the girl at the pay desk to see if I could take them back if the pillows were 'wrong'. She looked pityingly at me, and assured me that I was (probably) making the right choice pillow-wise. Exhausted, I left the shop, clutching said pillows to my thumping heart.
Actually, turns out the pillows were met with approval back at home, and we ended up having a really decent sleep, our weary heads snuggled up into our new bouncy pillows. Which got me thinking. Like those mad billionaires and tyrants who only wear new socks, and that rapper who never wears a t-shirt twice, and David Beckham only ever wearing football boots for one game, perhaps we could have new pillows every week? Every Saturday night, we could have a sleep like we had this Saturday? Don't think we are going to run to this extravagance, but it was a nice little fantasy there for a few hours.
Speaking of tyrants, we went to see that Idi Amin film this weekend. It was really excellent, although it did remind me that when I was about eleven my dad made me go to a fancy dress party dressed as Amin. So there was Rupert Bears, and pirates, and my mate Andrew Cashman dressed as a box of matches, and me dressed as a violent African tyrant. I don't think I won any prizes at the party, except for maybe maddest father. We - the contestants - had to do a parade around this pavilion where the judges, who were our teachers, checked us out taking notes and stuff on our costumes. On the third and final parade around, I realised the judges had realised who I was supposed to be, and were making separate notes about my social welfare at home. Great film though. I recommend it, although last 10 minutes is a bit of a facer when they show quite how violent and cruel Amin and his entourage could be.
Anyway off to Oxshott for a meeting about the website I am working on. (Website or web site? I never know.) Not sure I've spent Oxshott right either.
So I wandered around the pillow department of John Lewis looking at pillows that varied wildly in price and design and construction, eventually - having not been able to get mrs hhn on the phone to check my pillow choices - picking out a couple of decently priced pillows that felt nice. I checked with the girl at the pay desk to see if I could take them back if the pillows were 'wrong'. She looked pityingly at me, and assured me that I was (probably) making the right choice pillow-wise. Exhausted, I left the shop, clutching said pillows to my thumping heart.
Actually, turns out the pillows were met with approval back at home, and we ended up having a really decent sleep, our weary heads snuggled up into our new bouncy pillows. Which got me thinking. Like those mad billionaires and tyrants who only wear new socks, and that rapper who never wears a t-shirt twice, and David Beckham only ever wearing football boots for one game, perhaps we could have new pillows every week? Every Saturday night, we could have a sleep like we had this Saturday? Don't think we are going to run to this extravagance, but it was a nice little fantasy there for a few hours.
Speaking of tyrants, we went to see that Idi Amin film this weekend. It was really excellent, although it did remind me that when I was about eleven my dad made me go to a fancy dress party dressed as Amin. So there was Rupert Bears, and pirates, and my mate Andrew Cashman dressed as a box of matches, and me dressed as a violent African tyrant. I don't think I won any prizes at the party, except for maybe maddest father. We - the contestants - had to do a parade around this pavilion where the judges, who were our teachers, checked us out taking notes and stuff on our costumes. On the third and final parade around, I realised the judges had realised who I was supposed to be, and were making separate notes about my social welfare at home. Great film though. I recommend it, although last 10 minutes is a bit of a facer when they show quite how violent and cruel Amin and his entourage could be.
Anyway off to Oxshott for a meeting about the website I am working on. (Website or web site? I never know.) Not sure I've spent Oxshott right either.
Pillow Talk
In true - rather than half-hearted - househusband style, was dispatched by mrs househusbandnot on Saturday to buy new pillows. The brief was pretty straight forward: don't fuck it up. There was, I later discovered, a whole other agenda to this agenda about mrs hhn worrying that she is too directive about stuff around the house. But I didn't get that nice message until after the event. So I headed up into town desperately worried that I was going to buy the WRONG pillows.
So I wandered around the pillow department of John Lewis looking at pillows that varied wildly in price and design and construction, eventually - having not been able to get mrs hhn on the phone to check my pillow choices - picking out a couple of decently priced pillows that felt nice. I checked with the girl at the pay desk to see if I could take them back if the pillows were 'wrong'. She looked pityingly at me, and assured me that I was (probably) making the right choice pillow-wise. Exhausted, I left the shop, clutching said pillows to my thumping heart.
Actually, turns out the pillows were met with approval back at home, and we ended up having a really decent sleep, our weary heads snuggled up into our new bouncy pillows. Which got me thinking. Like those mad billionaires and tyrants who only wear new socks, and that rapper who never wears a t-shirt twice, and David Beckham only ever wearing football boots for one game, perhaps we could have new pillows every week? Every Saturday night, we could have a sleep like we had this Saturday? Don't think we are going to run to this extravagance, but it was a nice little fantasy there for a few hours.
Speaking of tyrants, we went to see that Idi Amin film this weekend. It was really excellent, although it did remind me that when I was about eleven my dad made me go to a fancy dress party dressed as Amin. So there was Rupert Bears, and pirates, and my mate Andrew Cashman dressed as a box of matches, and me dressed as a violent African tyrant. I don't think I won any prizes at the party, except for maybe maddest father. We - the contestants - had to do a parade around this pavilion where the judges, who were our teachers, checked us out taking notes and stuff on our costumes. On the third and final parade around, I realised the judges had realised who I was supposed to be, and were making separate notes about my social welfare at home. Great film though. I recommend it, although last 10 minutes is a bit of a facer when they show quite how violent and cruel Amin and his entourage could be.
Anyway off to Oxshott for a meeting about the website I am working on. (Website or web site? I never know.) Not sure I've spent Oxshott right either.
So I wandered around the pillow department of John Lewis looking at pillows that varied wildly in price and design and construction, eventually - having not been able to get mrs hhn on the phone to check my pillow choices - picking out a couple of decently priced pillows that felt nice. I checked with the girl at the pay desk to see if I could take them back if the pillows were 'wrong'. She looked pityingly at me, and assured me that I was (probably) making the right choice pillow-wise. Exhausted, I left the shop, clutching said pillows to my thumping heart.
Actually, turns out the pillows were met with approval back at home, and we ended up having a really decent sleep, our weary heads snuggled up into our new bouncy pillows. Which got me thinking. Like those mad billionaires and tyrants who only wear new socks, and that rapper who never wears a t-shirt twice, and David Beckham only ever wearing football boots for one game, perhaps we could have new pillows every week? Every Saturday night, we could have a sleep like we had this Saturday? Don't think we are going to run to this extravagance, but it was a nice little fantasy there for a few hours.
Speaking of tyrants, we went to see that Idi Amin film this weekend. It was really excellent, although it did remind me that when I was about eleven my dad made me go to a fancy dress party dressed as Amin. So there was Rupert Bears, and pirates, and my mate Andrew Cashman dressed as a box of matches, and me dressed as a violent African tyrant. I don't think I won any prizes at the party, except for maybe maddest father. We - the contestants - had to do a parade around this pavilion where the judges, who were our teachers, checked us out taking notes and stuff on our costumes. On the third and final parade around, I realised the judges had realised who I was supposed to be, and were making separate notes about my social welfare at home. Great film though. I recommend it, although last 10 minutes is a bit of a facer when they show quite how violent and cruel Amin and his entourage could be.
Anyway off to Oxshott for a meeting about the website I am working on. (Website or web site? I never know.) Not sure I've spent Oxshott right either.
Jan 19, 2007
Half Science
As the storms hit London last night, I was reminded that mrs househusbandnot has a theory that children go mad when it is windy. She assures me this has been 'scientifically' proven. Which got me thinking about all the other half science out there: a swan can break a man's arm with its wing; drinking cider makes men's beards stop growing; sharks can swim while they are asleep; Welsh people think about sex twice as much as other people; the chemicals they use to decaff coffee are the same ones used in dry cleaning etc. All this half information/half science rattling around, 'informing' our lives.
There were two kids at the pool yesterday talking about how clever they were. "But you do understand everything in New Scientist don't you?", one of them said. "Yeah, kind of ", the other one said. I guess the bits they don't understand becomes more half science. ("No I read it in New Scientist. You really can't burp and fart at the same time. If you do, your colon comes out of your mouth.")
And there was a good story the other day about how celebrities should be more responsible in their comments about science, because people listen to them. It must be frustrating for scientific researchers to spend all their lives proving that - I don't know - gravity works or whatever, just to have Madonna mention that she had been talking to God and he told her that it doesn't exist. Apparently they are leaving leaflets in celeb hang out bars around London, telling celebs to think a little more about what they say. (Take less coke would be a useful secondary message on this particular campaign I guess.)
Mind you, I was talking to blokewhoihaventseeninages last night about the fact that I only tell half the truth in househusbandnot. 'Self-validation through half-truths' or 'Necessary economies with the truth' he called it. Which was a kind way of looking at hhn. But more halves nonetheless.
Are halves better than nothings? Half a football match? Half a grapefruit? Half a gram of coke? Half the truth in a blog? Half the newspaper? I guess we get what we deserve, or want to share, or want to believe.
According to scientists, half of the above is true. Ainsley Harriott was unavailable for comment.
There were two kids at the pool yesterday talking about how clever they were. "But you do understand everything in New Scientist don't you?", one of them said. "Yeah, kind of ", the other one said. I guess the bits they don't understand becomes more half science. ("No I read it in New Scientist. You really can't burp and fart at the same time. If you do, your colon comes out of your mouth.")
And there was a good story the other day about how celebrities should be more responsible in their comments about science, because people listen to them. It must be frustrating for scientific researchers to spend all their lives proving that - I don't know - gravity works or whatever, just to have Madonna mention that she had been talking to God and he told her that it doesn't exist. Apparently they are leaving leaflets in celeb hang out bars around London, telling celebs to think a little more about what they say. (Take less coke would be a useful secondary message on this particular campaign I guess.)
Mind you, I was talking to blokewhoihaventseeninages last night about the fact that I only tell half the truth in househusbandnot. 'Self-validation through half-truths' or 'Necessary economies with the truth' he called it. Which was a kind way of looking at hhn. But more halves nonetheless.
Are halves better than nothings? Half a football match? Half a grapefruit? Half a gram of coke? Half the truth in a blog? Half the newspaper? I guess we get what we deserve, or want to share, or want to believe.
According to scientists, half of the above is true. Ainsley Harriott was unavailable for comment.
Jan 18, 2007
Small Thoughts On Big Issues
"But on this blog of yours. Are you really going to be honest about the differences between men and women?" This from a female journalist friend of mine in the summer.
Well, yes and no. I am very anti the whole Men Are From Dulwich, Women Are From Nottingham approach to modern life - not least of all because on our very first road trip together, mrs hhn (who was then my two week old girlfriend) got the speaking book of that Men Are From Mars book. We listened to approx four minutes of it. But also because setting us up as different is just begging for failure in relationships, communication, lurve etc. Maybe I am a little naive, but I only get that we (the sexes) are going to really understand each other if we look for common ground rather than insurmountable differences/barriers in an to that communication process.
The idea now, is that I now give some groovy examples to illustrate my point...er, I don't have any. What I do have - and what got me talking about the whole gender differences thing again here today - is a recommendation for a book I have just finished called This Book Will Change Your Life by A M Homes. Despite the title, it is not some big old self-help book. Just a really funny, clever and mildly provocative novel about a middle aged man figuring out that the only person he can really connect with is the loony woman in the salads section at the supermarket. It doesn't (unless I missed something) pretend to be some thesis on the differences between men and women. It - or she the writer - is just good on men and what keeps them awake at night. And on women and what makes them get up in the morning. I recommend it. So does my sister, who bought me the book for Xmas. She said it was a welcome respite from chick lit. (Hmmm. hhn turning into a Further Reading For Geezers And Ladies hub. Not sure how much further I can take that process.)
Anyway, Big Brother. Despite myself, I did watch it again last night to see what all the protests about racism were about. (At Prime Minister's Question Time earlier in the week, Tony Blair said he could not comment on it because he had not seen it. Weak Tony, very weak.) And what I did see on the show were some truly unpleasant women not being able to deal with anyone who was not like them - vulgar, brash, uneducated, bigoted, self-seeking etc.
mrs hhn and I are kind of hoping that this will be career death for the three particular women who are ganging up on the Indian girl in the Big Brother House. I have never seen such unpleasant vitriol. Well I have, but not on TV. (Which makes good TV? No. Because TV is some people's god and religion and guide.)
Holy Moly claimed this morning to have a scoop on who was going into the House tomorrow. But their server is down, so I am assuming 1) they got it wrong or 2) they are being hassled by Channel 4 about this claim. But hope it is someone who has the emotional clout to deal with those terrible women. Which was kind of my point at the outset about men and women. It ain't what you is. It's the way that you do it.
Well, yes and no. I am very anti the whole Men Are From Dulwich, Women Are From Nottingham approach to modern life - not least of all because on our very first road trip together, mrs hhn (who was then my two week old girlfriend) got the speaking book of that Men Are From Mars book. We listened to approx four minutes of it. But also because setting us up as different is just begging for failure in relationships, communication, lurve etc. Maybe I am a little naive, but I only get that we (the sexes) are going to really understand each other if we look for common ground rather than insurmountable differences/barriers in an to that communication process.
The idea now, is that I now give some groovy examples to illustrate my point...er, I don't have any. What I do have - and what got me talking about the whole gender differences thing again here today - is a recommendation for a book I have just finished called This Book Will Change Your Life by A M Homes. Despite the title, it is not some big old self-help book. Just a really funny, clever and mildly provocative novel about a middle aged man figuring out that the only person he can really connect with is the loony woman in the salads section at the supermarket. It doesn't (unless I missed something) pretend to be some thesis on the differences between men and women. It - or she the writer - is just good on men and what keeps them awake at night. And on women and what makes them get up in the morning. I recommend it. So does my sister, who bought me the book for Xmas. She said it was a welcome respite from chick lit. (Hmmm. hhn turning into a Further Reading For Geezers And Ladies hub. Not sure how much further I can take that process.)
Anyway, Big Brother. Despite myself, I did watch it again last night to see what all the protests about racism were about. (At Prime Minister's Question Time earlier in the week, Tony Blair said he could not comment on it because he had not seen it. Weak Tony, very weak.) And what I did see on the show were some truly unpleasant women not being able to deal with anyone who was not like them - vulgar, brash, uneducated, bigoted, self-seeking etc.
mrs hhn and I are kind of hoping that this will be career death for the three particular women who are ganging up on the Indian girl in the Big Brother House. I have never seen such unpleasant vitriol. Well I have, but not on TV. (Which makes good TV? No. Because TV is some people's god and religion and guide.)
Holy Moly claimed this morning to have a scoop on who was going into the House tomorrow. But their server is down, so I am assuming 1) they got it wrong or 2) they are being hassled by Channel 4 about this claim. But hope it is someone who has the emotional clout to deal with those terrible women. Which was kind of my point at the outset about men and women. It ain't what you is. It's the way that you do it.
Jan 17, 2007
Tender Rumps
Went out for supper with mrs hhn last night. We are trying to cut back on going out, but there is only so much of home made 500 calorie meals a man (and woman) can take. So we trooped off to a local restaurant and chomped on bread and chips and a bottle of wine as an official break from the January diet. There was an impossibly posh old bloke eating at a table near us. He had this booming, deep voice, and kept on saying things like "This really is the tenderest rump I've eaten in years". mrs hhn and I were really childish and couldn't stop giggling. I guess if you haven't been out for a while, the outside world gets funnier, well easier to laugh at anyway.
Speaking of the outside world, I have a full summit meeting about that website I have been working on next week. We need to work out how we get more traffic and make kerzillions out of advertising on the site etc. Looking forward to it actually. It's been a long - and sometimes deeply frustrating - haul for me on the technical side of the site. I prefer the talking to people about it. The site's been up for a month or so now. I'm kinda tempted to tell you what it is, but I think maybe I should differentiate between my random world aka househusbandnot and the real world aka this new website. And the website project involves other people and other people's time and money, which I don't want to compromise by association to hhn and my singular hhn opinions. Once we've made lots of money out of the site, I'll tell you more about it. Until then, I think I should protect it's anonymity from you guys - who I see as friends rather than businessy type associates. Incidentally, I notice we've had 3,000 visits to hhn as of yesterday. Thanks for your business/support/loyalty/clickings.
Thought I saw my mate Chaz this morning. He's the one who moved to Nairobi last Saturday. Strange what the mind does when you are missing people. I had an email from his wife last night saying there were baboons singing in their office garden on her first day at work.
Feeling a bit serious here at hhn HQ today. To make up for it, here's a link to a good article about weird animals.
Speaking of the outside world, I have a full summit meeting about that website I have been working on next week. We need to work out how we get more traffic and make kerzillions out of advertising on the site etc. Looking forward to it actually. It's been a long - and sometimes deeply frustrating - haul for me on the technical side of the site. I prefer the talking to people about it. The site's been up for a month or so now. I'm kinda tempted to tell you what it is, but I think maybe I should differentiate between my random world aka househusbandnot and the real world aka this new website. And the website project involves other people and other people's time and money, which I don't want to compromise by association to hhn and my singular hhn opinions. Once we've made lots of money out of the site, I'll tell you more about it. Until then, I think I should protect it's anonymity from you guys - who I see as friends rather than businessy type associates. Incidentally, I notice we've had 3,000 visits to hhn as of yesterday. Thanks for your business/support/loyalty/clickings.
Thought I saw my mate Chaz this morning. He's the one who moved to Nairobi last Saturday. Strange what the mind does when you are missing people. I had an email from his wife last night saying there were baboons singing in their office garden on her first day at work.
Feeling a bit serious here at hhn HQ today. To make up for it, here's a link to a good article about weird animals.
Jan 16, 2007
Teenage Kicks
My niece was thirteen yesterday. As an homage to all things teenage, I am firing up the ipod with the most depressing songs I can find and going to lurk around on buses all day. As always there is a sub-text to what I am up to: somehow I have managed to lose itunes somewhere between my ipod and my PC, so am trying to re-find it and in the process am re-loading a load of songs onto my ipod. And I have a few hhn chores to do around town today, and the bus seems the most civilised way of getting all over town.
Some time ago, I did agree with Styx that blogging was not the place to be talking about all your favourite music, and wittering on about best guitar solos etc of all time. However, I do really need to recommend a song from a free cd that is being given away with Mojo magazine this month. It is a cover of Love Will Tear Us Apart by a band I have never heard of called Susanna And The Magical Orchestra. Crap band name, but amazing cover of an uncoverable song. I can't stop listening to it. (mrs hhn even caught me trying to sneak the ipod into bed with us last night, so I could get one final listen of it before zzzzing it.)
Continuing the teenage/routine biting hard theme, am feeling deeply disaffected this week. Don't know if it is January, and or the weather. I need to get over this, and back into 2007. But - in the meantime - if you catch sight of a large, sulky, head-phoned 41 year old on the bus today, stay away. I'm doing the urban teenage sulk. (Actually, depending on what time you see me, I may well be wrestling with a massive white box which contains mrs hhn's wedding dress which we are getting re-vacuum packed. So I will probably be looking more comical and hassled than threatening.)
In other news, mrs hhn has decided that the Broccoli woman is trying to sabotage my site. She (mrs hhn) does not believe me that I do not know Broccoli woman's identity, and that she (Broccoli woman) is some woman I wronged somewhere along the line who is getting her own back by constantly sending those anodyne comments to hhn.
Speaking of being wronged, there are two maybe three people who I have really hated in my career. I sat down last night with relish to watch one of them being 'exposed' on a tv documentary. Mostly because it was a terrible terrible slice of lazy journalism, my validation tasted a bit sour. It's a bummer being a teenager. You're never right about a.n.y.t.h.i.n.g.
Some time ago, I did agree with Styx that blogging was not the place to be talking about all your favourite music, and wittering on about best guitar solos etc of all time. However, I do really need to recommend a song from a free cd that is being given away with Mojo magazine this month. It is a cover of Love Will Tear Us Apart by a band I have never heard of called Susanna And The Magical Orchestra. Crap band name, but amazing cover of an uncoverable song. I can't stop listening to it. (mrs hhn even caught me trying to sneak the ipod into bed with us last night, so I could get one final listen of it before zzzzing it.)
Continuing the teenage/routine biting hard theme, am feeling deeply disaffected this week. Don't know if it is January, and or the weather. I need to get over this, and back into 2007. But - in the meantime - if you catch sight of a large, sulky, head-phoned 41 year old on the bus today, stay away. I'm doing the urban teenage sulk. (Actually, depending on what time you see me, I may well be wrestling with a massive white box which contains mrs hhn's wedding dress which we are getting re-vacuum packed. So I will probably be looking more comical and hassled than threatening.)
In other news, mrs hhn has decided that the Broccoli woman is trying to sabotage my site. She (mrs hhn) does not believe me that I do not know Broccoli woman's identity, and that she (Broccoli woman) is some woman I wronged somewhere along the line who is getting her own back by constantly sending those anodyne comments to hhn.
Speaking of being wronged, there are two maybe three people who I have really hated in my career. I sat down last night with relish to watch one of them being 'exposed' on a tv documentary. Mostly because it was a terrible terrible slice of lazy journalism, my validation tasted a bit sour. It's a bummer being a teenager. You're never right about a.n.y.t.h.i.n.g.
Jan 15, 2007
Predictions
Am I cringing (as suggested by blokeihaventseeninages this morning)? I don't think so. Just feeling a bit low key re blogging.
As not requested - but playing on my mind - hhn predictions for 2007:
1) Poetry - everyone seems to be talking about it, and it is nice and quick and people don't have time to read books at the moment
2) Photography - again nice and easy and accessible and cheaper than other art
3) An anti-reality tv trend - Celebrity Big Brother is just too common and depressing this time around
4) An anti-technology thing - do you really want to watch the internet through your TV?
5) Some really comedy new American politicians like one of the the actors from the High Chaparal or a golfer or something
6) Paris Hilton getting God but not really understanding how
7) The death of Sunday newspapers - this is more of a wish than a prediction. mrs hhn and I read three Sunday papers back to back yesterday, and just sat back at the end of it and looked at each other with absolutely no new information
8) A big anti car thing
9) A really really dull leadership competition here in the UK, and Brown losing it
10) Victoria Beckham becoming a pro-lifer in the US
Styx is the betting man amongst us, but I'll put money on 1, 9 and 10.
In other news, was trying to get mrs hhn interested in a tv show about wilde beasts l[sp?] last night and she came up with a shocking confession that she only listens to approx 60% of what I say about animals because she too thinks I am an unreliable animal witness. I am deeply hurt by this accusation, and am going to learn many animal facts this year. (Damn. Another *&^ing resolution to try and keep to.)
As not requested - but playing on my mind - hhn predictions for 2007:
1) Poetry - everyone seems to be talking about it, and it is nice and quick and people don't have time to read books at the moment
2) Photography - again nice and easy and accessible and cheaper than other art
3) An anti-reality tv trend - Celebrity Big Brother is just too common and depressing this time around
4) An anti-technology thing - do you really want to watch the internet through your TV?
5) Some really comedy new American politicians like one of the the actors from the High Chaparal or a golfer or something
6) Paris Hilton getting God but not really understanding how
7) The death of Sunday newspapers - this is more of a wish than a prediction. mrs hhn and I read three Sunday papers back to back yesterday, and just sat back at the end of it and looked at each other with absolutely no new information
8) A big anti car thing
9) A really really dull leadership competition here in the UK, and Brown losing it
10) Victoria Beckham becoming a pro-lifer in the US
Styx is the betting man amongst us, but I'll put money on 1, 9 and 10.
In other news, was trying to get mrs hhn interested in a tv show about wilde beasts l[sp?] last night and she came up with a shocking confession that she only listens to approx 60% of what I say about animals because she too thinks I am an unreliable animal witness. I am deeply hurt by this accusation, and am going to learn many animal facts this year. (Damn. Another *&^ing resolution to try and keep to.)
Jan 12, 2007
Empty Horses
So, sorted the meal for tonight. We are having fish pie and toffee pudding....hold on......wait up. If someone was coming to househusbandnot for the first time today, they might think it was one of those blogs that passes on recipes and has pictures of children in sunglasses on it. If you are new to hhn, please be assured that we are not THAT sort of blog, and if you want pictures of cats in bridal wear or photos of my Easter holidays you are going to have to look elsewhere. Here, we deal in...well other things.
Actually, I have pretty much *&^% all to say today. (Another no no sentence in a blog, I know.) I'm a bit out of practice after the Xmas break. Although the *&^% all reference does remind me of a story about Errol Flynn and David Niven absolutely wetting themselves at the Czech (I think) director of The Charge Of The Light Brigade's terrible English. He was always shouting director-like directions on the film set in really bad English like "Bring on the empty horses". He got so fed up with them laughing at him that he turned on them and said: "You think I know *&^% nothing. But I tell you I *&^% fuck all".
Actually, I have pretty much *&^% all to say today. (Another no no sentence in a blog, I know.) I'm a bit out of practice after the Xmas break. Although the *&^% all reference does remind me of a story about Errol Flynn and David Niven absolutely wetting themselves at the Czech (I think) director of The Charge Of The Light Brigade's terrible English. He was always shouting director-like directions on the film set in really bad English like "Bring on the empty horses". He got so fed up with them laughing at him that he turned on them and said: "You think I know *&^% nothing. But I tell you I *&^% fuck all".
Right. Off to see my mate Lord Steed to see if I can convince him I can help his publishing company to sell a few more books this year.
Incidentally, we have almost reached 3,000 visits to hhn. Not sure what that means in any shape or form, but thought I would mention it just in case anyone out there is looking for a new idea for a Hollywood movie or something...
Have a good weekend hhn x
Have a good weekend hhn x
Jan 11, 2007
Cheese Smuggling
Continuing the January theme of my new year resolutions, onto food. I have the honour of cooking my friends who are moving to Africa their last meal in this country tomorrow night, before they head off to Nairobi for two years on Saturday morning. [Something went wrong with that sentence there, but you get what I mean, right?]
So mrs househusbandnot and I were talking about what you miss eating when you live abroad, and what food to cook tomorrow. Having dismissed the new English Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall fox fritter or badger pie cuisine (we figured there will be ample opportunity for road/bush kill food in Kenya), we tried to think of a quintessentially English meal that would set our dear friends off on their travels. This got us both talking about when we have both lived abroad (Russia, Belgium, France, Italy) and what food we have missed most.
It's cheese in the end of the day. Good old bog standard cheddar from a supermarket. No other country seems to have figured this one out. The French make fuck off cheese (but not the sort you would stab between two bits of white bread with some Branston pickle). Russian cheese tastes like wood (actually it probably is wood). Belgians just fuck all food up (because they can't decide if they are French or Dutch or German in the kitchen [ or anywhere else]). And Italian cheese just doesn't taste of anything (presumably so that they can get back to having sex without the disruption of a quick tooth brush on the way to the bedroom).
So between now and tomorrow evening, I will have to thing up a few cheese-related recipes. In amongst all that, I will also be really really sad to see my friends going away. Having lived abroad myself, I absolutely refuse to go down the Why Are You Going route. I really respect them for going to take on a new challenge when they could quite easily sit back and maintain the status quo. And can't wait to see if I can smuggle some cheese through Kenyan customs when we go and see them some time in the next year or so.
Incidentally, was sent this article this morning by a regular hhn reader (and - he claims - contributor, but that's another story). I never knew they had computers in Germany, well apart from those blokes in Kraftwerk anyway.
So mrs househusbandnot and I were talking about what you miss eating when you live abroad, and what food to cook tomorrow. Having dismissed the new English Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall fox fritter or badger pie cuisine (we figured there will be ample opportunity for road/bush kill food in Kenya), we tried to think of a quintessentially English meal that would set our dear friends off on their travels. This got us both talking about when we have both lived abroad (Russia, Belgium, France, Italy) and what food we have missed most.
It's cheese in the end of the day. Good old bog standard cheddar from a supermarket. No other country seems to have figured this one out. The French make fuck off cheese (but not the sort you would stab between two bits of white bread with some Branston pickle). Russian cheese tastes like wood (actually it probably is wood). Belgians just fuck all food up (because they can't decide if they are French or Dutch or German in the kitchen [ or anywhere else]). And Italian cheese just doesn't taste of anything (presumably so that they can get back to having sex without the disruption of a quick tooth brush on the way to the bedroom).
So between now and tomorrow evening, I will have to thing up a few cheese-related recipes. In amongst all that, I will also be really really sad to see my friends going away. Having lived abroad myself, I absolutely refuse to go down the Why Are You Going route. I really respect them for going to take on a new challenge when they could quite easily sit back and maintain the status quo. And can't wait to see if I can smuggle some cheese through Kenyan customs when we go and see them some time in the next year or so.
Incidentally, was sent this article this morning by a regular hhn reader (and - he claims - contributor, but that's another story). I never knew they had computers in Germany, well apart from those blokes in Kraftwerk anyway.
Jan 9, 2007
Me And Shark Boy
As mentioned in previous hhn posts, I have downgraded to using public pools, having spent the last few years as a member of a rather swanky private pool in Westminster. It was a decision based on lack of funds, rather than never being able to think of anything to say to that bloke who played Neil in The Young Ones who was the only other regular user of the swanky Westminster pool. (I was also paranoid that I would call him Neil, having read somewhere that he was really fed up of never being allowed to forget that character.)
The difference between public pools and private pools is a bit like being in the army I guess. Once you've got over the dirt and the shouting and the games of Oops I've Dropped My Soap in the showers, it is manageable - if not particularly pleasant. In another world, or life, or when someone buys the film rights to hhn, I will have a private pool all to myself. Right now it is me and the rest of the world, fighting for our little bit of space at public pools.
Anyway, pool side at the public pool yesterday, I saw this kid who immediately made me feel nervous. I couldn't figure out why, until he started swimming and I remembered that I had seen him before and that he was technically the worst swimmer on earth. He moves up and down the pool like a shell-less turtle that had had a bad stroke, arms and legs all over the place, one moment trying crawl, the next some sort of breaststroke which looks like he has been shot in the chest, and then he flips over into his take on back stroke which involves him using his chin rather than his arms or his legs to propel himself forwards (or backwards). After about a third of a length of this 'swimming', he needs to take a rest, and does a few shallow dives, like a bird in a bird bath, all spluttering and shaking of his arms/wings. Truely mesmerising stuff, impossible not to marvel at a bloke so far away from the actual art of swimming thinking he is actually swimming.
So I started my swimming, but half way through my fourth or fifth length - and after a slight collision with a bull dyke who obviously wanted to make a point about women being as strong as men and was using me as Exhibit A - I got to thinking about my swimming, and whether or not people were watching me like I had been watching Shark Boy floundering around, getting in the way, and generally failing to swim. Which made me really self-conscious, which was the begining of the end. Because swimming is like being in a plane or playing Playstation games. The minute you actually start thinking about it, you are screwed. It becomes a completely confusing and unlikely thing to be doing.
I started swimming late. I didn't learn until I was about seven, when me and a bunch of kids in my class at school where taken to a local pool, instructed (for no reason I have ever figured out) to put on pyjamas, and then told to swim from one end of the pool to the other. Those of us who didn't make it, which included me, were correctly judged to be unable to swim. (There was some other exercise involving a brick covered in black rubber, but that was only for the kids who had made it to the other end of the pool.)
I left it for a while after that, having had a few lessons and managing to convince someone that I should get some sort of badge to get sewn on my swimming trunks to prove that I could make it to the edge of a pool if I ever fell in - pyjamaed or otherwise. My first ever girlfriend told me she swam for the Swiss junior team, so there was never any question of me going to embarass myself in front of her at a pool. (Actually, she turned out to be a pathalogical liar, so maybe she didn't swim for Switzerland. She was Swiss though. I saw her passport.) And here and there over the coming years, I'd reluctantly hang around in the shallow end of pools while other people did their crawl and back stroke and butterfly and stuff. There didn't seem any need to continue the swim thang. I was happy watching other people, and maybe doing the odd length of breaststroke or crazed, breathless crawl which probably looked a little like what Shark Boy gets up to.
And then about 10 years ago I slipped a disk in my back, and was told that I should take up swimming, which I did, with some trepidation. Which turned into a complete addiction. I can't get enough of it. When I am feeling sad, happy, old, young, fat, thin, rich, poor, bald or hairy, the one thing that really really relaxes me is a swim. So I guess I shouldn't be so hard on Shark Boy. Maybe his shambolic, crazed water dancing is as relaxing for him as mine is for me. As long as we don't think about it too much, I guess the two if us are getting away with it.
The difference between public pools and private pools is a bit like being in the army I guess. Once you've got over the dirt and the shouting and the games of Oops I've Dropped My Soap in the showers, it is manageable - if not particularly pleasant. In another world, or life, or when someone buys the film rights to hhn, I will have a private pool all to myself. Right now it is me and the rest of the world, fighting for our little bit of space at public pools.
Anyway, pool side at the public pool yesterday, I saw this kid who immediately made me feel nervous. I couldn't figure out why, until he started swimming and I remembered that I had seen him before and that he was technically the worst swimmer on earth. He moves up and down the pool like a shell-less turtle that had had a bad stroke, arms and legs all over the place, one moment trying crawl, the next some sort of breaststroke which looks like he has been shot in the chest, and then he flips over into his take on back stroke which involves him using his chin rather than his arms or his legs to propel himself forwards (or backwards). After about a third of a length of this 'swimming', he needs to take a rest, and does a few shallow dives, like a bird in a bird bath, all spluttering and shaking of his arms/wings. Truely mesmerising stuff, impossible not to marvel at a bloke so far away from the actual art of swimming thinking he is actually swimming.
So I started my swimming, but half way through my fourth or fifth length - and after a slight collision with a bull dyke who obviously wanted to make a point about women being as strong as men and was using me as Exhibit A - I got to thinking about my swimming, and whether or not people were watching me like I had been watching Shark Boy floundering around, getting in the way, and generally failing to swim. Which made me really self-conscious, which was the begining of the end. Because swimming is like being in a plane or playing Playstation games. The minute you actually start thinking about it, you are screwed. It becomes a completely confusing and unlikely thing to be doing.
I started swimming late. I didn't learn until I was about seven, when me and a bunch of kids in my class at school where taken to a local pool, instructed (for no reason I have ever figured out) to put on pyjamas, and then told to swim from one end of the pool to the other. Those of us who didn't make it, which included me, were correctly judged to be unable to swim. (There was some other exercise involving a brick covered in black rubber, but that was only for the kids who had made it to the other end of the pool.)
I left it for a while after that, having had a few lessons and managing to convince someone that I should get some sort of badge to get sewn on my swimming trunks to prove that I could make it to the edge of a pool if I ever fell in - pyjamaed or otherwise. My first ever girlfriend told me she swam for the Swiss junior team, so there was never any question of me going to embarass myself in front of her at a pool. (Actually, she turned out to be a pathalogical liar, so maybe she didn't swim for Switzerland. She was Swiss though. I saw her passport.) And here and there over the coming years, I'd reluctantly hang around in the shallow end of pools while other people did their crawl and back stroke and butterfly and stuff. There didn't seem any need to continue the swim thang. I was happy watching other people, and maybe doing the odd length of breaststroke or crazed, breathless crawl which probably looked a little like what Shark Boy gets up to.
And then about 10 years ago I slipped a disk in my back, and was told that I should take up swimming, which I did, with some trepidation. Which turned into a complete addiction. I can't get enough of it. When I am feeling sad, happy, old, young, fat, thin, rich, poor, bald or hairy, the one thing that really really relaxes me is a swim. So I guess I shouldn't be so hard on Shark Boy. Maybe his shambolic, crazed water dancing is as relaxing for him as mine is for me. As long as we don't think about it too much, I guess the two if us are getting away with it.
Ooooh Vicar!
Back by popular request - well bumping into The Waunch at The National Portrait Gallery yesterday and him saying "Do your blog again man. It kills that first five minutes at work every morning" - and full of the joys of January...well I just had a home-made banana smoothie in an effort to bring/ring the changes for a healthier more productive 2007.
It is actually a week of some sadness here at househusbandnot HQ, because one of my best friends is moving to Kenya for two years, leaving this Saturday. I have known him since the age of 12 and our first day at 'big school'. By chance we have also ended up living in the same street here in London, so we go way back and also see quite a lot of each other. So, he and his family will be missed, although it does give mrs househusbandnot and I am excuse to go and bum around Kenya some time later this year. But here's to Chaz and his family and a safe journey to Nairobi where they will be living for the next 24 months.
I had the most bizarre conversation with a vicar the other day about new year resolutions. He said his was to try and make what he did mean more, which I thought was odd for a man of the cloth. Actually, the fundamental was that I thought it was quite odd for a vicar to have new year resolutions at all. Aren't they supposed to be good all the time, and not be affected by the weaknesses us lesser mortals sucumb to? It's just a bit wrong. Like a group of nuns who once told a friend of mine that they were allowed to watch TV at the nunnery, but only when Boyz Own were on.
Predictably, I have a massive list of resolutions: less drinking, losing weight, more swimming, less dogging, more reading, more writing, more vigorous job hunting etc. etc. etc. Doing okay on them so far, although mrs househusbandnot did catch me stuffing half a salami into my gob just before bed time last night. I partly blame her, because bed time at the moment consists of her lying in bed laughing her face off at the Peter Kay biography while I plod through a brilliant - but quite depressing - novel about a man who wakes up to realise that he has nothing in common with anyone other that the mad woman in the vegetable section of his local supermarket. I am deeply envious of the giggling reader lying next to me. When she has finished a chapter, she sighs contentedly. My book has no chapters. It is just a long litany of self-analysis and self-realisation as a man comes to the end of his (pointless?) life. AND. AND, we have two copies of the Peter Kay book, so the whole bed time reading deal is becoming quite torturous. No wonder I needed salami sustenance.
I guess this week you workers proper are all back at your desks tucking back into your work and stuff. mrs househusbandnot did likewise yesterday. We had a good Xmas and New Year, which seemed to go on forever (in a good way), so I am kinda missing her this week, even if she is being a bit of a nazi about our dieting. Before the salami incident, I was informed that I was allowed two pickled onions OR half a glass of red wine to get me through the rest of our evening last night. 2007 could be a long long year.
It is actually a week of some sadness here at househusbandnot HQ, because one of my best friends is moving to Kenya for two years, leaving this Saturday. I have known him since the age of 12 and our first day at 'big school'. By chance we have also ended up living in the same street here in London, so we go way back and also see quite a lot of each other. So, he and his family will be missed, although it does give mrs househusbandnot and I am excuse to go and bum around Kenya some time later this year. But here's to Chaz and his family and a safe journey to Nairobi where they will be living for the next 24 months.
I had the most bizarre conversation with a vicar the other day about new year resolutions. He said his was to try and make what he did mean more, which I thought was odd for a man of the cloth. Actually, the fundamental was that I thought it was quite odd for a vicar to have new year resolutions at all. Aren't they supposed to be good all the time, and not be affected by the weaknesses us lesser mortals sucumb to? It's just a bit wrong. Like a group of nuns who once told a friend of mine that they were allowed to watch TV at the nunnery, but only when Boyz Own were on.
Predictably, I have a massive list of resolutions: less drinking, losing weight, more swimming, less dogging, more reading, more writing, more vigorous job hunting etc. etc. etc. Doing okay on them so far, although mrs househusbandnot did catch me stuffing half a salami into my gob just before bed time last night. I partly blame her, because bed time at the moment consists of her lying in bed laughing her face off at the Peter Kay biography while I plod through a brilliant - but quite depressing - novel about a man who wakes up to realise that he has nothing in common with anyone other that the mad woman in the vegetable section of his local supermarket. I am deeply envious of the giggling reader lying next to me. When she has finished a chapter, she sighs contentedly. My book has no chapters. It is just a long litany of self-analysis and self-realisation as a man comes to the end of his (pointless?) life. AND. AND, we have two copies of the Peter Kay book, so the whole bed time reading deal is becoming quite torturous. No wonder I needed salami sustenance.
I guess this week you workers proper are all back at your desks tucking back into your work and stuff. mrs househusbandnot did likewise yesterday. We had a good Xmas and New Year, which seemed to go on forever (in a good way), so I am kinda missing her this week, even if she is being a bit of a nazi about our dieting. Before the salami incident, I was informed that I was allowed two pickled onions OR half a glass of red wine to get me through the rest of our evening last night. 2007 could be a long long year.
Jan 8, 2007
More Or Less
After much too much of an Xmas break, am back with resolutions and expectations and more - or less - to blog about.
Will be back with a proper blog tomorrow or Wednesday.
hhn x
Will be back with a proper blog tomorrow or Wednesday.
hhn x
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