Jimmy Page’s Trousers

Two loads of washing wedged tightly into the machine.  Who says men can’t do housework?

In your face, naysayers.  I’ve just doubled my productivity.  Ha!

I’m off to hoover the dishes.

Today is my birthday.

There are many cons.  Another year, another hole further on my belt.  Another few empty follicles closer to glabreity.  Another step away from understanding ‘the youth of today’ and what possible rationale they might have for listening to music through the tiny speakers of their mobile phones (last time on the bus: three different twats, simultaneously sharing three different shrill, tinny, phone-noise songs with the rest of the passengers).  Each day I grow closer and closer to waving a stout walking stick and shouting, “damn kids”.

My hangover recovery time has increased considerably, despite the amount of practice I undertake.  I make a funny grunt/groan when I bend to pick something up.  I no longer have the same disdain for people who ‘garden’. I find myself evaluating flat caps in shops and wondering if it’s too soon.

The pros list is shorter.  I can hang around a shop all day with little regard for the Mosquito device they have installed.

Still though, it is my birthday. I wonder if I can persuade Mrs. Jimmy Page’s Trousers to do that thing I like.

I am DIY-Boy again.  The bedroom this time as I continue my quest to make something presentable, and slightly less annoying, out of the odd collection of acute and obtuse angles, shit workmanship and general arse, that the builders piled up and called a house.

There is an ulterior motive.  The previous owner’s carpet was still in the bedroom and, not only does it look a bit shit, I’m convinced that I’ve been walking around on that person’s skin cells and pubes for the last four years.

So then, carpet: gone.  Eeeuughh - nasty job.  In it’s place, a nice solid-wood floor with no place for dust and pubes to hide.  Shitty, sticky-outie wardrobes that the builders hammered to the wall: gone.  Snazzy new ones in a much better position.  A bit of painting left to complete and then, it’s done.  Even without the painting though, l’m markedly happier with the room.  It looks much better and it’s now much more intelligently laid-out.

Worth the hassle then?  Yep.  Mind you, the bathroom is next on the list (not for a couple of months though).  My answer might be different after tackling that.

I have put my name forward for consideration to join the 21st century.  Part of the initiation process requires that I sign up for something called flickr.  I did so today and it’s already annoying the hell out of me by repeatedly making me sign in despite my ticking the ‘don’t fucking bother me for two weeks’ box.  And it’s a secure page for sign-in, which means Firefox won’t save the information but makes me type it all every time.  Bastard.

All that notwithstanding, I have managed to upload some images this afternoon.  Some are from the last couple of weeks and some are older.  I’ll probably bung another few up soon and then wait for flickr to grudgingly surrender more storage space in a month.  Most of the images are mono, except for the ones that aren’t.  I tend to like mono for a lot of things.  Don’t read anything into it.

You can see the flashy flash thing over in the sidebar should you be interested in additional glimpses into my disturbingly lacklustre life.

Now that I am unmasked and no longer anonymous, there is little need for further subterfuge. So then, here I am in all my avatary glory.

It was made via this place (which seems to be down at the moment).

In reality, I’m not quite so youthful-looking and there is usually more stubble on the rest of my face than shown - the editing options were finite. Other than that, a reasonable likeness I think.

Oh, and my ears are not so big in real life.

Ladies, form an orderly queue.

At last, something useful from Lidl.  And what a brilliant thing it is.  Lidl are selling this Shower Stool.  Behold.

This is what I’ve been seeking all these years.  Now, when I’m horribly hungover, I can have a refreshing shower while also having a bit of a sit down.  Fantastic.  This standing-up lark is for the birds.

All I need now is one of those neck-brace things to avoid having to hold my own head up and my hangovers will be a vastly more pleasant experience.  I may even try for more of them.

Someone bumped into me in the canteen and sploshed a good portion of my freshly made Earl Grey over the back of my hand.  As the only way to properly drink Earl Grey is sans milk, it was pretty damn hot.  I now have sore and scalded fingers.

While I am tough and manly enough to just put up with this, I thought of my fellow customers and decided to have a word with the manager of the place.  We talked on the health and safety issues at length and, after considerable discussion, and a threat of legal action on my part, they have agreed that boiling water will only be served at 36.8°C, thereby significantly reducing the risk of accidental scalding.

It may take my colleagues some time to get used to body-temperature tea but I think they’ll eventually agree that it’s a small price to pay for the additional safety benefits.

I’ve just seen the inside of the Coke vending machine in work. It’s all grey and horrible and not even a little bit like the ad.

Once again, advertising has lied to me. Happiness Factory, my arse.

I feel another semi-drunk stream-of-consciousness post coming on. Can’t be good. Really.

It’s Saturday night though, you see. Mrs. Jimmy Page’s Trousers has popped off to visit her folks and taken Baby Trousers with her. Free gaff! So I made a (spicy as fuck) chilli for dinner and settled down to have a few beers. After watching Pan’s Labyrinth on DVD (really good - really, really good), I’ve ended up watching the poptastic channels.

Had Bonnie Tyler on a few minutes ago. That video with the scary, flying, kid with the shiny eyes. Bleedin’ terrifying. Don’t they know I’m in the house alone?

Whitney Houston. Some set of pipes on her before she got shacked-up, knocked-up, and smacked-up with Bobby. Probably too far off her face to do much these days. I had a bit of a crush on her in the late eighties. Then again, I was in my late teens/early twenties and probably had a crush on everyone.

Four Non-Blondes. Jesus. What’s with the stupid hats and goggles anyway. She looks like some sort of weird cartoon character.

Now we’re talking. Bohemian Rhapsody. What more could a red-blooded, half-pissed man ask for? Not much, that’s what. Maybe a kebab. It’s lucky that those Queen blokes were talented ‘cos they’re not much to look at. A good line in white satin jumpsuits in this video though. Brian May’s got his guitar plugged in with a curly lead. You don’t really get curly leads much any more - for good reason. I kind of miss them though.

Oasis. Oddly, this is the first time I’ve ever seen the video for Don’t Look Back In Anger. I hadn’t realised that poor old Patrick McNee was in it. I could do all the obvious stuff about how Noel nicked his riffs and how Liam’s a wanker but I won’t.

‘Look Back In Anger’ - now there’s a good film. Anything with Richard Burton in it is good by default. And Claire Bloom was a fine-looking woman.

Don McLean’s on now (guess which song). I wonder if they’ll play the whole thing. It seems to be some sort recording of a live show. Huh, they played the whole thing. Who’d have guessed?

Peter Kay. Miming annoyingly to Amarillo. I’d better not get started.

Gloria Gaynor. How does something become a gay anthem? Why is Kylie a gay icon? What exactly is a gay icon? Does my heterosexuality preclude my knowing these things?

Ahhhh, Kylie. Lovely, lovely Kylie.

Bleedin’ Coldplay. Yellow, of course.

Pah, I’m going back to thinking about Kylie.

Mmmmmmmm.

Pints.

Many, many pints.

Went to see a Steely Dan tribute band last night.  They were actually quite good.  All very talented.  Went with The Brother and a friend that I hadn’t seen in ages.  All thoroughly enjoyable stuff.

Pints before.  Pints during.

Then popped along to a late bar.  Discovered that some friends of mine were gigging there.  Nice surprise.

Pints.

More pints.

Kebab.

Fell asleep in the taxi home.  Brother stayed over.  Couple of beers and some music at home.

Tired now.  So very tired.