Memory

Or the lack of it. I suspect all the years of partying are finally catching up with me. First of all, yesterday I completely forgot that Nur had invited round one of her work colleagues and my mum to dinner. She had only told me on friday night. Mind you, I was pissed at the time. It only came dimly back to mind when mum called and started asking if she wanted me to bring anything round. Suddenly, vague echoes of a conversation rose through the foggy depths ...'Paul...dinner...your mum....invite.....ok then.....what shall I cook?...' Bollocks. Raced round the shop and got more meat.
The second thing to make me doubt the power of memory was receiving an email from someone who had read this site. The person involved, who I'll not name, but is probably reading this, clearly knows me, but for the life of me I can't remember them at all. N., if you're reading, deepest apologies.

jolly monday!

...or not, rather, if that scientist from Cardiff is to be believed: Oh well, pay day tomorrow. I must say that I'm going through one of my phases of being entirely disillusioned with teaching at the moment. This is not good, considering that I'm up for an interview to do my Dip on thursday.
Bought a new CD-RW for the computer on saturday, and some rather funky new lights for the bike - the rear one especially guaranteed to bring on an epileptic fit in anyone stupid enough to drive too close to me....

depression.

Not mine, but the general atmosphere within the college at present. Blame it on the weather, blame it on the ridiculous amount of work we have, blame it on some departments having to submit to an OFSTED re-inspection, but there are a lot of long faces about at the moment. There are also an awful lot of absences, both of teachers and students: I'm missing half my class. Whether this is actually due to illness is a moot point. One I know is genuinely ill; Another had to go to Manchester because his brother was in a car accident; some have just disappeared. One (soon to be ex-student) said he couldn't be arsed. Another has just called in to say she's had a fire in her bathroom: Presumably from where she was trying to torch the corpse of a lodger, although I suspect my telling her to come to my office today for a bollocking may have had something to do with her non-appearance. The Chinese students, in particular, are exasperating in their lame excuses for absence. Examples include:

• I had a great fever
• I had to go to Police Station
• I had to help my friend move house
• I helped friend to hospital - he/she had a great fever
• I went to university to look at it
• my friend's cousin came to holiday, I went to airport, that's why I haven't been here for three weeks
• I thought it was holiday - my friend told me it was

And so on. Shit on a stick.

Dad, Angus and me 

Nur at New Year 

Angus in the bath yesterday. 

Just a quick entry before I go into class...
Had a very good weekend - met up with Dr. Lynne and Matty on saturday night, drank beer and played pool and chewed the fat, then had my dad over for dinner yesterday - it turned out to be very relaxing. Plagued by strange, nonsensical dreams all night though.

Twonk?

Someone has asked me what exactly a twonk is. For his benefit, I suggested the following:
1 twonk is roughly equivalent to a plonker.
it's worth half a prat, or one-eighth of a moron.
there are ten twonks to a git, and twenty to an arsehole.
one wanker buys you fifteen twonks, except where it is used in a friendly manner, in which case it only gets nine. There are also only nine twonks to a prick.
Fuckwit and cocksucker trade at a massive one hundred twonks, while dicksplash counts for sixty.
its value against sheepshaggers and goatfuckers is subject to regional variation.
This is, of course, all highly subjective.

I'm thinking of setting up the IN-DEX, or insults index, to register international trading on insults.

Nazis and Nazis

Prince Harry - what a twonk. Even if he is only 20, surely he should have known that dressing up in a nazi uniform for a party wasn't a particularly good idea. However, he is only 20, and perfectly entitled to do twonkish things at that age - it means he'll be far more unlikely to do them when he's older. It puts me in mind of another Harry.
Mark Thatcher - what a lucky bastard not to have been jailed. His weaselly plea bargaining though shows what kind of creature he is - treacherous, devious, vile and entirely willing to let others rot in jail while he gets to enjoy his freedom. I'm sure that mummy is so proud of him.

cripes!

It's sunny! I've just been looking through the archives in search of old recipes, but for some reason I can't find any. Have they all disappeared? Reading through old posts, however, has made me realise that the quality of recent posts has gone distinctly downhill. This is more due to laziness than anything else.
I'm going to try and update this site over the next few days, just to give me a little more work to do on top of the inexorable load already placed upon me. The whole thing looks a bit worn out.

Visas.

My sister-in-law, Nuran, and her fiance have been trying to get a visa to come and visit us. It used to be a bit of a pain in the arse to obtain one a few years ago: Now it's become a bureaucratic brain haemhorrage. There is also the hint of a distinctly racist attitude from the FCO in the manner of how they've now got people applying.
Beforehand, you would get a visa form from the consulate, fill it in, gather all the necessary documents, then wait for about five hours in a queue in Tepebasi, either freezing your knackers off or sweating like a pig depending on the season, process slowly through a line of people, wait patiently behind some fat bloke boasting loudly about how important he is in the hope that it will speed his application, then have all the documents perused before being grudgingly given the visa.
Now, following the consulate bombing, individual applications are not considered. Instead, one must obtain a visa form (If there are any) from the doorman on the visa section. If there are none, one must go to the nearest approved agent to obtain one. This agent will also tell you which documents you need, most of which are actually pointless. One must then use the agent, who, for a fee (on top of the usual visa fee) will process the application for you. The agent will wait until they have a requisite number of applications, before sending the whole lot up to Ankara, where they will be perused. Some will be discarded, and initially approved documents returned to the visa section in Istanbul. The lucky applicants will then be informed, via postcard, to turn up for an interview, if of course they atre lucky enough to receive the postcard from the PTT in the first place. The lucky applicant will then queue at the visa section, again either freezing or boiling, wait patiently in line, have an interview with a member of consular staff, and can still have their visa application rejected. And this only takes THREE MONTHS.
It's bloody ridiculous. What is this? Are all Turks suddenly asylum seekers and/or terrorists all of a sudden? Turkey is hideously bureaucratic anyway, but this is just taking the piss. As Nuran said to Nur on the phone, 'Trying to get to see you is like trying to enter a prison.'
the British Embassy in Turkey

pantomimes and kebabs

To the new Oakwood Centre in Woodley last night, for a bloody pantomime. Sodding ridiculous time for one: it started at 6.00 and continued to nearly 9.00. An amateur production of 'Jack and Jill'. Hmmmm. I settled down in my chair, prepared to be bored. To be fair however, the cast did their best, and the audience certainly got involved - Angus in particular, who was standing in his seat, jumping up and down, and screeching 'He's Behind You!!! BEHIND YOU!!!' etc with gusto. My opinion? Overwritten, too many song and dance numbers (a sure sign of plot weakness) , too much 'business', and sorely in need of more rehearsal time. Some good stuff amidst it though, particularly a couple of the singers (Dominique Abbott and Lindsey Preston) and a very good turn from two boys (Simon Stolland and Jamaal Whight) as Fetch and Carry, Siamese Twins. Also some good ideas that should have been worked out better in rehearsal; For example, one character says 'Everyone knows that fairies don't exist! I don't believe in them', just as a fairy was wandering around in the background, and, with a look of horror on its face, suddenly expires. The projected backdrops and sound sampling, obviously lifted from the net, could have done with better editing too. I have to say though that I like the theatre; small, but well-equipped.
By the time it had finished it was gone nine. We went home and got kebabs from Mo's on the way. I blame the food for the fact that I have had no fucking sleep at all, and now have a full day of teaching.
And it's raining.
Hoorah.

Avoiding work

It's too damn difficult to get back into the swing of things. After being horribly indulgent for the past few weeks, I can't work up the energy to do much. Instead, I spend my time watching crap television or faffing around on the computer. And drinking too much. Right now, I'm at work, just giving the impression of being busy, rather than actually being so, even though I have a shedload on.
Gilly's Tsunami Concert comes on apace - she's asked me to do a bit of standup. Mmmmmm. I haven't done any for ages, apart from small gatherings. Oh well, a chance to fall flat on my arse in front of 300 people.

'I will never forgive the Embassy for not helping me'

From last night's ITV news:
A woman went out to Thailand to search for her daughter. She was initially greeted and helped by the embassy, but then she was stuck on her own, just like everyone else. This clearly didn't please her. In her own words:
'To be fair, lots of people have died.....but to be fair, my daughter was a British citizen, and more should have been done for her.'
All around her, people are trying to pick up their lives.
All right, grief is a harsh thing, but still......

More galling were those people who continued with their holidays and complained that the service wasn't as good in the immediate aftermath...

Three minute silence

Call me churlish, but I'm not going to join in with this. It is nothing but a state-run parody of grief. If I wish to mourn, I will do it in my own time, in my own way, rather than when some government tells me to. And rather than stand still, I would much prefer to do something concrete. Gilly is busy arranging a benefit concert, to which I shall contribute; much better than staring at my shoes in silence for three minutes.

just beginning

And a Happy New Year to you all. Here's to 2005; May it not be as vile as the past year has been. Considering all that passed in 2004, it won't be difficult.

Anyway, back to work after a boozed-up holiday. I did as close to bugger all as I could over the fortnight, which left me feeling more enervated than energised - I put on quite a few pounds, and I felt restless and gloomy. I need to do things - anything as long as I'm busy. once I'm into an inactive trough, I become down and find it very difficult to lift myself out of it or become active. I couldn't even be arsed with editing the novel. While it was pleasant to loaf with my family, I just felt that there was so much more I could be doing as well.

Two unexpected things that lifted me: First, Martin and Vicki sent a Christmas card in which they announced that they're getting married. I phoned up to congratulate them, and hjave now started making plans for Martin's Stag Night....it shall involve a monstrous Carroting....
Secondly, Fiona called last thursday just to say she was loving the novel. She pointed out that the start's too slow, which I knew, but that she felt she had to keep reading it. Enormously buoying.

Resolutions: None. They're bollocks. I wouldn't mind losing some weight though. getting back into the saddle should take care of that.