As a little follow-up to last weeks teary ode, the little man came home yesterday and once more sleeps on the landing. Ok, a little sentimental perhaps but at least I know where he is. I won’t be scattering his dusty remains, mainly due to the fact that the box won’t open and as it doesn’t look too ghoulish and coffin-like, on the landing bookshelf he will stay. At least I will be able to say “Good Morning” and “Good Night” the same way I always did.

I promise I will stop this now.

Bizzy

It’s been a funny old few weeks at work. There I was, adjusting my spreadsheets to work with the new proposed shift plan on July 7th when I offer (foolishly some might say) to help out more closely with the organisation of said shift plan. Now, I am deeply involved and whilst the relief that it is almost done is wonderful, the knowledge that I have seemingly upset more than a few people with my supposed choices is a little unsettling. Truth be told, I haven’t had any say whatsoever in who goes where and even my radical ideas in other areas will have to be approved by authority and committee before they are ever put into action. To be honest, a few weeks ago, I thought it would be very cool for hundreds of people to work according to plans I had forged. Now, I am not so sure. After all, what if it’s a disaster? Gulp.

Still, once more the opportunity has forced me to learn some new very cool Excel stuff.

I am really reaching now aren’t I?

Wrong

I often ponder on the brilliance of my sardonic wit and the endless quest to comment on the absurdity and oddness of the world around me. Wouldn’t it be so much better to be positive and talk about nice things and not point the finger of criticism at the funny, the odd, the absurd, the ugly or the chav? It would be, but I can’t help but think that nobody would be interested in reading it. I feel very lucky to have been blessed with the gift to see the failings and misfortunes of others.

Ok, I will stop this too now.

You have to understand some of my life to see where I am going with this. I don’t go out much you see. Not in a sad, hermit-like way, it’s just that I don’t “go out” drinking, clubbing or partying. When I do venture out of the door, it’s either to work (still loving it) or shopping or visiting or whatever. So. Quite a lot then. What’s my problem? Well, to be honest, when I started this paragraph, I felt the need to clarify but now I wish I hadn’t bothered.

So there I was, buying the hernia-threatening pile of plastic, cardboard, paper and CD’s that once called itself a newspaper. I’ll be honest, it’s not a shop I normally patronise. The owners are quite nice but it usually boasts a crowd of Burberry inside and out that would make most of us steer clear. No well-known, corporate identity hangs over the door and there is the usual smell – almost out-of-date milk, cheap chocolate and disinfectant. Behind the counter is someone and on my side of the counter (sometimes on a stool) is their mate, talking to them.

In the corner is a cash machine that will dispense £10 for a modest fee of £2.85 and all around is the world of convenient, own-brand merchandise, most of which I have sworn never to eat again. As always, it seems rude to interupt the bloke behing the counter and his chatty mate but you have to pay don’t you? Handing over a £10, I smile and look around the counter area, only to notice a  scribbled piece of A4 sellotaped to the side of the glass “shoplifter sweetie barrier”. In large letters across the top are the words “LASANGYER RECEPEE”. Underneath, presumably was a recipe for lasagne but I couldn’t say for sure. As I have done many times before, the author of this gastronomic guideline had underestimated how much room the recipe would take up and as such, had to write progressively smaller and smaller until they reached the bottom of the page. By the time they hit the bottom, they just had room for a tempting instruction “tastes fabb and is reely cheep”.

Where would a nice person do when presented with this? Who cares.

What the f**k kind of world do I live in?

I don’t know where to begin.

Appalling spelling aside, what thinking process puts something like that on display?

Who is it for?

What do you do if it takes your fancy? Take out your PDA and copy it down? What of the queue behind you? If money is your god, why not just buy the 89p frozen one in the fridge behind you?

Was the voice in my head shouting “run..drop the paper, forget the change and run” wrong to do so?

Stop the train, I want to get off. I don’t care if there is no station. I want to get off now.

Sam’s Home

As a little follow-up to last weeks teary ode, the little man came home yesterday and once more sleeps on the landing. Ok, a little sentimental perhaps but at least I know where he is. I won’t be scattering his dusty remains, mainly due to the fact that the box won’t open and as it doesn’t look too ghoulish and coffin-like, on the landing bookshelf he will stay. At least I will be able to say “Good Morning” and “Good Night” the same way I always did.

I promise I will stop this now.

Bizzy

It’s been a funny old few weeks at work. There I was, adjusting my spreadsheets to work with the new proposed shift plan on July 7th when I offer (foolishly some might say) to help out more closely with the organisation of said shift plan. Now, I am deeply involved and whilst the relief that it is almost done is wonderful, the knowledge that I have seemingly upset more than a few people with my supposed choices is a little unsettling. Truth be told, I haven’t had any say whatsoever in who goes where and even my radical ideas in other areas will have to be approved by authority and committee before they are ever put into action. To be honest, a few weeks ago, I thought it would be very cool for hundreds of people to work according to plans I had forged. Now, I am not so sure. After all, what if it’s a disaster? Gulp.

Still, once more the opportunity has forced me to learn some new very cool Excel stuff.

I am really reaching now aren’t I?

Wrong

I often ponder on the brilliance of my sardonic wit and the endless quest to comment on the absurdity and oddness of the world around me. Wouldn’t it be so much better to be positive and talk about nice things and not point the finger of criticism at the funny, the odd, the absurd, the ugly or the chav? It would be, but I can’t help but think that nobody would be interested in reading it. I feel very lucky to have been blessed with the gift to see the failings and misfortunes of others.

Ok, I will stop this too now.

You have to understand some of my life to see where I am going with this. I don’t go out much you see. Not in a sad, hermit-like way, it’s just that I don’t “go out” drinking, clubbing or partying. When I do venture out of the door, it’s either to work (still loving it) or shopping or visiting or whatever. So. Quite a lot then. What’s my problem? Well, to be honest, when I started this paragraph, I felt the need to clarify but now I wish I hadn’t bothered.

So there I was, buying the hernia-threatening pile of plastic, cardboard, paper and CD’s that once called itself a newspaper. I’ll be honest, it’s not a shop I normally patronise. The owners are quite nice but it usually boasts a crowd of Burberry inside and out that would make most of us steer clear. No well-known, corporate identity hangs over the door and there is the usual smell – almost out-of-date milk, cheap chocolate and disinfectant. Behind the counter is someone and on my side of the counter (sometimes on a stool) is their mate, talking to them.

In the corner is a cash machine that will dispense £10 for a modest fee of £2.85 and all around is the world of convenience, own-brand merchandise, most of which I have sworn never to eat again. As always, it seems rude to interupt the bloke behing the counter and his chatty mate but you have to pay don’t you? Handing over a £10, I smile and look around the counter area, only to notice a  scribbled piece of A4 sellotaped to the side of the glass “shoplifter sweetie barrier”. In large letters across the top are the words “LASANGYER RECEPEE”. Underneath, presumably was a recipe for lasagne but I couldn’t say for sure. As I have done many times before, the author of this gastronomic guideline had underestimated how much room the recipe would take up and as such, had to write progressively smaller and smaller until they reached the bottom of the page. By the time they hit the bottom, they just had room for a tempting instruction “tastes fabb and is reely cheep”.

Where would a nice person do when presented with this? Who cares.

What the f**k kind of world do I live in?

I don’t know where to begin.

Appalling spelling aside, what thinking process puts something like that on display?

Who is it for?

What do you do if it takes your fancy? Take out your PDA and copy it down? What of the queue behind you? If money is your god, why not just buy the 89p frozen one in the fridge behind you?

Was the voice in my head shouting “run..drop the paper, forget the change and run” wrong to do so?

Stop the train, I want to get off. I don’t care if there is no station. I want to get off now.]]>

..and so goodbye to youth. Birthday number 40 came and went with an amazing day at work. I know to many of you that will be an oxymoron but it really was pretty cool. Some folks even made a special trip into work on their day off to give me a card and an envelope full of glitter than still blows around the smoking area at work. Lost of tiny little 40s sticking to everyone’s backsides as they huddle for a fag on the picnic benches. Family wise, I had gratefully spent the present my sister had given me weeks ago and mum got me two things that squarely hit the present nail on the head. Firstly a model Starship Enterprise. Yes, go ahead laugh. Unfortunately for you, it is a) cool b) identical to one I had as a boy and don’t have anymore. Long-time readers, aware of my love of all things trek will assume my abode is awash with models of starships and tie-fighters but you would be wrong. This is the first model I have ever had. So cool is it, however, that I fear it won’t be the last. Secondly, a fascinating little book all about the 70s TV Series “The Survivors”. 40 years and 5 days old. The geek still lives.

And then on Thursday, a sad little tale of a happy little life came to an end. It’s amazing to think I was only 24 when little Sam came into my life. We ‘rescued’ him from what at the time we thought to be a perfectly respectable pet shop. In the years since, it became a matter of record that the owner of this establishment cut some corners in his noble quest for a few quid. The mighty “Scrabble” had just left us after a life of sleeping, eating and more sleeping and there was a gap in the Argue menagerie. So, off we trotted to the shop. Within minutes a small black and white animal was in the cat box and well on the way to the life of an Argue. Sam was born on a farm and like many such cats, grew to the size of a small panther in under a year. His feet in particular could have flattened many a small bird with ease had the very idea been anywhere in his soft and friendly head. You see, fortunately for the rodent and bird population of Hooe (and later Badgers Wood), he didn’t have an unpleasant bone in his entire body. He could occasionally be selfish when sharing the bed with his adopted sibling Alice but I am pretty sure any such acts of aggression were just an attempt to goad her into playing. He was still doing this last week at the age of 16. He never stopped being a kitten. He never stopped doing a lot of things. He met me from work every night. Sitting in the road under the street light, he knew the noise of my car and sound of the footsteps down from the car park. Before he became ill, he would spend many an hour sat in the turning bay (he is in fact captured in the aerial photography on Google Earth and Microsoft Live Search) watching the world go by. Sadly, as we live in a cul-de-sac, he didn’t see much. About 6 months ago, he developed a snuffle which we found out a week ago was actually the result of cancer spreading to his chest. It wasn’t until a lump on his foot caused a visit to the vet that it was confirmed.

So he is gone – having one last kip. He was my little friend for 16 years. He sat on my lap watching Dr Who, slept on my bed whilst I typed thousands of words at this PC and he hid under my chair on Bonfire night. His scratchy meow sounded like thousands of different words in my head in that way only people who love their animals will understand and I miss him terribly.

Fin

Boom

Here we are in the autumn of the year. Wait, that doesn’t quite work. It is actually Autumn in a totally non-metaphoric way and as always a time for multiple grumbles of a miserable old man type.

As October dribbles away to nothing, Halloween and Bonfire Night are jostling for the soul of the honest shopper in that indecent way they enjoy. Strangely enough Christmas seems to have taken a back seat this year. I am fairly sure that by this time last year, Santas were abound and decorations (albeit unlit) spanned the thoroughfares of my fine city. Perhaps I am wrong. Certainly when I was a poor little Dukie returning to school after half-term in the early 80s, Christmas was a far-off and concept that didn’t seem to bother us until late November.

Still, we are now well into the “arseholes with legal explosives” season. Sam, the largest and wussiest of my two is already camped in his “safe place” behind my computer desk. He prefers this despite the fact that it means he must curl up on the intestinal pile of cables that I stuff out of sight and out of mind in the hidden dusty recesses. He emerged yesterday at about midnight sporting a cobweb veil of Miss Haversham proportions (I threw that one in for you Pip) and headed downstairs for a snack. Unfortunately, at least one drunken chav had one last rocket in his arsenal and sent it skyward just as Sam hit the third step from the bottom. On the plus side, the slipstream caused by his speedy return did at least leave the cobweb half-way up the stairs. You can always tell when there are fireworks about. You pick up Sam and he shows no intention of ever being put down again. Usually he humours you with a few minutes of contact, possibly licking the nose of sniffing the face then he starts to struggle and you know the hug is not to be. At this time of year, he tucks his feet up before you put your arm under him for support. The chin flattens on your shoulder and purrs loud enough to drown out Meatloaf. Of course, every time a firework explodes, his mighty claws dig into you like a sabretooth but you have to live with that. Rest easy Sam, only a few weeks to go.

Blog

MySpace, Facebook, Beebo. They all have a lot to answer for. Once upon a time, only nerdy types such as myself had blogs or anything at all online. Now ‘with a few clicks’ (don’t you just love that pathetic phrase) anybody can share their wisdom and lives with anyone who cares to read it (usually about 9 people). On the face of it, this has to be a good thing and I am sure that it’s only jealously and righteous indignation (you mean you can do it without wrting HTML code by hand?!?!?) that makes me blow hot and cold on such things. I think I can express it best in the following way.

Neil’s Guide To Facebook & MySpace

Pros

• Everyone gets online and finally has something to do online

Cons

• Everyone gets online and finally has something to do online

At last count, something like 7.75 trillion trillion people are now on either Facebook or MySpace. Each of them has uploaded a total of 29 quadrillion billion photos. For 99.999999% of those people, their only regular visitor is the Google searchbot. I am ashamed to say that I know what a searchbot is and you should count yourself lucky if you don’t. Hi Scott.

Funnily enough, the thing I like most about MySpace is the the surveys. I really must do some more.

I just remembered where I am going with all this.

Blogs..

There is a line. A great big red one. You can toe it or you can step over it. Someone of whom I am aware has seemingly taken a long run up and lept over it. It’s a few weeks later and this person has yet to land.

Now MySpace has let anyone write one. You simple “log on” (another f**king phrase I hate) and type away. Unfortunately, if you happen to mention anywhere on the page where you live or where you work, the problems start. If you compound this by mentioning people by name and the snowball grows. Before you know it, 100s of people find out about it and a personal rant is big news. This rant in case you are wondering is fine but for a few choice phrases. Everyone should rant. I do and it feels good. Just watch out, you never know who is in spitting distance.

Heavy Loads

I broke some news today to some people that was not terribly good but at least I did it and can move on a little. They are friends and I should have know they would take it the way they did.

Must dash now. I have more stuff in my head, so I may come back later.

The casserole is almost done and it’s almost time for the dancing. Saturday night is indeed alright.

No, really…

The legalised noise pollution and pet terror that is Guy Fawkes night is upon us again. Actually it was on us last night. Actually it has been upon us since the “authorities” saw fit to allow the shops to sell fireworks to anyone with a glassy gaze and floor-dragging knuckles at the end of British Summer Time several weeks ago.

I have harped on about this before on the forum and I will continue to play my large instrument every year until we take notice of most countries in Europe and ban the sale of fireworks to the public. Sadly, last night’s accident proved that not even council organised displays are 100% safe, but the time when we allow anyone with a few pallets, a tesco shopping trolley and a stupid idea to set a mighty blaze on half an acre of grassy knoll is surely past. Anyone with a rose-tinged perspective who remembers waving a sparkler in front of their rosy-cheeked face whilst dad went to get you a toffee apple, should visit my manor anytime between October the 20th and well….January 5th. Every year a huge mountain of bad sense is piled up on a little green near me. Every year the authorities drag it down and every year it goes back up again. The fire lights up the sky until one or more fire engines (or “appliances” as Frankie Howard called them) turns up and wastes some more public funded time amid the abusive cries of local urchins.

As I sit here a 10:07pm on November 6th, the fireworks are still going off and Sam my elder cat is hiding under my bed. His heart almost beating out of his chest. Its pissing down with rain but the noise started before 5pm and will go onto at least 3am if last night is anything to go by. Last night a neighbour (in my nice quiet estate) was lucky not to lose his car when some baseball-capped loser threw a firework at it whilst riding pillion on a (probably stolen) moped.

Don’t even get me started on “Penny For The Badly-Stuffed Bin Bag”.

I am no spoilsport.

Well…

Actually I am.

Stop this now. I wouldn’t trust most of the people I have seen buying Fireworks to sit the right way round on a toilet.

Neil Argue. Reporting for “My Two Cents”. Plymouth, Devon.

I know what will cheer up a dull Sunday. I will clean out the car. I suspect I am not alone in not really caring that much about the state of the inside of my car. My glove compartment contains things older than my cats and are probably left well alone, but the tutting and comments of my mother during one particular trip to the garden centre (more later) drove me to drastic action. So, with bucket of warm soapy water, duster and polish, glass cleaner and small hoover on the end of a long extension lead, I strode off into the early morning sun towards the yodamobile.

The extension lead was long enough. Almost. I actually had to turn the car around to make it reach, something which made all the net-curtain nazis think I was some sort of idiot. After almost an hour, the car shone inside and out and I honestly didn’t feel any better. I used to do the same in my 6th form study and rarely achieved anything except killing an hour or so. Rarely did a weekend go by when my locker and desk weren’t shoved around only to be put back again when I realised they only really fit one way. But that’s not really the same is it? Looks like I shoehorned another school reference in again…mmm.

One last thing. Good advice. Don’t discard the red wax from Babyell cheese in your glove compartment. It melts and waits months to disgust you by surprise.

Green Fingers

Garden Centre visits with those near and dear to you are a trying time. If it wasn’t for the Cappacino and Cheesecake, I doubt I would bother at all.

Miscellaneous Garden Observations for 24th July 2005

1. Old lady asking how much the fans are. “I am sorry madam, they are not for sale, they are for keeping the place cool”. “Do you sell fans at all?”. “No madam.”. “You should, its quite hot in here”.

2. Posters with mottos and proverbs on. I had forgotten how much I dislike these. Small wooden sign -”I Fought The Lawn And The Lawn Won”. Humour for those without any of their own. Wit is spontaneous and should go as quickly as it comes. Can you imagine someone standing on your lawn shouting the same joke over and over again? Thought not.

3. Just why are big trees more expensive than small ones? They are older and will not last as long.

4. Can of coke 95p. Wotz that all about?

5. I can’t help myself from buying nice biscuits in garden centres. I just noticed the packet and they are made in Stoke. Tradional Cornish Toffee Crunch. Made in Stoke.

Fill

I don’t know what to make of whats going on in London at the mo. The forum is full of chat (what its for..) and I am fascinated by it all. One thing that does bother me though is 24 hour news. I would love to credit this complaint to the person I first heard it from on the radio but I can’t honestly remember who it is. When you bear in mind that I listen to Radio 4 a lot, this is quite excusable.

Anyhoo. 24 hours news. Yes.

The problem with 24 hour news services is that they are always on. On Thursday this week, there was little actual news for 3 or 4 hours and in its place we were subject to speculation, rumour and little else. Everyone anywhere near what happened was questioned as we were treated to distant views of police barriers and fire engines.

I don’t have an answer to this by the way. This is just an observation.

Wink.

Little & Large

So Stan likes DVD box sets too.

Neil & Stan’s “Things In Common List”.

1. We both like DVD box sets.
2. Neither of us sang in West Side Story.
3. We are often found in Dover come November time.

Can you see where this weeks theme is going?

It’s actually only 26.5 degrees celcius in the office at Blog Central. It’s 10.43pm and I am just in from work. To perfectly illustrate the way that shifts bugger about with my body, I just ate a cheese and onion pasty. So, I suppose I will be heading off to bed in (at least) 3 hours for a nightmare-filled semi-doze, ready to update you all tomorrow if I have one of those dreams again.

I forgot to tell you that, thanks to the rubber speed bumps in the car park at work, my exhaust is knackered (again). Luckily, as its going in for work on the passenger window there will still only be one bill.

So thats the lowlights. Here are the week’s highlights.

1. I have cracked Cascading Style Sheets. If you know what there are feel good for me. If you don’t then sod you.

2. Podcasting. As above.

3. The forum is going well. Seeing things come together always cheers me up.

4. I am loving GTA San Andreas. I am about half-way through and today I called my cat a f**king bee-ach because she dissed me whilst I sat on the loo.

Actually, I feeling like heading Los Santos way now to do some tagging.

Note to self. Stop ending half-sentences with…

I can’t help it. Its the written equivalent of a thoughtful pause. I do that a lot.

So, where were we? Damn. Its been more than a week since my last confession. Blogs are all well and good but they do make you overly concious of the passage of time. I hardly need anything else to remind me of that.

The bigger of my two cats is very sad. Pining in fact.

When we moved in almost a year ago, he quickly made friends with a little white lady cat called Poppy. They used to sit about together, chase each other and so on. About a month ago she died suddenly and he now spends most of his day sat outside her house. It breaks your very heart.

Well, as you brush away a manly tear think of poor me today. I set aside 30 mins from my busy day to put up some rollerblinds. 2 hours and 1 broken drill bit later I am sweaty, angry and very much wish to meet the cretin who thinks curtains are not good enough. Back-to-front twice and then not straight. Fortunately, the hapless DIY victim can rely on the thoughtful designers who saw fit to include an instruction sheet , albeit one barely large enough with which to wipe one’s arse. Three small pictures. One – sketch of proud, unsuspecting purchaser staring lovingly at new rollerblind in its packaging. Two – sketch of entire assembly process, complete with several arrows and numbers. Three – One finished rollerlblind.

Thank you so bloody much.

And so to the footy.

Yes, I am one of those annoying people who only watches England internationals. Once every two years I become entranced by the beautiful game and start to gather with others of my ilk next to the coffee machine at work and speak in loud, confident tones of how “Becks” is off his form and so forth.

The England v Portugal once more reduced me to tears and is quite easily the most intense 15 minutes I had ever witnessed.

Finally Greece were victorious and I watched it. Bottle of Tizer and a Kebab close by. I have no idea of the players’ names except that most of them end is “os” but the boys done good and I am happy for them. At least we all know what the Portuguese word for “Oh Shit!” is.

Well, at least how to shape our mouths for it anyway.