Why not indeed?

Well, let me tell you. What you’re really asking there is three questions. Firstly, why don’t I use trains more? Secondly, why didn’t you ask me sooner? Thirdly, what kind of lunch is the best lunch?

I only wish that I could use the train more because it provided fast and easy travel when I was mooching about in my 20s and 30s, especially when Reuben and I had the benefit of the family railcard. I’m currently trying to buy train tickets to London for a gig in November and they’re still not available when usually they’re released some months in advance. This doesn’t feel like they’re taking my mini-break very seriously and I for one will be sure to ram it up their junction should I get the chance!

You should have asked me sooner. I am always considering going to Leeds and very rarely get the chance to do so. Oh, you know what it’s like. Things get in the way and before you know it, there’s weeds to be plucked, cobwebs to be dusted or shopping to be done. Last night I insisted on putting time aside to press my trousers yet after doing the washing up, cleaning the kitchen and going out for a three mile run, it was after 11pm and there’s no chance of me using anything where there’s a risk of scalding myself when the light isn’t great and I have work in the morning. It’s just not happening.

The best kind of lunch is a hot lunch, one that’s dispensed from a lunch hatch with lots of meat and potatoes. They come in all different kinds these days. When I were a lad, you only got three kinds of meat: turkey (at Christmas), chicken (usually from the freezer, have you ever sucked a chicken?) and ham (full of water and slimy like a frog). All of this lamb ostrich alligator kangaroo burger nonsense is miles away from what I would consider to be a decent meal. If you can’t get a video… wait, that’s wrong. If you can’t get a hot lunch, a sandwich is a perfectly acceptable alternative providing you also have a bag of crisps and a drink to go along with it, and something sweet for afterwards. It seems as though most meal “deals” these days (if you can call them that) aren’t deals because for more money they give you less food and I’m not happy about that.

You meant Leeds Castle, right?

(Ian practising at being a rambling old codger).

Shake your fist harder, boy!

I am knee-deep in the middle of lots of boring house chores. This is my first time on the house purchase bandwagon so whilst I have had some experience painting, decorating and very basic DIY from living in my flat, there’s still a lot that I don’t know.

That’s fine, nobody comes into the world with a drill and the ability to rewire a kitchen. I do what I can and accept help from others when it’s necessary to do so. What I am learning though is that wallpaper is a pain in the arse and should never ever be considered.

Why’s that? What’s so wrong with wallpaper I hear you ask? It looks great when it’s on the wall but flip reverse that sandwich and consider when taking it off. Vikki used the wallpaper remover which turned the room into a sauna from all the heat. Even then, you still have to scrap it off. Once that’s done you have to prepare the walls because you can’t paint over that. This is where the big scandal comes in.

Sugar soap is awful. It’s useless. I think personally it’s the biggest con. You spray or wipe this gunk on the wall to help remove the old wallpaper paste and clean the wall so you don’t have ugly bumpy bits when painting. That all makes perfect sense. You know what’s actually doing all the work though? A combination of the warm water, the sponge / scouring pad and my fucking arm. It’s got nothing to do with the bright yellow liquid we’re forking out 3 to 4 quid a pop on. I had one of those squirty bottle versions and it was three quarters done on one bedroom. The label itself says to, “use liberally”; no doubt to send whatever poor sucker who purchased it back to the shop to buy more of it.

I am never, ever using wallpaper. I have made this decision based on scrubbing eight walls in two rooms and not seeing any difference. Wallpaper can get to fuck. Sugar soap can get to fuck.

Old man rant done. Over and out.

Tile Saga: dénouement

Time to wrap up this saga. The tiling is complete, at least until I get round to starting the other bit of tiling around the worktop at the other side of the utility room.

Here’s the epilogue, expressed in short form because life is short:

Grouting is great. Tiling was a pain in the backside but I could spend a lot of time grouting. It’s not difficult and the results are instantly gratifying. Slopping grout into all the gaps covers a multitude of sins, instantly makes your tiles look good, and ten minutes later you wipe off the excess with a damp sponge and the job is done. All DIY should be like this.
Silicone sealant can mack right off. I’ve dabbled in this before, and hated it. Now I’ve done it more extensively to finish this tiling job and I hate it even more.
I haven’t yet sealed one side where the tiles meet the back wall of the room, because I put super gentle non-peel expensive Frog Tape on the wall to protect it from the grout and when I carefully peeled it off according to the instructions the super gentle non-peel expensive Frog Tape took all the paint off the wall, which I only painted a couple of months ago. So now I have to repaint that part before I can put a line of sealant there.

Now I get to move on to another job, and commence Raised Bed and Gravel Path Saga. Watch out for this year’s longest and most self-pitying read, coming to a Beans near you this autumn.

Four Word Reviews: Strike

It’s that time again. Time to slide another unwanted CD into the player and see what fate has in store. This time around we are meeting The Baseballs, who are presenting us with their debut album “Strike!” from 2009. I hadn’t heard of this album, or this band, before, but a look at it and a bit of cursory research suggested this Four Word Review wouldn’t be too bad. Some are painful, of course, and others are just a bit of fun. I was dismayed to find, however, that this was a genuinely unpleasant experience, and in this review I’ll be attempting to work out why.

Owl threats

Earlier this year, I had a go at learning a new language on one of those language apps. It wasn’t very successful and started to feel like a bit of a chore, which isn’t the point, so I gave up after a few months.

I still have an account, though, and this particular app isn’t keen on letting you go. I occasionally still get a jolly email from them asking whether I’m going to come back. I don’t mind that. I do my thing and they do theirs, and everyone’s happy. Things are OK.

Until now.

Suddenly it’s not OK. Now the little cartoon owl is angry.

The message just gets worse from there. “Keep Duo happy, do your lessons” it says. Then it tells you an ominous parable about your feckless ways: “Every year, learners say they’ll learn a new language and Duo gets excited. Then they almost forgot their lessons, and Duo gets sad. That won’t happen this year, right?“

Then there’s some other distracting guff, before it finishes with an outright threat. “I’m going to make you do your lessons… by any means necessary. No one wants to see Duo when he gets upset. A few minutes of daily practice can keep Duo smiling in 2024. And a happy Duo means a safe and happy you.”

Screw you, Duo. I’ve unsubscribed.

Excuse me!

Typical. You need to use the payphone and some idiot decides to jam a collection of old storage boxes folded into the tight space along with packing material thus taking up all the area I need in order to make my phone call. I mean I can hardly use the phone on the street, everyone will hear my conversation.

I can’t tell you how many times this has happened to me.

Disappointment squared

What does disappointment look like to you? Is it a flaccid (easy now) aubergine that hasn’t managed to grow fully in your allotment? Is it a shiny new 50p coin with a huge dent in the edge? Is it learning that Claire Richards from Steps is coming back with a new solo album? It comes in many shapes and forms and sadly there is no escaping the silky, wet glove that is disappointment.

I recently went on a ship and sailed to a different part of the world. It was excellent all the time (whispers, “all the time”) and even though I must have eaten twice my weight in steak and burgers a good holiday was had by all. The ship was swimming in luxury. If you wanted to sit in a hot tub all day sipping champagne and eating tiny desserts you could. If you wanted to go to their cinema and watch four films back to back you could. If you wanted to watch a questionable stage production by one time flatmate of Robbie Williams, Jonathan Wilkes, then you could (the only time we went to the theatre was on the last day when we were leaving and there was no more time for japes).

Families with children were also catered for on a higher level. In addition to the various play rooms and activities there were pools, swimming pools, pools with pizza stations next to them and some kind of sports facility on the very top deck. I would have investigated however we all know I am allergic to 85% of sports in the general population. Did I mention the pools? They even had a night time nursery service so if you wanted to leave little Billy with a responsible adult so you could go get shit-faced in the bar and then return around 1am to pick him up then you could. You really, really could.

As two adults with no small people there was little chance that we could take advantage of any of these facilities. Not that we wanted to but, hey, nobody likes being left out. When the holiday was being booked there was the hint made by the company that some celebrities who would be onboard for a meet and greet. I heard ‘Wallace’ and ‘Gromit’ and I knew that I had to get involved in this kind of action. For four days there was no mention of them anywhere in the leaflets they left outside your day to inform you about the daily activities going on. Nothing whatsoever. Finally on Wednesday morning, cowering towards the bottom and wedged between something called ‘Jukebox Hero’ and ‘Pilates’, was the following:

“Wallace & Gromit Special Appearance – A special appearance from Wallace and Gromit. Come and say hello to the cheese-loving inventor and his faithful four-legged friend.”

We had to go. There was no way we could miss such an event as this. The queue was very long and started snaking through the whole of the atrium; clearly this was a big event for all. We decided to keep back and watch from afar rather than getting too close. Our location meant we could see everything. Like a couple of divas they were ten minutes late. What then happened can only be… well it needs… look at the damn photo:

Not even two people in suits. We’ve got a fully-sized Wallace and a tiny Gromit that he can fully pick up with one hand, no doubt sewn to his hand because he never put him down. I don’t know if the organisers of this even have ever seen ‘Wallace and Gromit’ but they’re fairly even in height due to the latter walking on his hind legs for a lot of the time. The kids that were hugging and posing for photos were fine with the arrangement; not a single one asked to speak to the manager or had some quiet words with a member of staff. It was clear that we were in the minority so we slipped away and discussed our respective disappointment over coffee and cake.

Newsboost – Marauding mash mutilation mandate

Conservative politician Tub Barsley unexpectedly hit out at mash today in an unprovoked attach critics are calling, “spineless”.

In this morning’s edition of the ‘Daily Porker’, in conversation with political correspondent Felicia Nonstop, Mr Barsley steered very clear of the fence and sat on a rock at least a hundred miles away when expressing his overwhelming disdain for the squashed potato wonderstuff.

“Mash is nobody’s first choice at a pub or restaurant,” explained Mr Barsley, “if you’re given the options you’ll always go with chips because they’re infinitely better. If you’re choosing mash then you need to get your head examined.” It should be pointed out that later on in the article he also compared the act of mashing a potato with dusting your living room in that both activities are completely pointless. Barsley has never been one to mince his words especially when it concerns either food or politics; we all remember his controversial housing plan from September 2020 which was universally panned and vetoed by the House of Commons.

Second in command at the British Mash Council, Christopher Marshall, fought back after reading the egregious comments.

“What kind of a world do we live in when people are allowed to say fragrant lies in the press? I personally have nothing against Tub Barsley,” quipped Mr Marshall, “but he needs to keep his attitude in check. Mash is a beloved addition to any meal and we have statistical data to show that it is a clear 50/50 split between chips and mash at the dinner table. We are hoping that this will slide in our favour given the recent advertising campaign however we are quite happy with where we are right now. Damaging, childish words should be kept under wraps and if Mr Barsley continues with this line then we will be forced to take legal action.”

Tub Barsley, who once set fire to his own mother when lighting candles on her 60th birthday cake, has not commented any further.

Pouring
Beans

Category: Annoyed