On Saturday I went out for food and beer with friends of old that some of which I had not seen in ages. Hazel was feeling under the weather, and still is, almost a week later, so she was in not a mood for dancing and banter, but kept face, staying out for a few hours while she shivered and complained instead of doing the clearly obvious thing of just packing it in and going home to bed. She eventually did this, but didn’t help her self the next night staying up to 5am watch the Oscars live. Don’t ask…
But rewind back to Saturday night for this post, as it concerns a night out. After I sent Hazel packing, I went back to the pub to chat with the fellows left; Steve, Lyndsey, Abby, Louise and Rebecca. Saleem was also there, but his guest appearance in this blog is not of consequence, and also, he probably doesn’t want to be name checked here anyway. If I need to refer to him in anyway after this sentence, it will be as his preferred pseudonym “Proflax”. Again, don’t ask…
We headed to ABC, but after queuing for a while we were turned away at the door for being too large a group. There goes the chance of creating a sequel to last years debauchery. With no Hyder present we had no villain for the night. Proflax (damn) left early, grabbing a taxi home.
So, we went to The Classrooms, the new name for Guru, the newish name for Blanket, the newishish name for Bed. I don’t know what I expected – I hated Blanket and never went to Guru in any case, so my expectations were unknown. Instantly I was very disappointed with the décor, which was exactly the same as Blanket had been. Also, the “music” was awful, a bad mix of R&B and student “classics”, the kind of which students pretend to like because the first time they went to a club aged 17 they heard everyone else screaming when Summer of ’69 came on and followed suit. The more people who take up the annoying trait the further ingrained the ritual will become into the student psyche.
In anycase, all this long preamble serves as a literary example of boring the night had been after we had entered the club – it was okay, but I think my clubbing scene gene has ended the moment I went to Aberdeen; there is nothing like clubbing in Aberdeen to put someone off for life. I needed beer to save the night, and that was not forthcoming being over priced and generally shite.
Then the spot of the night was made: Old School Friends. Wait. Replace “friends” with “bullies” and you are closer to the truth. From previous posts you may think that you already have a good idea of what school was like for me, and you would be right, you do. The members of our school who were there that night were the “cool” kids, the “too-cool-for-school” crew – a defining moment in my youth is when a travelling theatre group did a play about bullying, and stopped mid act to comment on “those at the back who think they are too cool to be here, I have a newsflash. You are not. Get over it”.
At what point in life do you burry the hatchet? We are peers now, not two cliques at a high school. We have all grown-up, gotten older, became young men and women, and have the potential to have a good time together, away from the confines of our groups and preset conceptions of how to react to them.
I could’ve been the bigger man and gone up and said hello to them. But I didn’t. These are my reasons:
1 – Would they remember me? Worrying as it may seem (and hard to believe) but I was quite anonymous at school – the only reason teachers would remember me is that I went out with Hazel and that my sister was more liked than I ever was.
2 – Would they recognise me? This is the most obvious one – I am bigger, heavier, hairier and wear glasses, which equates to the perfect disguise. I suppose a cursory glace at my Bebo page would rule that one out.
3 – Most importantly, would it be of any point? I am passed those days that I want to be friends with them. From 1st year to 3rd year I would have killed to be part of the groups they worked in, but now I glad I didn’t, as the friends I have came out on the other side with are both excellent and perfect for me.
Also, these are the folks who really did make our lives hell at school – occasionally, in the later years they were tolerable, but that was because they began to see what we were, the people who would end up doing well, degrees and suchlike. They wanted us to help them and teach them when the homeworks were sent out.
In hindsight, after the night, I reliased that the only reason I would have really went over would have been curiousity, to see where they had got to with their results and their life paths. I also imagine that it would be to brag about myself have been, in the modest way I can, successful to an extent. Would this make me as bad as they were at school?
I am over analysing this by a long shot. Would you have said “Hello”?
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Friday, February 22, 2008
The Tale of Rock Steady 12: Burger Vans and Bigger Fans
The Untold Tales of Rock Steady: Bigger Fans Means More Broken Lifts.
Pies and Bovril are the staple diet of any keen football supporter, and at all costs should at lest be ate once a weekend, no matter what ground you go to or what the score line is. The lucky thing is that inside the stadium there are no shortage of over priced middens that take extortionate amounts of momeny from your hand in exchange for horrible food and over heated drinks. When working for Rock Steady, your options are fairly limited to albeit a few choices, some of which I can stomach, others, not so.
The advantage I have, obviously, is that whilst I am working I am above the law, so to speak - I can leave the stadium. Not beacause I get special treatment, but when you are opening and closing doors on Rangers fans faces you do get a chance to slip out of the door, smirking as you walk past all the grimy Glaswegian faces while they wait to get in. The problem is that around Ibrox there is almost no amnemities, like a sandwich shop or even a McDonalds.
While I was working for Rock Steady every penny counted, as I was really skint most of the time I lived in that flat and worked there. I managed to just stay above the line, despite heavy handed efforts by the Banks to really screw me up, but in fairness, I brought a few bits on it my self.
Anyway, this particular afternoon I felt flushing have a few quid in my pocket, buring a large hole, just shouting "I Need to be Spent!", and who am I to aruge with entropy?
So outside I head, to the Rock Steady van that gave us fair discounts on the shitty burger and, well, I can't complain too much about the coke - I suppose it could have been colder. The burger (and I am a sort of expert on these things) was awful - no taste, only the feeling of slimy fried onions and cheese that is so rubber it should be attached to the bottom of my car. The bun was stale, and probably had just been defrosted that morning.
So I am standing there, eating the burger, when an asian fellow comes up to the van. He works for Rock Steady, and speaks very little english, like a few of the crowd of misfits. I worked in the hospitality area, so I don't wear a yellow jacket, so I am standing there, munching on the worst food I have eaten in a long time, as he asks the most incredible question:
"Do you serve Halal burgers?"
The asian man who is dishing the burgers out looks back. I stop putting the garbage to my mouth - this will make a good blog later on. The owner just looks at him, and says, straight faced, "This ain't fucking Parkhead mate!".
I don't know what that means instantly, but I smile. The steward turns to me, sees me smiling, and shouts at me "You fucking racist, just cause I can't eat the shit you are eating!" and I start to go red, as suddenly I am in one of those situations that I have no social training for dealing with. I shurg apologetically, and start to make back for the safety of the stadium, as he shouts after me "You hospitality pricks are all the fucking same inint*". As I jump into the stand, my colleague asks me "Whit wis that aw aboot?"
"He asked for Halal burger." I say, panting, half laughing.
"Aye they have one when we work out at Parkhead."
"Seriously?" I ask.
"Yeah, best burgers too."
This is the first of five new Rock Steady posts, some that have lain in the drafts for a while as sketches, and have been rewritten partly, or are stories that I have not told previously.
*I though for a while I would leave "init" out as it might be racist, but I have decided it might be more racist to edit what was say to not be racist than just leaving it in.
Pies and Bovril are the staple diet of any keen football supporter, and at all costs should at lest be ate once a weekend, no matter what ground you go to or what the score line is. The lucky thing is that inside the stadium there are no shortage of over priced middens that take extortionate amounts of momeny from your hand in exchange for horrible food and over heated drinks. When working for Rock Steady, your options are fairly limited to albeit a few choices, some of which I can stomach, others, not so.
The advantage I have, obviously, is that whilst I am working I am above the law, so to speak - I can leave the stadium. Not beacause I get special treatment, but when you are opening and closing doors on Rangers fans faces you do get a chance to slip out of the door, smirking as you walk past all the grimy Glaswegian faces while they wait to get in. The problem is that around Ibrox there is almost no amnemities, like a sandwich shop or even a McDonalds.
While I was working for Rock Steady every penny counted, as I was really skint most of the time I lived in that flat and worked there. I managed to just stay above the line, despite heavy handed efforts by the Banks to really screw me up, but in fairness, I brought a few bits on it my self.
Anyway, this particular afternoon I felt flushing have a few quid in my pocket, buring a large hole, just shouting "I Need to be Spent!", and who am I to aruge with entropy?
So outside I head, to the Rock Steady van that gave us fair discounts on the shitty burger and, well, I can't complain too much about the coke - I suppose it could have been colder. The burger (and I am a sort of expert on these things) was awful - no taste, only the feeling of slimy fried onions and cheese that is so rubber it should be attached to the bottom of my car. The bun was stale, and probably had just been defrosted that morning.
So I am standing there, eating the burger, when an asian fellow comes up to the van. He works for Rock Steady, and speaks very little english, like a few of the crowd of misfits. I worked in the hospitality area, so I don't wear a yellow jacket, so I am standing there, munching on the worst food I have eaten in a long time, as he asks the most incredible question:
"Do you serve Halal burgers?"
The asian man who is dishing the burgers out looks back. I stop putting the garbage to my mouth - this will make a good blog later on. The owner just looks at him, and says, straight faced, "This ain't fucking Parkhead mate!".
I don't know what that means instantly, but I smile. The steward turns to me, sees me smiling, and shouts at me "You fucking racist, just cause I can't eat the shit you are eating!" and I start to go red, as suddenly I am in one of those situations that I have no social training for dealing with. I shurg apologetically, and start to make back for the safety of the stadium, as he shouts after me "You hospitality pricks are all the fucking same inint*". As I jump into the stand, my colleague asks me "Whit wis that aw aboot?"
"He asked for Halal burger." I say, panting, half laughing.
"Aye they have one when we work out at Parkhead."
"Seriously?" I ask.
"Yeah, best burgers too."
This is the first of five new Rock Steady posts, some that have lain in the drafts for a while as sketches, and have been rewritten partly, or are stories that I have not told previously.
*I though for a while I would leave "init" out as it might be racist, but I have decided it might be more racist to edit what was say to not be racist than just leaving it in.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Insanity Crash Dreams: FAX
I have some of the most trippy dreams I know of. I rarely have anything worthwhile talking about these days, so I thought it would be funny (and informative if you are a dream reader) that I should talk about a recent dream I had.
This one was particularly mental. I was in the office, at work, just sitting at my computer. There was no screen, but I was still typing in and checking to if it spelled everything correctly. The letters were forming mid air above the keyboard, that had not appeared yet. I sometimes have dremas like computer games that have scratched discs, where something that I know and think to be there don’t actually exist, like the engine has not loaded it yet. Everytime this happens I expect a loading bar or an hourglass while my imagination creates on out of nothing.
So, I am working, but what on I can’t make out. The text is blurred and it feels like I am typing hundreds of words a second but not really thinking about.
I suddenly stop, and go to print this document. The paper appears out of the printer which is attached to the desk, like it was always there, and I pick it up. It now reads “Eurostar” in massive bold letters, and I say to my colleague, who I am now standing next to whilst at the printer (notice that now I have jumped to being at the printer, no longer at my desk – that loading problem again) “Better file this” and head over to a persons desk. They have no face – or at least it isn’t loaded yet. I hand them the paper, upon which they grab it and it vanishes.
They tell me that they travel each day up and down to work on the Eurostar, and I start to read what their screen says (oh yeah, they have a screen and again we are suddenly at his desk. When I said we were heading over to his desk we were walking along a country lane outside).
They have the Wood Group timesheet system up and he has inputted 300 hours a day for a week, with 43 minutes of overtime. He turns to me and says “Whatchawhatchawhatchawant” in the style of Beastie Boys, and I reply by throwing a fax machine at a brick wall, outside in the car park.
At this point I start to wake up, hearing my alarm on my phone in the distance, and the last thought I have on this dream is a Guitar talking to me. It is saying the riff from Layla.
And I wake up. This is typical of the dreams I have.
This one was particularly mental. I was in the office, at work, just sitting at my computer. There was no screen, but I was still typing in and checking to if it spelled everything correctly. The letters were forming mid air above the keyboard, that had not appeared yet. I sometimes have dremas like computer games that have scratched discs, where something that I know and think to be there don’t actually exist, like the engine has not loaded it yet. Everytime this happens I expect a loading bar or an hourglass while my imagination creates on out of nothing.
So, I am working, but what on I can’t make out. The text is blurred and it feels like I am typing hundreds of words a second but not really thinking about.
I suddenly stop, and go to print this document. The paper appears out of the printer which is attached to the desk, like it was always there, and I pick it up. It now reads “Eurostar” in massive bold letters, and I say to my colleague, who I am now standing next to whilst at the printer (notice that now I have jumped to being at the printer, no longer at my desk – that loading problem again) “Better file this” and head over to a persons desk. They have no face – or at least it isn’t loaded yet. I hand them the paper, upon which they grab it and it vanishes.
They tell me that they travel each day up and down to work on the Eurostar, and I start to read what their screen says (oh yeah, they have a screen and again we are suddenly at his desk. When I said we were heading over to his desk we were walking along a country lane outside).
They have the Wood Group timesheet system up and he has inputted 300 hours a day for a week, with 43 minutes of overtime. He turns to me and says “Whatchawhatchawhatchawant” in the style of Beastie Boys, and I reply by throwing a fax machine at a brick wall, outside in the car park.
At this point I start to wake up, hearing my alarm on my phone in the distance, and the last thought I have on this dream is a Guitar talking to me. It is saying the riff from Layla.
And I wake up. This is typical of the dreams I have.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Insanity Crash: Cabling - The pre-rant epiphany, the theory of entropy.
“It is a measure of the randomness of molecules in a system. Entropy is central to the second law of thermodynamics and the combined law of thermodynamics, which deal with physical processes and whether they occur spontaneously. Spontaneous changes, in isolated systems, occur with an increase in entropy.”
Entropy is the reason why things go wrong, or get lost. It is all about an ordered system, and natures method of disordering these systems to increase entropy. The following brainwave came to me during my time reading A Brief History of Time by Stephen Hawking, and answers all the questions I had previously had about cables, a subject of a few aborted rants previously.
I hate cables. I hate the wires that link my telly to the various input devices. I hate the wires from my headphones to the MP3 player or laptop. I hate the power cords from my laptop to my plug. They do a job, but also have a massive flaw – they get tangled.
This ha been the bane of my life ever since I changed from ring-headphones to in-ear headphones, the like of which I have now. But with the knowledge of entropy I now know why it happens, and also, that I am now powerless to stop it. You see, there are a few arrows that occur nature, two of which we perceive all the time. The arrow of time, for us, is going “forwards” but in fairness, could it not go backwards? The reason we don’t remember the future is that this goes forwards – we can’t go backwards in time by just turinging around on this dimension, in the way we can turn around on any of the other three dimensions we inhabit.
The second arrow is that of entropy, one that goes from an ordered state to a disordered state. This is at odds with the expansion of the universe, but Stephen deals with that slightly better than I can here. My point is this; our entropy arrow goes from ordered to disorder, an increase in entropy. This is our cabling scenario – it goes from the wound, un tangled, ordered system, to the disordered, tangled, messy system with an increase in entropy. The engery needed to input to the system to reorganise it balances the laws of energy conservation out.
This brings the point up that what would happen if the system was left to just disorder forever? Would it become so disordered it would reorder itself? I don’t know for sure, but the cables behind my telly are on the way to finding that out.
Entropy is the reason why things go wrong, or get lost. It is all about an ordered system, and natures method of disordering these systems to increase entropy. The following brainwave came to me during my time reading A Brief History of Time by Stephen Hawking, and answers all the questions I had previously had about cables, a subject of a few aborted rants previously.
I hate cables. I hate the wires that link my telly to the various input devices. I hate the wires from my headphones to the MP3 player or laptop. I hate the power cords from my laptop to my plug. They do a job, but also have a massive flaw – they get tangled.
This ha been the bane of my life ever since I changed from ring-headphones to in-ear headphones, the like of which I have now. But with the knowledge of entropy I now know why it happens, and also, that I am now powerless to stop it. You see, there are a few arrows that occur nature, two of which we perceive all the time. The arrow of time, for us, is going “forwards” but in fairness, could it not go backwards? The reason we don’t remember the future is that this goes forwards – we can’t go backwards in time by just turinging around on this dimension, in the way we can turn around on any of the other three dimensions we inhabit.
The second arrow is that of entropy, one that goes from an ordered state to a disordered state. This is at odds with the expansion of the universe, but Stephen deals with that slightly better than I can here. My point is this; our entropy arrow goes from ordered to disorder, an increase in entropy. This is our cabling scenario – it goes from the wound, un tangled, ordered system, to the disordered, tangled, messy system with an increase in entropy. The engery needed to input to the system to reorganise it balances the laws of energy conservation out.
This brings the point up that what would happen if the system was left to just disorder forever? Would it become so disordered it would reorder itself? I don’t know for sure, but the cables behind my telly are on the way to finding that out.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Insanity Crash: The Ragged Tale of My Conscience and I
I am very very tired right now. I write this post at 4.09am on the 14th of February 2008, sitting in an office on the Forties Bravo. I have been sitting here for almost 10 hours, and I am completley drained. I have done a bit of work, but seeing as I have finished what I had been sent out here to do, I suppose I am allowed to sit about, reading the internet, stuck, with my intellect, missing out on the watchings of porn videos and swearing.
I feel like floatsem, idly passing my life by, watching as my hair grows and my eyes tire, listening to the noises of an electronic orchestra punctuated with the devilsh sounds of men, acting out their maleness in a rather discomforting way. In this moment, I feel the most alone I have ever felt on this platform, and probably, in my life. This is because everyone in the room, about the size of a tennis half-court, doesnot know who I am or what I do.
It is like sitting in an airport departure lounge on your own waiting for your delayed flight to appear on the departure board. It is like sitting in a Doctors waiting room whilst people who arrived after you are seen before you. It is like walking through town at night with people that you have only just met that night, who are talking to you about things that you have no interest or experience in. The listlessness is almost calculable.
Sitting here doing nothing is also a big pull on my mind. I am being paid for being out here, and it is not a small amount of cash for me. I think "What value am I" when for the last 24 hours I have been treading water, waiting for the flight that will remove from this void of emptyness. I feel that I am skiving, and someone should give me into trouble - but the people who know what I should be doing are no longer here, and even if they were what could they tell me to do? I am truly finished. Without access to Google Docs, I have wasted hours on message forums, pushing the limits to where I think I can take the internet.
There are men on here who obviously don't give a shit, watching porn, films, and doing nothing for hours on end, without any sideways glance to the new child in our midst, who could if he so fancied, blow the cover on ths hive on inactivity. This trip, shorter and much more intriguing, has led me to believe that the Empty Hours, those between 2am and 6am, are the worst in anyones life, and I truly hope that the next time I have to go on this platform I will stand my ground and say it will only be if I am nightshift. I can only stand so much faffing around and doing nothing before my whole mind will cave in and I will have to go and do some charity work.
I feel like floatsem, idly passing my life by, watching as my hair grows and my eyes tire, listening to the noises of an electronic orchestra punctuated with the devilsh sounds of men, acting out their maleness in a rather discomforting way. In this moment, I feel the most alone I have ever felt on this platform, and probably, in my life. This is because everyone in the room, about the size of a tennis half-court, doesnot know who I am or what I do.
It is like sitting in an airport departure lounge on your own waiting for your delayed flight to appear on the departure board. It is like sitting in a Doctors waiting room whilst people who arrived after you are seen before you. It is like walking through town at night with people that you have only just met that night, who are talking to you about things that you have no interest or experience in. The listlessness is almost calculable.
Sitting here doing nothing is also a big pull on my mind. I am being paid for being out here, and it is not a small amount of cash for me. I think "What value am I" when for the last 24 hours I have been treading water, waiting for the flight that will remove from this void of emptyness. I feel that I am skiving, and someone should give me into trouble - but the people who know what I should be doing are no longer here, and even if they were what could they tell me to do? I am truly finished. Without access to Google Docs, I have wasted hours on message forums, pushing the limits to where I think I can take the internet.
There are men on here who obviously don't give a shit, watching porn, films, and doing nothing for hours on end, without any sideways glance to the new child in our midst, who could if he so fancied, blow the cover on ths hive on inactivity. This trip, shorter and much more intriguing, has led me to believe that the Empty Hours, those between 2am and 6am, are the worst in anyones life, and I truly hope that the next time I have to go on this platform I will stand my ground and say it will only be if I am nightshift. I can only stand so much faffing around and doing nothing before my whole mind will cave in and I will have to go and do some charity work.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
1 Year - The Tale of Rock Steady 11: The Famous Two
365 Days, or there about, and whoosh, a year is passed. It is quite funny to think that a year ago I, on a whim, decided to start writing to this blog. I have no idea where the name came from, or even what I planned to write on it, but Rock Steady sorted all that out. I have no idea how many people read this, or anyone who reads it enjoys it, but all I really want it to enjoy writing it, and I do. So, a few days ago I asked the few that read this to let me know what posts they have enjoyed while reading the blog. I said I would do a sort of commentary about it, but when I tried to I got sucked into reading every post I did, and think it is almost like a diary. A few of the posts I remember writing and could almost tell you what I had written of by heart, but a few I surprised by. So, what will I write about? How about a Tale of Rock Steady?
The Tale of Rock Steady 11: The Famous Two
When trying to find something to talk to about people who are far more removed from anyone I have worked with, the tales that I wrote about last year whilst I worked for Rock Steady are always good ice breakers, and also I can get some nice raport with a football fan when I start talking about the players I have met, and the stadiums I have worked in. Also, mentioning that I worked at Murrayfield has helped me get some success with English and Welsh members of the team. It is a good thing to have in the locker.
Retreading old stories have helped me hone my story telling skills, but one story I have told to a few while ambling through my mind is one that I never wrote on this blog, for reasons that I cannot remember or rhyme.
It takes place during a football match between Rangers and someone, the other team's name I can't recall. In various versions of the story I replace the unknown team with Falkirk or Motherwell, a team that not only is normally neutral, but rarely is there anyone who can put holes into the story. Does this make me a bad person? I am working the hospitality area and within a few minutes of standing around doing nothing I am shoved into a lift.
The lift is the small one, and is in the centre of the stadium. Fans call it the David Murray lift. It has already featured in a post, with the one where I devilshly mess about with the code that has to be entered in to start it working. On this very day I am sitting on the top floor of the stand, at the Club Deck. This lift is for hospitality memebers to use, and not normally for fans. Hence the code entering.
But for some reason, these two men in their suits call the lift. Either they get lucky or they knew the code. The doors open and I am powerless to stop them from getting into the lift. I suppose once you are past the physcial barrier of a few inches of steel, using words and politeness to stave off the persons is a bit silly.
They ask to go to the bottom floor, which is the dressing room area. Who am I to question it? They knew the code and the also knew the floor the dressing room was on, so why not let them go? We trundle down the lift shaft, with the two suits continuing their conversation from before the go into the lift. I only remember on phrase from their conversation "I can't believe we managed it."
Suspicions are rising with every breath they take. Should I ask them?
So, the doors open as the lift reaches the bottom. I let them out and my supervisor is stadning there. She smiles at the suits, and then walks into the lift.
"Who were they?"
"Eh, I don't know" I reply.
"Did you not check who they were?"
"I didn't, they knew the code to get in."
"Hmmm" she wonders. I am getting more and more worried by the second. "Let me find out who they are."
Minutes later she returns.
"I know who they were." she says.
I breathe a sigh of relief, "Who were they?"
"Alan McGregor and Alex Rae" she explains.
"Ah" I say. "Who?" I think. I recognise the names but I can't for the life of me remember who they work for. I am racking my brains - were they on the list I was given? Should I know them from the brief?
"They play for Rangers" she confirms, smiling, walking away.
So they were nobodies then.
The Tale of Rock Steady 11: The Famous Two
When trying to find something to talk to about people who are far more removed from anyone I have worked with, the tales that I wrote about last year whilst I worked for Rock Steady are always good ice breakers, and also I can get some nice raport with a football fan when I start talking about the players I have met, and the stadiums I have worked in. Also, mentioning that I worked at Murrayfield has helped me get some success with English and Welsh members of the team. It is a good thing to have in the locker.
Retreading old stories have helped me hone my story telling skills, but one story I have told to a few while ambling through my mind is one that I never wrote on this blog, for reasons that I cannot remember or rhyme.
It takes place during a football match between Rangers and someone, the other team's name I can't recall. In various versions of the story I replace the unknown team with Falkirk or Motherwell, a team that not only is normally neutral, but rarely is there anyone who can put holes into the story. Does this make me a bad person? I am working the hospitality area and within a few minutes of standing around doing nothing I am shoved into a lift.
The lift is the small one, and is in the centre of the stadium. Fans call it the David Murray lift. It has already featured in a post, with the one where I devilshly mess about with the code that has to be entered in to start it working. On this very day I am sitting on the top floor of the stand, at the Club Deck. This lift is for hospitality memebers to use, and not normally for fans. Hence the code entering.
But for some reason, these two men in their suits call the lift. Either they get lucky or they knew the code. The doors open and I am powerless to stop them from getting into the lift. I suppose once you are past the physcial barrier of a few inches of steel, using words and politeness to stave off the persons is a bit silly.
They ask to go to the bottom floor, which is the dressing room area. Who am I to question it? They knew the code and the also knew the floor the dressing room was on, so why not let them go? We trundle down the lift shaft, with the two suits continuing their conversation from before the go into the lift. I only remember on phrase from their conversation "I can't believe we managed it."
Suspicions are rising with every breath they take. Should I ask them?
So, the doors open as the lift reaches the bottom. I let them out and my supervisor is stadning there. She smiles at the suits, and then walks into the lift.
"Who were they?"
"Eh, I don't know" I reply.
"Did you not check who they were?"
"I didn't, they knew the code to get in."
"Hmmm" she wonders. I am getting more and more worried by the second. "Let me find out who they are."
Minutes later she returns.
"I know who they were." she says.
I breathe a sigh of relief, "Who were they?"
"Alan McGregor and Alex Rae" she explains.
"Ah" I say. "Who?" I think. I recognise the names but I can't for the life of me remember who they work for. I am racking my brains - were they on the list I was given? Should I know them from the brief?
"They play for Rangers" she confirms, smiling, walking away.
So they were nobodies then.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Insanity Crash Dreams: Mortality
Death. What a word to use to start a blog post, but it is what this post is about. There are three things that make me totally inept to post about such a heavy subject, but seeing as I am offshore on nights, I thought it best to take some time out to have a little blog.
The first thing is that I am an atheist. In my view of the world I see death as a finality, the end, and a total finish to your existence. If you think differently to myself then you might find this a hard fact to bear but I take great solace from it – this life is all we get and I am so glad to have it. A good postulation by Bill Bryson is if you think about all the chance events that have to have taken place to get you to where you are, alive, when you think about all the crazy things and coincidences and mysteries that had to happen to allow you to spark to life, it is strange to think we have even the arrogance to assume there is something else. Everything else on this planet has the same right to be here as we have, and are as evolved (if not more) than we are, so thinking we have some right to life after death – and death is something that not only happens all the time but to everything – when almost everything else doesn’t is a majestic hallmark of the intellect we posses.
Secondly, I am totally an amateur when it comes to death itself. I have only been to two funerals, and the first one was my Grandfather, my mum’s father, 10 years ago this year. I remember little about it being 13 at the time, but I do remember the tradegy and suddenness of it, and the tone of my aunt’s phone call which I answered to pass it on to my Mum. I remember my dad taking me aside one night, and telling me my Mum was being very brave in front of Lynn and myself, and I admire her for the strength she had.
Thirdly, the other funeral I went to was a different kind. The kind you don’t factor into talks about funerals. It was the funeral of Janet, the cleaner that worked in the Link that I worked in. There was a generational and class gap between Janet and I, but the thing was I really got on well with her – it was hard not to. I had good banter with her when we worked and she holds a place in my life that is irreversible, important, and rather sweet – she bought me my first ever pint in a pub. Being told of her passing was shocking – on the stairs, in the basement, near the stockroom, and that feeling that many have when they attend their first funeral was probably totally different from mine – it was a friend, someone exclusive from the bubble of relative-death feelings.
The inredible thing was that during the ceremony I felt outside of the grief because it was a catholic service. I have not been to any kind of church, so sitting there with a mutual (and probably at an even more increased degree for other reasons) pariah was disconcerting, but in the time of grief this friend and I went for lunch and over a few burgers and cokes became closer friends than we have been. I suppose in my world view this makes no difference to the sum of all things, but if Janet’s beliefs mean that in fact she does know what her passing created between the two of us, then which one counts?
The reason I have been spurred to write a post about death was a dream I had last night.* Basically, in this dream, someone very close to me, a family member in effect, died. I will not reveal the member or the circumstances, but it was such a vivid dream that I lay awake for an hour or so contemplating the emotions and even started to write this post on my phone before packing it in.
This was supposed to be a humorous post about a mental dream I had (it is even saved as a draft in my blogger account) but this seemed a more appropriate way of starting a new series. Feeling burned out? Try Jonathan’s Death, Trivialised to cheer you up.
The first thing is that I am an atheist. In my view of the world I see death as a finality, the end, and a total finish to your existence. If you think differently to myself then you might find this a hard fact to bear but I take great solace from it – this life is all we get and I am so glad to have it. A good postulation by Bill Bryson is if you think about all the chance events that have to have taken place to get you to where you are, alive, when you think about all the crazy things and coincidences and mysteries that had to happen to allow you to spark to life, it is strange to think we have even the arrogance to assume there is something else. Everything else on this planet has the same right to be here as we have, and are as evolved (if not more) than we are, so thinking we have some right to life after death – and death is something that not only happens all the time but to everything – when almost everything else doesn’t is a majestic hallmark of the intellect we posses.
Secondly, I am totally an amateur when it comes to death itself. I have only been to two funerals, and the first one was my Grandfather, my mum’s father, 10 years ago this year. I remember little about it being 13 at the time, but I do remember the tradegy and suddenness of it, and the tone of my aunt’s phone call which I answered to pass it on to my Mum. I remember my dad taking me aside one night, and telling me my Mum was being very brave in front of Lynn and myself, and I admire her for the strength she had.
Thirdly, the other funeral I went to was a different kind. The kind you don’t factor into talks about funerals. It was the funeral of Janet, the cleaner that worked in the Link that I worked in. There was a generational and class gap between Janet and I, but the thing was I really got on well with her – it was hard not to. I had good banter with her when we worked and she holds a place in my life that is irreversible, important, and rather sweet – she bought me my first ever pint in a pub. Being told of her passing was shocking – on the stairs, in the basement, near the stockroom, and that feeling that many have when they attend their first funeral was probably totally different from mine – it was a friend, someone exclusive from the bubble of relative-death feelings.
The inredible thing was that during the ceremony I felt outside of the grief because it was a catholic service. I have not been to any kind of church, so sitting there with a mutual (and probably at an even more increased degree for other reasons) pariah was disconcerting, but in the time of grief this friend and I went for lunch and over a few burgers and cokes became closer friends than we have been. I suppose in my world view this makes no difference to the sum of all things, but if Janet’s beliefs mean that in fact she does know what her passing created between the two of us, then which one counts?
The reason I have been spurred to write a post about death was a dream I had last night.* Basically, in this dream, someone very close to me, a family member in effect, died. I will not reveal the member or the circumstances, but it was such a vivid dream that I lay awake for an hour or so contemplating the emotions and even started to write this post on my phone before packing it in.
This was supposed to be a humorous post about a mental dream I had (it is even saved as a draft in my blogger account) but this seemed a more appropriate way of starting a new series. Feeling burned out? Try Jonathan’s Death, Trivialised to cheer you up.
Thursday, February 07, 2008
The Tale of Chemical Engineering (Part 2 of 1)
Before reading this post, read this post: http://justanothersheeldz.blogspot.com/2007/05/tale-of-chemical-engineering-part-1-of.html
Read it? Good. Nine months ago I posted this amidst what I would call “the end of predetermined youth”, which I think everyone who has lasted those years from the ages 5 to 21 being taught year in year out goes through, and seeing as it is possibly the only post I have put up here that is truly revealing, I think that it should be revisited. This will hopefully be rather cathartic, in the same way that the previous post was.
Basically, the crux was I was worried about deciding. Not that I am indecisive, at least, I’m not sure if I am, but I was worried that the decision I made would determine the rest of my life, which to anyone is a rather disconcerting moment.
On the other side of the decision, with what one of my contemporaries called “hindsight”, I suppose I can ally my fears with some good old fashioned perspective, but I still stand by the fact that this might not be what I want to do.
So, I have been working here for 6 months this month, and this means that I am going to be half a year into the rest of my life, and also means that I should have a good feeling for this life and this lifestyle. So, the good points.
Firstly, I am enjoying what I am doing. I work the usual shifts and feel for the meantime, that I am part of the team and that what I do is not surplus to requirements. I have my own little project, direct contact with the client, and basically get offshore when ever I need to, which I can imagine for any prospective engineer is a damn good place to be.
Also, the money is good. But, I hear you say, “Money isn’t everything!”. The problem is, it actually is. It allows for me to buy stuff that I enjoy, eat things I like and can live in a place I really do like too. Also, it keeps others happy too when I am slightly flush. There are a few problems, such as large car payments and others, but the bonus of offshore work is the rather large bonus you get when you come back. I am not ashamed of the amount of money I got paid for 2 weeks offshore, and if someone wants to know, I can tell them.
Finally, I also like the banter. There are some really good people in the office that I can get on with which is much better than there being a few total tools. Infact, there is only one person that is slightly annoying but seeing as he is neither in my department, nor do I ever talk to him, my happiness is high and my work ethic is well balance. Sounds good to me.
There are a few bad points, and this is why I still am not sure about what I want to do. There is the problem of location – I live 150 miles from where the person I love does, which puts a bit of strain on the relationship. Also, having to work offshore lines the pockets but doesn’t help things from either end.
The work can be boring as hell as well as enjoyable. When offshore I ran out of things to do and for the first time since Air Pollution classes, I was bored till my balls fell off. I had simply to wait until I was to go home – my most recent trip, which begins on Saturday the 9th should be much quicker, only being 5 days and that I have a stack of stuff to do aswell.
The final problem is that I still have those pangs of obscurity. I don’t want to be famous but I do want to do something different, and I feel that this blog and Sleepwalk Capsules are kind of a moonlighting type thing, but my dream is to be able to do it for a real publication.
My point seems to be this, and echoes a point made in the prequel post. “Forget about jobs or anything afterwards, do something that you will feel passionate about, and will have the most "fun" doing.” The thing I have found while working is not only is the first part still true, I am finding even though I didn’t stay true to that, when I chose academics over ambitions, you can still do the second part.
“After all, that's the only thing that is important.”
Read it? Good. Nine months ago I posted this amidst what I would call “the end of predetermined youth”, which I think everyone who has lasted those years from the ages 5 to 21 being taught year in year out goes through, and seeing as it is possibly the only post I have put up here that is truly revealing, I think that it should be revisited. This will hopefully be rather cathartic, in the same way that the previous post was.
Basically, the crux was I was worried about deciding. Not that I am indecisive, at least, I’m not sure if I am, but I was worried that the decision I made would determine the rest of my life, which to anyone is a rather disconcerting moment.
On the other side of the decision, with what one of my contemporaries called “hindsight”, I suppose I can ally my fears with some good old fashioned perspective, but I still stand by the fact that this might not be what I want to do.
So, I have been working here for 6 months this month, and this means that I am going to be half a year into the rest of my life, and also means that I should have a good feeling for this life and this lifestyle. So, the good points.
Firstly, I am enjoying what I am doing. I work the usual shifts and feel for the meantime, that I am part of the team and that what I do is not surplus to requirements. I have my own little project, direct contact with the client, and basically get offshore when ever I need to, which I can imagine for any prospective engineer is a damn good place to be.
Also, the money is good. But, I hear you say, “Money isn’t everything!”. The problem is, it actually is. It allows for me to buy stuff that I enjoy, eat things I like and can live in a place I really do like too. Also, it keeps others happy too when I am slightly flush. There are a few problems, such as large car payments and others, but the bonus of offshore work is the rather large bonus you get when you come back. I am not ashamed of the amount of money I got paid for 2 weeks offshore, and if someone wants to know, I can tell them.
Finally, I also like the banter. There are some really good people in the office that I can get on with which is much better than there being a few total tools. Infact, there is only one person that is slightly annoying but seeing as he is neither in my department, nor do I ever talk to him, my happiness is high and my work ethic is well balance. Sounds good to me.
There are a few bad points, and this is why I still am not sure about what I want to do. There is the problem of location – I live 150 miles from where the person I love does, which puts a bit of strain on the relationship. Also, having to work offshore lines the pockets but doesn’t help things from either end.
The work can be boring as hell as well as enjoyable. When offshore I ran out of things to do and for the first time since Air Pollution classes, I was bored till my balls fell off. I had simply to wait until I was to go home – my most recent trip, which begins on Saturday the 9th should be much quicker, only being 5 days and that I have a stack of stuff to do aswell.
The final problem is that I still have those pangs of obscurity. I don’t want to be famous but I do want to do something different, and I feel that this blog and Sleepwalk Capsules are kind of a moonlighting type thing, but my dream is to be able to do it for a real publication.
My point seems to be this, and echoes a point made in the prequel post. “Forget about jobs or anything afterwards, do something that you will feel passionate about, and will have the most "fun" doing.” The thing I have found while working is not only is the first part still true, I am finding even though I didn’t stay true to that, when I chose academics over ambitions, you can still do the second part.
“After all, that's the only thing that is important.”
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
Insanity Crash: Mark & Neds: A Serial Piece about Glasgow’s Ne’er-do-wells 2
The last post on this was way back on the 25th October, so instead of this being the serial that I was expecting or hoping, this post is more like a sequel. In my childhood my runnings with the Neds were quite frequent, and this can be attributed to a few things. Firstly, I live in an area with a smattering of them, being in the cusp of Working Class and Middle Class housing. Also, I went to a state school that’s catchment area is not the most desirable. Above all, however, it the deep-end throwing of those first few days, and years, of high school.
I remember my first day at high school very well. I can remember the excitement, the nervousness, the height, and I can also remember my first ever mistake. When I was walking up the grass that used to line the car park (now where the new building is – how “the school I went to” has became “where I went to school” is rather sad) I saw someone I recognised – so I said hello. “Hello” I said, “It is Saleem isn’t it?”
“No, I’m Imran.”
First and last time I would ever get the two mixed up.
The dividing of the children into the classes was rather barbaric, being told I was in 1D would be hilarious – every single one of my friends was ending up in 1B and 1E. There were a few I recognised, namely the Neds from our school.
By the end of the day, I was sure there had been mistake – not to sound arrogant (or a bastard) but I was the smartest guy in class, and that is a fact. Those who know me will be able to gauge just how bad the rest of the class must have been, and for this reason, the teachers always seemed to have a slight sympathy for me. I remember Mrs Jeyes commenting that even though I was rubbish at spelling, she was surprised at the practical class split. I also remember Mr Hamilton, our techy teacher in 2nd year taking me aside and said “I want you to do this in 3rd year, only for my own sake.” I didn’t really get why at the time, but now I can smell his cigarette breath and hear the rest of the class in the background, dawning realisation on my head.
But this is supposed to be about neds, and I think I have gone too far into the future from when the story takes place. So, head back into first year, and our science class, and into our first ever project – The Solar System.
So, as previously said, we had just got our first PC that year before, so when I told my father that I had a project, we set about using Encarta 95, AutoCAD, and the Inter-net to get my information and present my project with. So, diagrams were drawn, admittedly, by me using my hand and translated into real drawings by my father and a bit by me. I still have no idea how to use AutoCAD properly, even after doing a year long class on it at University. Encarta was transcribed, and some of the text was copied, but mostly I rewrote what I wanted in the project. If my memory serves me right I think all text that we copied had actually been cited, saying it had been CRTL+Ced.
So, I was feeling smug. I handed it in, to notice that mine was the only one done by a PC.
A week later, and the results were announced to the class. As you may know, my last name tends to be at the end of alphabetical lists, with the proliferation of Mc’s in the classrooms, so lots of results had been read out before mine. Picture the scene…
“O’Hagan, 16 of out 20.”
“Phillips, 12 out of 20.”
“Shields…”
And I waited.
“…2 out of 20”.
Time stopped. The class, who knew I was a smart (and by the definition of the time, gay) pupil, audibly gasped. One member, sitting directly in front of me, turned round and said something. I can’t remember hearing it as all the blood in body has gone to my cheeks – I think I went Infrared. The teacher, the late Mr Allan, added “Because copying it out of a book is not doing what I asked.” And my heart collapsed. A little part of me died inside, as I walked up to collect it. He was wobbling with anger – later, I would learn that was the drink – and I slunked back to the bench, totally destroyed. To say I was upset is an understatement.
My mum phoned the school. My father was enraged. My sister had no idea what was going on. Basically, my mum was shocked at the teacher’s ignorance, and also devastated that the amount of effort (nigh as a family no less) had amounted to nothing. So, in true geek style, he changed the marks, after the head teacher and the guidance teacher had became involved. He apologised to me after class one day, after sitting me down and taking me through the report page by page, asking me questions on the subjects – something he should have done in the first place really - just to check I had sorted it out, and did it for real.
After that though, I was a hero. I had both been embarrassed in front of the whole class giving undue hilarity and also proved the teacher wrong to boot. Neds knew then that I was the guy to ask the questions, to give them the answers. Probably saved my skin a few times too…
I remember my first day at high school very well. I can remember the excitement, the nervousness, the height, and I can also remember my first ever mistake. When I was walking up the grass that used to line the car park (now where the new building is – how “the school I went to” has became “where I went to school” is rather sad) I saw someone I recognised – so I said hello. “Hello” I said, “It is Saleem isn’t it?”
“No, I’m Imran.”
First and last time I would ever get the two mixed up.
The dividing of the children into the classes was rather barbaric, being told I was in 1D would be hilarious – every single one of my friends was ending up in 1B and 1E. There were a few I recognised, namely the Neds from our school.
By the end of the day, I was sure there had been mistake – not to sound arrogant (or a bastard) but I was the smartest guy in class, and that is a fact. Those who know me will be able to gauge just how bad the rest of the class must have been, and for this reason, the teachers always seemed to have a slight sympathy for me. I remember Mrs Jeyes commenting that even though I was rubbish at spelling, she was surprised at the practical class split. I also remember Mr Hamilton, our techy teacher in 2nd year taking me aside and said “I want you to do this in 3rd year, only for my own sake.” I didn’t really get why at the time, but now I can smell his cigarette breath and hear the rest of the class in the background, dawning realisation on my head.
But this is supposed to be about neds, and I think I have gone too far into the future from when the story takes place. So, head back into first year, and our science class, and into our first ever project – The Solar System.
So, as previously said, we had just got our first PC that year before, so when I told my father that I had a project, we set about using Encarta 95, AutoCAD, and the Inter-net to get my information and present my project with. So, diagrams were drawn, admittedly, by me using my hand and translated into real drawings by my father and a bit by me. I still have no idea how to use AutoCAD properly, even after doing a year long class on it at University. Encarta was transcribed, and some of the text was copied, but mostly I rewrote what I wanted in the project. If my memory serves me right I think all text that we copied had actually been cited, saying it had been CRTL+Ced.
So, I was feeling smug. I handed it in, to notice that mine was the only one done by a PC.
A week later, and the results were announced to the class. As you may know, my last name tends to be at the end of alphabetical lists, with the proliferation of Mc’s in the classrooms, so lots of results had been read out before mine. Picture the scene…
“O’Hagan, 16 of out 20.”
“Phillips, 12 out of 20.”
“Shields…”
And I waited.
“…2 out of 20”.
Time stopped. The class, who knew I was a smart (and by the definition of the time, gay) pupil, audibly gasped. One member, sitting directly in front of me, turned round and said something. I can’t remember hearing it as all the blood in body has gone to my cheeks – I think I went Infrared. The teacher, the late Mr Allan, added “Because copying it out of a book is not doing what I asked.” And my heart collapsed. A little part of me died inside, as I walked up to collect it. He was wobbling with anger – later, I would learn that was the drink – and I slunked back to the bench, totally destroyed. To say I was upset is an understatement.
My mum phoned the school. My father was enraged. My sister had no idea what was going on. Basically, my mum was shocked at the teacher’s ignorance, and also devastated that the amount of effort (nigh as a family no less) had amounted to nothing. So, in true geek style, he changed the marks, after the head teacher and the guidance teacher had became involved. He apologised to me after class one day, after sitting me down and taking me through the report page by page, asking me questions on the subjects – something he should have done in the first place really - just to check I had sorted it out, and did it for real.
After that though, I was a hero. I had both been embarrassed in front of the whole class giving undue hilarity and also proved the teacher wrong to boot. Neds knew then that I was the guy to ask the questions, to give them the answers. Probably saved my skin a few times too…
Monday, February 04, 2008
Insanity Crash - My Internet Miscapades
I have been involved in someway with the internet for a very long time and and I think it is almost coming up for my ten-year anniversary with the internet. I was the first out of my friends to have a Yahoo! Messenger log in, and myself and Steven forced everyone over a few months to be pushed from Yahoo! Onto MSN. The thing is today this is a non-event, as the two systems are interoperable. As I said in a previous post, as a family, we were quite early on and a rather early adopter when it comes to the internet and PCs in general, but we have already spoke of this.
But the following is a short and obscure post that I placed on my actual website http://www.justanothersheeldz.co.uk, which is more obscure because I don’t even mention that I have it anymore. It is titled “My Blog – A History”, and I thought it was slightly interesting – but, it was short. So, here, transcribed, edited and expanded, is My Blog – A History: The Directors Cut, so to speak.
The idea for my blog, the Crashing Sound of Insanity Impacting Reality, came to me in a dream, where a large blog shaped square flew in through the window and told me to start writing about anything and everything that I can think of, and some people will listen. To be honest, the true story is much more stupid and embarrassing.
Blogging is something I think I have been doing for years in various immature and self-serving ways. In fact, I think that I might have been blogging before there was even a word for it, or need to read it. Or w want.
Interm@g (1999) My fist encounter with the internet would be a rather foolish and silly thing called "Intermag". It was basically a word document that pretended to be a magazine. The first issue featured some immature and interesting-only-to-me type articles, one of which was a “preview” article about Sonic Adventure, where I had staerted my vanvassing to get my self one. The timeline for this is slightly confusing, as I know Sonic was released on the 14th October 1999, but my Intermag featured some screenshots well before that, so I think it was probably early 1999, or late 1998. Funnily enough, it also had some silly things like a fake letters page and stuff, and basically was a total waste of time. I sent it to everyone in my email address inbox, which was about 15 people. And they must have all thought I was a total bellend. I made 3 issues, but never really got that committed to it, and the final “issue” I think was never sent. I also printed some of the issues out for no reason other than to make my Dad angry about the amount of Ink wasted. I don't have an issue of Intermag left, as it was one three PCs ago and is lost into the spaces of infinite time. Unless one of the numerous emailers still has it... and I suppose the internet probably has a copy of it somewhere.
In 2000 I started a website called Dreamcast House, which was supposed to be a fan site with reviews on Dreamcast games and such. What a stupid idea, and really did not get behind the idea again. It was pitiful html Microsoft FrontPage design, based on Homesteads and was a total shambles. I had no idea how to create a usable site, and also had no idea how to write properly, coming close to failing English every time I did a test. I know some critics (read: smart arses) will say that I still don't know how to write proper English, but at least I am aware of the fact, and have been seriously trying to broaden my vocabulary and style of writing, as well as trying to avoid using the spell checker every time I write a piece. I have searched for some reviews of some of the games, and found them, but they are on floppy disc, meaning, in this enlightened age, no chance of recovery. I don't have a floppy drive on my laptop, and neither does the parental PC, and the we probably written in a format that isn’t read any more. The reviews were written by both myself and Ross McDermott, simply because we had the consoles and the games. It became apparent that they number of reviews we would be wanting to write would be limited by the number of games we could afford, ie. Very few.
I also have tried to do some stuff with Dreamweaver and Fireworks. Alabalaclava (2001) and Mercator (2002) both were born out of this fetish, but rather humorously they failed too. I had a forum for Mercator, which was so underused I am embarrassed to even mention it. Alabalaclava (what a fucking awful name) was a concept where I would provide web based quizes and sites using my "skills" as a web programmer. God, it was horrific, and still makes me smile to this day. I remember using my sister as a canvassing tool to spread the word to her friends in the same way people use planted forum members these days. She would go along to Stramash and try to get some of her friends to visit my site. In my defence, the forum was used for a while before it started to lay to waste. I can’t even remember the address for it.
I stopped making ridiculous sites and ideas, and started to concentrate on actual intellectual items, and things that might be a good idea and worth my while. One of these was Median, my own built from scratch, MP3 player. It was released as version 1.0 (the most primitive) to the last working version, 4.0, and I am slightly proud of the fact that a total non-programmer was able to make firstly a working program and secondly one that you can really use as well. Might finest moment? Might be
Then, came Bebo. A prebuilt social gathering waste of time network and really I got lost in it all again. From my posts on this blog you already know that I hate the whole idea, and have tried to delete my Facebook and Myspace profiles, only to keep Bebo as people still use it to communicate with me, which is a strange and worrying thing. But, this humble blog started there, and I suppose I should give it credit where it is due.
With this blog, I have decided to list the things I have done on the internet and the mistakes I have made. Surely, someone, somewhere will read this and realise, wow, what a sack.
Special Bonus - 1st Anniversary Special
This is a good juncture to note that the first year anniversary of this blog is next week. I have decided to do a special type thing to commemorate this wonderous day. Basically, comment on this post with the title of your favourite (or least favourite) post, and I'll do something fun to it - like a directors commentary. If there are a few different nominations, I'll do all of them; conversely, if there are none, I'll choose three of my favourites and do them.
But the following is a short and obscure post that I placed on my actual website http://www.justanothersheeldz.co.uk, which is more obscure because I don’t even mention that I have it anymore. It is titled “My Blog – A History”, and I thought it was slightly interesting – but, it was short. So, here, transcribed, edited and expanded, is My Blog – A History: The Directors Cut, so to speak.
The idea for my blog, the Crashing Sound of Insanity Impacting Reality, came to me in a dream, where a large blog shaped square flew in through the window and told me to start writing about anything and everything that I can think of, and some people will listen. To be honest, the true story is much more stupid and embarrassing.
Blogging is something I think I have been doing for years in various immature and self-serving ways. In fact, I think that I might have been blogging before there was even a word for it, or need to read it. Or w want.
Interm@g (1999) My fist encounter with the internet would be a rather foolish and silly thing called "Intermag". It was basically a word document that pretended to be a magazine. The first issue featured some immature and interesting-only-to-me type articles, one of which was a “preview” article about Sonic Adventure, where I had staerted my vanvassing to get my self one. The timeline for this is slightly confusing, as I know Sonic was released on the 14th October 1999, but my Intermag featured some screenshots well before that, so I think it was probably early 1999, or late 1998. Funnily enough, it also had some silly things like a fake letters page and stuff, and basically was a total waste of time. I sent it to everyone in my email address inbox, which was about 15 people. And they must have all thought I was a total bellend. I made 3 issues, but never really got that committed to it, and the final “issue” I think was never sent. I also printed some of the issues out for no reason other than to make my Dad angry about the amount of Ink wasted. I don't have an issue of Intermag left, as it was one three PCs ago and is lost into the spaces of infinite time. Unless one of the numerous emailers still has it... and I suppose the internet probably has a copy of it somewhere.
In 2000 I started a website called Dreamcast House, which was supposed to be a fan site with reviews on Dreamcast games and such. What a stupid idea, and really did not get behind the idea again. It was pitiful html Microsoft FrontPage design, based on Homesteads and was a total shambles. I had no idea how to create a usable site, and also had no idea how to write properly, coming close to failing English every time I did a test. I know some critics (read: smart arses) will say that I still don't know how to write proper English, but at least I am aware of the fact, and have been seriously trying to broaden my vocabulary and style of writing, as well as trying to avoid using the spell checker every time I write a piece. I have searched for some reviews of some of the games, and found them, but they are on floppy disc, meaning, in this enlightened age, no chance of recovery. I don't have a floppy drive on my laptop, and neither does the parental PC, and the we probably written in a format that isn’t read any more. The reviews were written by both myself and Ross McDermott, simply because we had the consoles and the games. It became apparent that they number of reviews we would be wanting to write would be limited by the number of games we could afford, ie. Very few.
I also have tried to do some stuff with Dreamweaver and Fireworks. Alabalaclava (2001) and Mercator (2002) both were born out of this fetish, but rather humorously they failed too. I had a forum for Mercator, which was so underused I am embarrassed to even mention it. Alabalaclava (what a fucking awful name) was a concept where I would provide web based quizes and sites using my "skills" as a web programmer. God, it was horrific, and still makes me smile to this day. I remember using my sister as a canvassing tool to spread the word to her friends in the same way people use planted forum members these days. She would go along to Stramash and try to get some of her friends to visit my site. In my defence, the forum was used for a while before it started to lay to waste. I can’t even remember the address for it.
I stopped making ridiculous sites and ideas, and started to concentrate on actual intellectual items, and things that might be a good idea and worth my while. One of these was Median, my own built from scratch, MP3 player. It was released as version 1.0 (the most primitive) to the last working version, 4.0, and I am slightly proud of the fact that a total non-programmer was able to make firstly a working program and secondly one that you can really use as well. Might finest moment? Might be
Then, came Bebo. A prebuilt social gathering waste of time network and really I got lost in it all again. From my posts on this blog you already know that I hate the whole idea, and have tried to delete my Facebook and Myspace profiles, only to keep Bebo as people still use it to communicate with me, which is a strange and worrying thing. But, this humble blog started there, and I suppose I should give it credit where it is due.
With this blog, I have decided to list the things I have done on the internet and the mistakes I have made. Surely, someone, somewhere will read this and realise, wow, what a sack.
Special Bonus - 1st Anniversary Special
This is a good juncture to note that the first year anniversary of this blog is next week. I have decided to do a special type thing to commemorate this wonderous day. Basically, comment on this post with the title of your favourite (or least favourite) post, and I'll do something fun to it - like a directors commentary. If there are a few different nominations, I'll do all of them; conversely, if there are none, I'll choose three of my favourites and do them.
Friday, February 01, 2008
Announcement: Sleepwalk Capsules
I mentioned in my last post that I was enjoying writing these posts so much that you were to expect more later this week. It turns out that not only was I enjoying them, they had given a close friend a spark as well and over the last few days we have contrived an idea that will be an interesting experience. Without further ado we give you Sleepwalk Capsules – a blog that Colin and myself will write in tandem, away from this blog, which is solely about music. The name comes from one of the best At The Drive-in songs, one our mutually favourite bands’ songs, and it also kind of means something, and let me see if I can justify properly;
I feel that we are sleepwalking through life, listening to our music on headphones, ignoring the noises and majesty of the real. We, inside those earbuds and iPods, have our whole music collection and our collection is with us always.
Does that make sense? Probably not to be honest.
The idea is that each day we try to post something loosely linked to a topic, and the manifesto is something like this:
Monday is review day, either an old album that is new to you or a new album that is old to everyone else. I think this might be my remit, as Colin seems to think I am a better writer. I don’t know about that…
Wednesday is the discovery day, where we describe a band that we think you should be listening to. I am going to try and be as hip and cool as they come by recommending some bands that only have Myspace tracks which might be tricky without access at work…
Friday (today) is the Retrospective day, when we bleat about albums or bands or even gigs from yesteryear, and get you interested in them. My music week so far on this blog has been mostly about this and the third in the trilogy is due later on today – something about Pulp’s Different Class..
Check it out.
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