"Picnic" archive - Summer 2006
All the weblog entries from the modern version of the site - June 2006 to August 2006.
» September 2006 to November 2006
August 2006
July 2006
» 26.7 - A stink of excellence in a world gone tits-up.
» 25.7 - Got Spank?
» 21.7 - You want some Pizza Cake?
» 13.7 - Obesity alert!
» 12.7 - Warning: contains 38% Cotton.
» 8.7 - Welcome to Plymouth.
» 2.7 - Pfft!
June 2006
» 30.6 - I'm now going to DESTROY your license.
» 25.6 - Dosed up to the eyeballs on paracetamol.
» 22.6 - There definitely is a question mark, John.
» 20.6 - Not even remotely sorry.
» 15.6 - It's like all my Christmasii came at once!
» 12.6 - I saw those last three coming a mile off.
» 9.6 - Jar! Gone!
» 8.6 - You wanna drink some Cel-Ray? That's coo'.
» 5.6 - Mein Bleistift ist kaputt.
» 4.6 - Birds.
» 2.6 - Burning the midnight oil.
» 1.6 - Au contraire!
» March 2006 to May 2006
» October 2005 to February 2006
14.8 - Quinze jours.
Now, then, three week gap. I've been on a family holiday to the south of France. The weather held out perfectly, and a handy Sky connection meant that Toss and Charlie didn't go amiss. (Basic essentials covered.)
Probably the only impressive story we can draw from the whole experience is the one in which I go all out to swim up and down the rented pool 1,000 times in a bid to improve circulation and athletic well-being. What's even more impressive is that I can't actually swim, so it's not bad going really.
Here is a really fascinating graph of completion, which - as you can no doubt see - is backdropped by a superimposed image of my person, in said pool, with my thumbs up. This is supposed to impress you.
Frankly though, the rest of the holiday was a total mystery to me. When not out on geometrically confusing bike rides, agonisingly prolonged châtêâû visits and listening to my mother cheerily informing us that the house contained a mouse and that it would inevitably piss on our clothes in due course, I found myself sitting huddled in a corner, blinking and scratching my head in confusion.
The place is empty. Everywhere you look there are misleading posters metaphorically jumping and down and wetting their own pants over how many exciting activities are going on during the summer season, even though the place is just empty. "Plus de 130 áctîvítês dans le region aujourd'hui!" cried one. "Futuroscope!" cried another. Nothing. The place is empty.
This:
...was actually nothing more than this:
...which was pretty much no different to this:
In a funny sort of way, France isn't really there. Nobody comes, nobody goes, nobody is, nobody isn't. France is a lie; a national deception; a holographic effect; a soundstage of relentless Gallicism.
That said, this shop front did provide a few cheap laughs:
Right! Here is a list of things you didn't learn in my absence.
» The "For interactive, press the red button on your remote control... oops! Not that red button! Ha ha ha!" joke wasn't funny the first time, and still isn't.
» Strawberry BNs are not Jammie Dodgers. They may look strawberryery and biscuity, but ohhhh no you don't! They have an AGENDA.
» If your TV set-top box comes with TMF, stamp on it very hard until it doesn't play TMF anymore. If your entire TV set-top box doesn't work as a result of you stamping on it: yes, this is annoying in the short-term, but at least you don't have TMF on it anymore, and it is for this that we can be very thankful indeed.
» Davina McCall is not as popular and funny as she'd like you to think. Just you try and quantify that woman's smugness in something other than standard form or arrow notation. She'd like to think she could seamlessly throw herself onto a group of adoring fans and crowdsurf betwixt them. How can this be the case, though? Do the embarassed one-liners, faux-dominatrix claims of superiority, unjustified gurning and vastly overemphasised verbal prepositions (BUT! AFTER! BREAK! EVICT! TWIST! EVIL! SHOUTING! SHOUTING! SHOUTING!) not strike her as seven seasons out of date?
» If you MUST dry your hands with the handtowel after using the loo, could you please use the front of the handtowel, and not the back of the handtowel, as that was MY idea, MY territory, and I was there first, okay?
» "Lily Allen" is nothing more than a slightly more youthful, sprightly, braindead version of "Nelly Furtado". Yeah! Check her and her weird nasal atonality! "My, oh, my?" "Sun is in the sky?" "And it makes me smile?" "La la la la la?" F*CK OFF.
» TV is filth. Over a two-day period mid-week, I (an innocent young adult male) was exposed to all of the following: the utterance of plus de 1,000 obscenities from the lips of an almost equal number of Z-list talking head clip show celebrities, a vagina-shaped implantation on the arm of a 60-year old David Beckham, an animation helpfully describing why self-love is prohibited on the small screen, a large neon sign reading "WANK PIT" and a Guardian columnist publicly making love to a pastry. That was in the space of, what, two days? On a British terrestrial connection? Not French?
» I would proceed to say "what is this world coming to?" and "let's Hillary Clinton up this San Andreas, man", but in actual fact, I am entirely to blame for this mess in the first place. That's right. I am Endemol. Hear me roar.
» Bugger this, I'm off to Cornwall. Goodbye!
26.7 - A stink of excellence in a world gone tits-up.
Line Game, then.
25.7 - Got Spank?
Only real men play Spank. Everyone else is either a regular man, or a woman.
21.7 - You want some Pizza Cake?
Are you having a happy summer? I am. So much so that I've realised that this site is actually like a snowman: it just doesn't run very well in thirty degree heat. What would probably be best is if you ran along and enjoyed the sunshine, however you're choosing to enjoy it (human interest angle covered, there), and maybe I'll recommit once the evenings are back to being their miserable old pitch black selves again.
I will get round to popping up those 'artificially-generated sport instruction manuals' and a couple of musicii at some point, mind.
13.7 - Obesity alert!
I just ate a chocolate roulade for six people. That's six people as in "serves six people", not "for the entertainment of six people", although I'm sure it would work either way. God, I am such an aspiring fatty.
12.7 - Warning: contains 38% Cotton.
Logistically, it's the summer season. I'm not in full-time education. I should be putting interesting things on this stupid website. Except... I'm not. One kind reader helpfully e-mailed in to tell us: "Burn, you bastard! I hope Lucifer expends intolerable, cancerous death unto you and your kindred!" and I'm 100% behind him on that. I do think a little harm needs to be distributed to me on a regular, pro-rata basis, otherwise we'll all start to sag a bit, and that's just not fair on anybody.
So let's do an... urm... TV review.
TV REVIEW!
MODERN TOSS! - It's contemporary, it's a combination of live video and real-time animation, it's got a soft-spoken female voice unnecessarily introducing every sketch by name despite the fact it appears on-screen anyway (we do like our unnecessary additions, it has to be said), it started out life as a popular web comic, and it's on Channel 4. And it doesn't have Fearne Cotton in it. How could it possibly fail? Well, it doesn't. It's on very late at night on Tuesdays; nobody will ever discover it, so it can only work in its own favour, really.
POKER FACE! - It's got Ant and Dec in it, it's got adverts, it's got flashing lights, it's got music by that tit who does the music for everything, it's a poor version of an idea I came up with 3 years ago, and (despite the endearing promise of the title) nobody's face gets poked! And it doesn't have Fearne Cotton in it. Although, admittedly, we would poke Fearne Cotton in the face given half a chance. Take that, Fearne Cotton!
ROB BRYDON'S ANNUALLY RETENTIVE! - We haven't even seen this yet, even though Rob Brydon is possibly the second most tolerable and entertaining Welshman alive. But we can assure you one thing: it doesn't have Fearne Cotton in it.
CELEBRITY LOVE ISLAND! SORRY! LOVE ISLAND! - Has Fearne Cotton in it. AVOID.
Let's dumb down this entry even further and start trying to talk about chaos theory. Isn't chaos theory just so fascinating? The best example of chaos theory other than the bog-standard butterflies and hurricanes scenario would have to be football.
22 pairs of legs (that's 44 legs, 2x table fans) influence the euphoria of a nation, influence a nation's road traffic patterns, influence the number of people who die on the roads that evening. I'd like to think that a single game of football raises the number of parallel universes out there to the power of millions and billions.
I also see that headbutting strangers is now 'in' and 'cool'.
Because it is the summer, we are probably going to wind up playing all the usual beach and garden games, including Spank, Monkeys, Line Game, Team Game, and the ever-increasingly popular cunningly-titled Circle Game. Fantastic! Watch out for those. We might put up the rulesheets later if we can be bothered. Or if 'we' can shed this dual personality that 'we' seem to keep bringing back. God, why won't it go away?
In the shower today, I decided to give nominature to my recent years of life for purposes of humbling self-reflection only. 2003, for instance, was the Year of Discovery. 2004 was the Year of Adventure, and 2005 was the Year of Naïvity. I'm holding out for 2006 being the Year of Change, but knowing my bloody luck, it'll probably be something like Year of Tooth Rot and we'll all be up shit creek then.
I might go to Norwich tomorrow. I might not. We shall see.
8.7 - Welcome to Plymouth.
Back!
I hate Burger/Bugger King. The food's all tasty standard artery-clogging fare, right, but what the God-fearing f*ck is "Have It Your Way" supposed to be? Some weak-willed attempt at a caring corporate catchphrase? Oh, yeah, let's all go to Burger King... we can have it our way there! Shut up.
The Foil Guy appears to have died, only to have been replaced by Hosepipe Ban Boy, by the looks of things.
Fantastically, though, my red driving license came through the mail sometime this week, so I don't have to carry around a railcard and European Health Insurance documentation just to go out and get Voodooed*, for instance. Which, for the record, would probably never work as a form of identification, but because it's Plymouth (and justly fair and decent to its citizens), doesn't even matter at the end of the day.
We have three of our lovely Australian relatives staying at our house. And we played tennis today. I also see we have acquired a TomTom, which appears to know the Cambridge transport system about as much as I know that a vixen is a female fox, i.e. doesn't.
I hear also that gambling has won me millions of pounds (give or take £999,950) because two of my Magic Six made it to the final. Should an act of pure evil on my part be rewarded like this? Debate amongst yourselves.
2.7 - Pfft!
Leavers' Ball was good - shame about the £3.90 Reef afterwards. The shame of the England squad's demise was totally neutralised by Brazil's exit, mind, and three of our Magic Six are in the final four, so please do have your cash register sound effects on standby. Now then! I'm away 'til Friday. If you want me, you're going to have to sing for it!
30.6 - I'm now going to DESTROY your license.
Hilariously, I somehow managed to pass driving first time (9 minors). And now I have to go and drop off all my school books. Oh, they all grow up so fast! etc.
Aggravatingly, I don't have any decent form of I.D. card at the moment. Would a railcard suffice, or am I going to have to lug around a passport for three weeks?
25.6 - Dosed up to the eyeballs on paracetamol.
Which I am. Cheers, tonsilitis!
The Gallery now appears to contain photos from the last couple of days of school, and some screengrabs from our infamous appearance on Deal. Go grab.
22.6 - There definitely is a question mark, John.
This is the ITV News: Marijuana Inhalation Utility Special.
BONG. I've finished A-levels forever. BONG. Australia are through by the skin of their Harry Kewells. BONG. We're on telly on Saturday (5:30pm, Channel 4). I'm sitting here. BONG. I appear to have some Smirnoff Ice again. BONG. How to look like Tim "Come on, Tim" Henman for AgFest IV?
This was an ITN production had nothing to do with ITN.
20.6 - Not even remotely sorry.
Hello, loves. Kinda going through a bit of a cycle at the moment: one exam every few days, watching every single World Cup game going just because it isn't revision, making lots and lots of money, then going to bed. Hmm.
This is no longer effective as of Thursday, when I finish my last A-level exam, and I'm all clear. Except then I appear to be fully booked until July 8th, so do not expect to find me anywhere you would normally expect to find me anywhere you would expect to find me anywhere to find me. I would discuss this with you a bit further, but I can't frankly be arsed, and I just hate Brazil. That's about it.
15.6 - It's like all my Christmasii came at once!
12.6 - I saw those last three coming a mile off.
I do believe that's the last Maths exam I'll ever take! I do, in fact, have a small, neatly-formed tear in my eye. But I shall discard it, as if it were never there.
Speaking of tears, Japan, here's a one-off consolation Number Link for you, boys.
9.6 - Jar! Gone!
» "Have you had your five-a-day?" - DIE! Even if you've been living under a rock for the last few years, you'll still have been needlessly forced to listen to some (inevitably British) health corporation's attempt to up the fruit and vegetable intake of the populace, by regulating everyone to a spicy-sounding 'five portions a day'. We were never really told what a 'portion' was, though, were we? Did they mean a slice? An atom? A pip? A Bottlesworth? Too late, I guess. So drop it, already, please.
Oh, except, they haven't, and now I see NEW! Tropicana! Go! Exclamation Points! is claiming that their delicious 70% REAL fruit juice (and 30% REAL carcinogens) that all kids will love will help fill YOUR kids with the five-a-day that they need to grow big and strong! Well, fiddle me ree and hip hip hooray for them, but five portions of Schweppes and Tesco Value Chocolate a day appears to have had an equal (if not better) effect on MY personal well-being. I implore thee to stick that in your corporate pipe and toke upon it, you punctuation mark-wielding fiends.
» "Come on, England!" - Really, think about this for a second. It doesn't mean anything. Where are England coming? Why would they be 'coming on', and to where exactly does the preposition intend to lead the verb? I can fully tolerate dedicated fans yelling "Come on, England!", in the flesh, or at the big screen down t'local. It's caught on as their phrase; it's their job to say it (so to speak).
Trust the Cambridge Evening News, then (the most blood-boilingly phallus-imbibing bit of journalism I've ever encountered), to plaster the entire back page of the paper with this postiche delusion of grandeur:
Yeah, SHUT UP. Nobody likes you. You're not interested in football. You aren't going to increase your readership by pretending to be interested, neither. Out you go!
Interestingly, I've just read that 70% of all household dust is actually made from desecrated flakes of human skin. I'm not sure whether to believe this or not, but it sounds pretty groovy all the same, so in it goes!
Looks like there's an England match tomorrow. Come on, Australia! Natch.
8.6 - You wanna drink some Cel-Ray? That's coo'.
I've never even contemplated the possibility of a celery-flavoured beverage before, but apparently it's a regular sell in NYC delicatessens. What will those wacky Jews think of next? I like to think I'm this in touch with the urban American populace, y'know... but I'm really not.
Meanwhile, in optical illusion news: wow.
5.6 - Mein Bleistift ist kaputt.
Huw(bie)'s birthday today. First of all, we decided to go down to the bookies. My barber was in there, already frittering away his life savings, interestingly enough. We, on the other hand, made some meticulously-planned, secure World Cup outright bets. Totally safe. Cue the first of several platitudinous workers coming up to us to ask for "idée", a colloquial French term that loosely translates as "in-your-face card".
Next, Pizza Hut. The one opposite Downing, because the one opposite Stag has quite literally disappeared overnight. And who should we see trotting along with a fit bird in tow? None other than Mr. Edmund Bolton of Beauty and the Geek jam sandwich-slicing fame. It's getting more like Hollywood every single day. I remember when all this used to be just fields.
We decided to get Bie to make full use of his "idée" again, except the retard at the offy decided it would be really funny and cool not to ask for it, hence making a full-blown Grade A mockery out of the whole bloody reason we went in there in the first place. Nevertheless, we sat and Parkered* our way through most of the afternoon.
The only lavabo in the vicinity was a 20p portaloo system. I don't know whose idea it was to make the door coin-operated, but rest assured we took full advantage of the fact we could place a foot in the way and get, in essence, three slashes for the price of one. The German tourist whom we kindly let in on the toilet deal decided to follow us around for a bit, biding his time whilst he waited for his coach to leave at 5:00am the next day... mmm. Youth hostels not a strongly-marketed aspect of the British tourist scene, we feel.
Probably the highlight of it all was the energetic waving frenzy at Pandy and his fiancée as they drove past us. Twice. Always up to mischief, that Pandy. You can never tell what crazy thing he'll do next. We stopped off to get satisfyingly Earled* on the stretch home, meeting the only serf of the day who actually managed to recognise it was Bie's birthday by actually LOOKING at his driver's license. For a change!
All in all, a top day. Next up: Tuesday! Oh, dear.
4.6 - Birds.
How their minds work. All of them. Horrible little buggers.
Please note: this didn't actually happen. I predict it will, though, based entirely on the fact it's taken them a mere week to completely soil our new patio. Sooner or later...
2.6 - Burning the midnight oil.
1:35am - Kill everyone.
1:45am - Black Ice.
1:46am - Kill everyone some more.
2:13am - Decide not to go to bed.
6:50am - Go to bed.
1.6 - Au contraire!
It's time for another trimonthly seasonal colour changearound! Because we like doing things a little differently, purple is the official colour of summer this year. If you so happen to disagree, you may or may not wish to bugger off quickly.
I've got a scarce number of things to waffle on about at the moment, and for the most part, this is good. I do not care for telling you all about what I had for lunch, what I merely rate and don't rate, et cetera. If we're not going to discuss big issues, or wind ourselves up into an inevitable frenzy about something like an album, or a publicity stunt that will actually work, then we don't want to hear about it, do we?
I see the first person plurals are back out in force again, so it looks like it's about time to call it quits for tonight. Thanks for reading us!