Superheroes need good pants!

Three Bare Builders (100), originally uploaded by Kelteek.

Do you remember that advert for Boddington’s where Tarquin had his trollies on back to front? Well he must have created a trend as both our builder above and Daddy Shortarse have sported this look recently – actually we discovered that Ben the Builder had simply torn a hole in his trollies.

Daddy Shortarse however had his big white Y-fronts on back to front today – accompanied by a check Viyella shirt tucked in to them. This ensemble was completed by beige socks and navy slippers. In his completely dull outfit inspired by the Major years, he doesn’t look much like a superhero even though his pants are on over his shirt and back to front – how quick did he change in that telephone box. It can’t be easy to spin round and change clothes in a kiosk with a home help in tow!! At least he is dressed today and doesn’t have out his double-scoop of plum surprise.

It was not easy to continue cooking with this muttering, shuffling nuisance under your feet in the kitchen. The muttering was only mildly annoying, even when the geriatric tourettes was cranked up to 11 when he discovered someone had eaten the last of Mr Kipling’s bakewell tarts. The sight of the blue veined legs shuffling about in slippers was worse.

We decided his alter ego would be named after both the veins and the swearing:

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you the Blue Streak!

Lady Tess T. Clays

Lady Tess T. Clay, originally uploaded by Kelteek.

So there is a sense of humour in Pembrokeshire - this boat was seen bobbing about in Milford Marina.

Party pooper!

ipod_dalek, originally uploaded by wizard of olz.

I have to text my friend Lisa to say I can’t make her housewarming party – what a pisser as it sounded great: cast of Torchwood, Spike from Buffy, an apartment in Cardiff Bay. But no, I am in Droitwich, watching John Bleeding Nettles and having a Kit-Kat before kipping on a pullout bed. More like touch wood that it’ll hold my weight. They have broadband and sky TV so why does driving through Droitwich feel like it is still in 1947. What next powdered eggs, drawing a line up the back of my legs with an eyeliner and using teabag stain to look like tights. I'll be accepting bubble gum from yanks next!

I lie awake in the dark listening to Sophie B Hawkins.

As I lay me down to sleep
This I pray
That you will hold me dear
Though I'm far away
I'll whisper your name into the sky
And I will wake up happy

Fat chance. Where is Dr Who when you need him? I need a TARDIS taxi pronto!

The place: Cardiff.

The year: Now please!!!

Where the hell is Redditch?

train trip (28), originally uploaded by Kelteek.

I plod on to New Street wondering how much a taxi to Droitwich would cost … or to Cardiff? I am missing my computer and TV, I miss home and comfort, I miss Richard and the cat. I even miss his dad (but mostly the computer). Richard isn’t missing these but I think he would like to miss his dad. During my brief breakdown at the station, while I ponder ending it all, Richard is on the phone, upset. He’d be less upset if he didn’t have his dad in the background, brandishing a remote control and shouting that his telly isn’t working… again!

“Is the train going to Redditch?”
The guard checks the boards and answers in the affirmative.
“How often do the trains go?”
“Every hour – but if one is announced, take it – we have no guarantee whether the next one will as trains are all out of whack” (a technical term?)

The next train is in four minutes and I move like Mr Jelly on Skates towards platform ten – I am a veritable Tsunami when I have the mood on me!

I get on the Redditch train and four girls sit in the seats ahead of me. They continue to have mobile phone conversations in the quiet zone and then play music loudly, singing along until the train driver, like most of his colleagues pushed past the limit of endurance in this freak weather, leaves his cabin and shouts at them to turn it off or get off! Hurrah!

The station at Redditch is tiddly and Gavin and Amanda pick me up. I feel safe at last and we sit and have pizza and watch Midsomer Murder – ah normality. So dull, so boring, so blooming lovely!! I even watch the Tour de France – yellow is so last season and doesn’t suit the pale young man in the lead. I don’t like excitement and personal challenge –that’s what work is for.

Regrets, I’ve got a few mate!!

Birmingham Moor Street 27th April 2007, originally uploaded by loose_grip_99.

The biggest is still being in bloody Birmingham!!!!

An hour later, the Euston option has vanished. The trains cannot cope with the number of people trying to do that route, so ticket-holders for Cardiff etc are not being allowed. Rats! Despite having very little power left, I phone home and tell Richard the news. He suggests that his brother could pick me up if I can get to Droitwich. I can’t find it on any of the boards and assume trains are cancelled but a guard tells me I need to go to Moor Street station.

I still have my plastic bags (how common), I can’t get to Cardiff or London, I have to walk in the rain and I have a mobile phone that has only one bar of power left. My knees are aching and I hate everyone!

I somehow mistake the direction and do a tour of the Bullring wishing I could instead go to the Harry Potter party at Borders but I feel wet and dirty and unloved – I am accused of being a terrorist and now I feel old and knackered. Young people and couples bounce in and out of shops, looking in each other's bags at new purchases, laughing and planning nights out. Other single people are like me: older, slower and wary looking. I feel too wet and dispirited to face going into Debenhams to buy some luggage … hell, I feel too fat and tired to go into Boots for Nurofen. I can’t eat in public and alone – fat people often don’t eat in public because people assume it is all one does. I had a ham roll yesterday about 1pm and a bag of popcorn – it is now 3pm the following day and I am wet, tired, alone and hungry, wearing yesterday’s clothes.

I trundle slowly onwards to Moor Street but have missed the way, and after a lot of walking (more than I would ever usually do) I am not only wet and tired but back where I started staring at the entrance to New Street Station. My exuberance and Blitz spirit of the previous night have left me by the time I finally get to Moor Street but I am momentarily buoyed when trains seem to be running. But no, Droitwich is another no-go area.

I again ring home. Richard suggests I go stay in Manchester with my friend Linda – that is further from home and the rain is heading North. I don’t want to do this, I want to go home and have decided I am close to jumping under a train (if one goes that is) or buying that Nurofen and taking the lot. I want to cry but instead sit on Moor Street station and play Avril Lavigne on my iPod and other jolly numbers to try and get out of the funk. It makes it worse (dammit I did cry!).

I feel like ringing my friend Susan for a chat – she hates Birmingham with a passion so we could have a laugh but I now have almost no power on my phone. Another hour passes and I am glued to the bench, looking at the palm trees and cappuccino bar which look fake in this bleak empty station. I am feeling sorrier than myself than I have for a long time. I hate being alone, I hate having to fend for myself – I hate not being young slim and gorgeous and able to get a bed by batting my eyes in bars like I used to do!

Richard rings to say his brother can get me if I can make it as far as Redditch – “yes trains may run that far…” the guard tells me “… from New Street” You are having a fucking laugh!!!!

I am a flickr-terrorist! A fundamental blogger!!

"Mind the gap", Birmingham New Street station, originally uploaded by chailey.

The first thing I realise is my phone is powering down as I have no charger. My iPod seems okay still and I pack my goodies into the plastic bags (neither are eco friendly nor chic). I troll off to New Street which isn’t far but without Nurofen in my system my legs are sore and my knees are screaming louder than a bunch of gay men at a Kylie concert!

Back in New Street the boards still flash cancelled in big yellow letters. Bastards. I decide to have a hot chocolate and a sit down and see if anything develops. As trains flash up on the board they linger for a few minutes before the cancelled sign flashes up… Virgin is teasing us!

After an hour I choose to ask for some help and am told I could go to London Euston, transfer to Paddington and get home in about six hours all told. “Let’s do it” I think - though why I am talking to myself as another person in the plural I have no idea. What was in that hot chocolate?

It is an hour until the next Euston train and so, camera at ready, I think I will record the day the floods stopped Britain. Only two shots taken, up walks a station official and demands to see what I am photographing. I cannot take photographs of the Customer Service Information boards or any other signs or infra structure but pictures of friend or people are okay. We flick through my shots and I delete the ones of the station. Do terrorists need train announcements to commit crimes? How does that work? Surely by the time you launch an attack you don’t care if the train to Leamington Spa is 10mins late?? The board is useless for tourists let alone terrorists. The official has no idea why I can’t take the photos but he enforces the rules no less.

I feel like a criminal. I am from Wales. I am not a Welsh fundamentalist you know!

Which reminds me of the moment yesterday when flicking through the internet with Tina she notices that we have Muslim member of the Welsh Assembly. I look up his profile on Baydar – the Welsh Assembly site which has a similar layout to Gaydar – little pics of people with short biogs. Mohammad Asghar is the Plaid member for S E Wales. We know we shouldn’t but we can’t help but laugh guiltily when we read “Mohammad also holds a pilot’s licence and enjoys flying.” If he were an undercover terrorist the Welsh National Party is not the best disguise, is it!

Trapped in Birmingham

train trip (18), originally uploaded by Kelteek.

New Street Station is packed to the gills. People in now very inappropriate shorts and sandals are waiting for taxis. No trains are running South or West so Gawd alone knows if I can get back to Wales. I wonder if Richard’s brother can pick me up as he lives in Droitwich but they seem to have had the worst of the downpour that way and he has taken 5 hours to do his regular journey home.

Tina says she will come from Coventry and get me (it’s her wedding anniversary and no way could I have let someone tackle that journey as we may have simply spent the entire night marooned on a motorway (but lovely thought Tina!)

It is getting late and I book a room in the Ibis as a safety measure in case I am trapped here – I don’t want to end up spending the night on a station with the usual drunks and a whole host of people complaining about transport, the weather, global warming, the government, etc., I want my usual Friday night (BBLB, BB, 8/10 cats, BB eviction, Friday Night project, BB Live… sounds sad but such a blessed relief to watch the mindlessness of others after a busy week! Who am I kiddin’, I love the crap).

I avoid the worst of the crowds, kids being fractious and parents being, well… shouty! I dive into M&S for essentials like chocolate covered butter toffee popcorn and go to W H Smiths for some paperbacks. Boots provides some deodorant but without a pharmacist I cannot stock up on the Nurofen Plus. With matching plastic bags I trundle off to the Ibis - I feel like a bloody Ibis wading out into the rain with just my shirt on my back.

Once installed in the Ibis, I realise I am next door to the collection of nightclub eateries frequented by mini clad girls who are simply legs and hair extensions. These are the types who want to be on BB – why do I like them on the telly but not on the street? I actually prefer them less to the hoodie types who are at least interestingly menacing and quiet.

On top of the noise from next door, the shower is in a cupboard and the TV remote control has no batteries – I phone reception and they arrive with 2xAA batteries. I manage to last ten minutes before ringing down to tell them I need 2xAAA – normally I would apologise, make the trip to reception and ask politely but I was at the end of my tether.

Nicky gets evicted: Good times.
The batteries never arrive: Bad times.

Rain, Rain, go away!

train trip (22), originally uploaded by Kelteek.

It’s now Friday and as Tina’s asked me up to Coventry to do some interviewing, I am once again on a train with camera, iPod, phone and credit cards; all the essentials for a short trip. Cardiff to Coventry with only one change and a reasonably empty train: so far so good.

Interviews over, I trot into the rain to get to the station which is just across the road. Actually trot is a lie as I was stiff from sitting all day, so I was tottering and doing small steps so as not to slip on the sodden pavement. Try and imagine a cottage-loaf learning to mince and your close to the mark.

Inside the station is a pool of people looking up at the notice boards which have a host of cancellations flashing up – more every minute!, I sit on the 16:04 to Birmingham waiting on platform 4 but it’s gone 17:04 and we haven’t moved one jot so its not looking hopeful! Someone tells me about the “if-lud-ing-guh” which I work out means flooding to a Midlander.

After some discussion Al agrees to drop me off in Birmingham and I squash into his Micra (actually it weren’t too bad even with my bulk!) but we weren’t prepared for the flooding and we we’re delighted to get through the scene above. I worried that I would weigh the Micra down and we’d have to be airlifted.

You can imagine the scenes of me in the floods: Cue BBC Wales announcement “and a whale has been seen in the floods and the crowds are waving – ooh its waving back…”

Not the brightest button

On Thursday it was London and back: knackering! The journey up was reasonably good as I was sitting facing a lovely looking man and listening to my iPod. However, the journey back consisted of me trying not to listen to two students sitting opposite me, both discussing their life via mobile phone. The first was an overly enthusiastic bunny who described his trip abroad to friends (and the entire carriage) including “hysterical” jokes about camel drivers called Ahmed with business cards and the joys of haggling. At least he was happy - perhaps it Seroxat. He piled bags on to the seat next to his but soon had to move them as the train filled more and more.

The second was doing a fine impression of a miserable hippy chick who rolled her eyes as she complained to her phone. They rearranged their belongings incessantly – why do students have to carry so much crap with them. They block the aisle which is already full as too many people are travelling on each train. The tough-looking tanned bloke in a tracksuit opposite sat silently flicking through a discarded Gratzia – very macho. Perhaps the tan was too even and the trackie too carefully matched his eyes.

I got in at 9pm and could only stay awake for Big Brother and slope off to bed. Richard is also knackered as Daddy Shortlegs has been unable to get his lights to work. Oh, and his TV isn’t working… again. Richard put all the plugs back in the sockets. Daddy swears he never removed them: it’s either a poltergeist or Alzheimer’s?

Richard: “Of course, it's not working, you’ve turned the cable box off!”

Daddy: “No I haven’t! I don’t know how to – so I have not!”

Richard: “You have! You press this button in the corner of the box”

Daddy: “I haven’t! I didn’t even know there was a button!”

Richard: “Well how come the whole box is dusty except that one spot around the button then!”

Cue furious muttering from Daddy while waiting for the FX channel to spring into life. He may not have all his buttons done up!

Harry Potter at Mimosa

Having travelled back from London, I was picked up at the station by Richard. We went to Mimosa in the Bay for a meal and were considering seeing Harry Potter but after three courses we were too full and too tired. We looked around for a waiter to bring us the check and guess who was serving drinks…
Harry Potter at Mimosa, originally uploaded by Kelteek.

What would Jesus drink?

jesus drink´s, originally uploaded by sir smoke a lot.

Picture the scene: You’re at this wedding reception in the Cana Golf and Leisure Resort, where a group of women in the corner are being right rowdy, kicking their legs up and laughing raucously. The woman in powder blue puts out her fag, downs her drink and wipes her hand across her mouth, smacking her lips loudly. Her friend begins to refill it unsteadily, spilling and sloshing the liquid on to the tablecloth.
“Mother!” says a young man sits nearby with an expression that could only be called Po-faced.
The other women all throw evils at him. “Jesus! Oh lighten up, why don’t you?”
“What are you drinking?” he asks with a reproachful look.
Nervously, his mum picks up her newly-refilled glass and says “Water!”
He grabs the glass and sniffs – “It’s wine!” he declares as music drowns out his voice.
The women hop up onto their feet, laughing and dancing as Agadoo pumps out of the speakers… “It’s a miracle” they cry “a miracle!”

My Face

So I am in a meeting and we discuss new ways of reaching people via the internet. I’m no youngster, let’s face it, but even I know my way around t’internet. A suggestion from my boss was best though as he couldn’t quite decide if we were using Facebook or MySpace. ‘Why don’t we invite people to join us on MyFace?’

Why don’t we?

myspace.jpg, originally uploaded by tom bland.