rARsh!

On second thoughts, maybe you should meet your heroes

Stupidly I put off heading into Jarrold’s book department until after 11:30. I didn’t want to be hanging around waiting for the great Mr Fry. Oh, how foolish that was. By the time arrived the queue stretched out of the book department and was winding up the stairs past the first floor (women’s wear) and heading up towards the second floor (furniture). I estimated that my position in the queue was well into three figures and Mr Fry was only scheduled to be in the department for an hour. I honestly expected not to get to meet him.

“Bloody hell!” exclaimed a passing old biddy. “I thought there were a lot of people here when Michael Palin was here.”

But ‘pon my soul, Mr Fry can sign! By the time I reached the desk (some sixty five minutes later, and forty five minutes after he arrived) he was still going strong and was even taking the time to have a few words with each and every buyer - with the person two in front he discussed the (mis)fortunes of his beloved Norwhag City, with the young lady in front of me he recognised an unusual surname, established that he taught her uncle at one point and asked her to give him his regards and in my chase asked what a Welshman was going in the dark depths of Norfolk.

I, of course, giggled like a schoolgirl and muttered something unintelligible, completely forgetting what I’d intended to say to him.

Leaving the store I noticed that the queue of eager Fryophiles was still snaking up the stairs towards the furniture department.

Next time I’ll aim to arrive an hour before the signing’s due to start.

You should never meet your heroes

Well, that’s what “they” say, but I fail to see what business it is of theirs anyway. Nosy buggers. Pah.

Anyway, tomorrow Mr Stephen Fry’s going to be in Norwhag, signing copies of the dead-tree version of his recent series about America.

Now I enjoyed the series, although it was far, far too short - visiting all 50 (ahem) states in just 6 episodes was always going to require editing with a chainsaw rather than a scalpel - so I’m hoping that the book will go into a little more detail on those states which were rather glossed over or mentioned only in passing on the television. It should, I’d hope, be a good read.

So, in the light of never meeting heroes advice, should I go and meet him? He does. after all, follow me on Twitter* (although I doubt he waits on tenterhooks for my next exciting tweet).

I’ve read his post on fame and won’t try to impress him with bizarre factoids, of course. Won’t point out that his book’s been reduced to less than half price on Amazon either. That would be tactless and I am known for my tact. I think. Or was it lack of tact? I forget.

Is it worth the risk of disillusionment, then?

Of course it is.

I must tell you about when I met G*ry Lin*ker, though. What a **** he turned out to be.

* I hope he doesn’t read this blog, though. Think I’m fairly safe …

Sony-u-Dislike

I met Tall Andy for lunch today and, after a lengthy whittling down process while circling the Chapelfield food court I sped things up by offering him the choice of the “finest pastie” place or Spud-u-Like.

“Spud, then. The pasties are crap.”

“But they claim to be the finest.”

“Yes, the finest in that shop. Perhaps.”

We were intrigued to spot a special “Thanksgiving” meal deal at the Spud place. Heinz baked beans and Monterey Jack cheese fillings for just £2.99. We discussed this on two levels. The first being whether or not baked beans and cheese on a baked potato could honestly be described as a special meal deal - it being, surely, one of the more common topping combinations. The second level was wondering just what warranted the additional 31 pence - as we could plainly see Baked Beans & Cheese on offer on the normal menu at £2.68.

“Ah but it’s Monteray Jack cheese.”

I wasn’t convinced. “I’m not convinced,” I said. “I very much doubt you could discern any difference between cheeses melted over beans on a baked potato let alone a difference that would warrant a 31 pence premium.”

We declined the chance to enjoy a Thanksgiving special meal deal and took our chosen repasts to a suitable brightly coloured table. It occurred to me that the whole Spud-u-Like area was on the garish side, as if designed to placate the most ADHD of five year olds. This impression was only heightened when I lifted the paper napkin to find the cutlery. It was green. Bright green, plastic and flat. Even the fork had virtually no discernable concavity and the tines, such as they were, would struggle to pick up something sticky let alone something with, for the sake of argument, a thick skin.

“Do you get the impression we need to get a parent over here to cut up our food?” I asked as I glanced across the divide at the definitely adult-orientated, comfy chaired and subdued colouration of the pastie area. There’s clearly a balance required here and it is, I fear, a tough call.

After our meal we wandered into the Sony shop to drool over extortionate gadgetry, managing to disrupt carefully set up demonstration videos by insisting on testing how finger friendly the ultramobile notebooks’ keyboards were (and the answer is very finger friendly, in case you were wondering).

“What someone needs to do,“, I remarked as I absent mindedly picked up and pocketed a leaflet, “is bring out a tiny laptop with a built in SIM card so you don’t have all the hassle of pairing the notebook to your bluetooth phone and then using the phone as a modem. It’s can be a pain in the butt with Windows and as for Linux - sheesh!”

“Hmmm” was Tall Andy’s thoughful response.

When I got home I discovered the Sony leaflet in my pocket and glanced at the ludicrously priced geegaws.

“Bastards!” I exclaimed (to Kirsti’s surprise).

I read on.

“What a bunch of bastards! How dare they!” (no reaction this time - she was ready for further outbursts). How dare that faceless corporation steal my idea before I’d even thought of it, just to avoid paying me the royalties I clearly deserve. Bastards.

And then charge so much for the oh-so-teeny-and-lovely-and-desirable notebook.

Bastards.

Stop when I’m up to 5′ 10″

It was back to the chiropractor and for another session on the rack. Thankfully it was nowhere near as painful as the first session.

“Stop when I’m up to 5′ 10″, please,” I asked politely.

Being antipodean it took Dr J_____n a while to realise what I meant but - to prove it had finally sunk in - he jested “Oops. Seven feet.”

My, how I chortled.

In spite of his claim, I’m still under 5′ 8″ tall but - on the plus side - I’m now stickless and moving around pretty much freely. Wahey! Considering that on my way from the car park to my appointment this morning I was overtaken by a little old lady who was also using a stick, I think that represents fairly dramatic progress.

God bless technology

Cake in a Mug [via popurls]

Well, that could have gone better

“Are you feeling brtter now?” I was asked when I emerged from Dr J_______’s adjusting room.

“In a word … no.”

I’d been ok until he decided to try and get me up to 6′ at which point the word “ow” escaped my lips - and was not the first word I’d thought of.

How dare Dr K____i be on holiday!

This weekend has been brought to you …

… by the words “Ouch” and “Fuck” and the number zero (as in amount achieved).

A back twinge on Friday evening managed to develop into a proper you-ain’t-moving-anywhere-sucker by Saturday morning and has, I’m sorry to say, maintained that for the past 36 hours or so.

I’ll be on the phone to the chiro first thing in the morning - well, just as soon as I manage to get out of bed. Getting out of bed itself has been taking up to 45 minutes.

What a lark, eh?

Now, if you’ll excuse me I have some more swearing to do.

Fuck. Ouch. Fuck fuck fuck.

Comment du Jour

In response to this phishing story at The Daily WTF, today’s prize goes to “Ozz” for

Give a man a fish, and he will eat for a day.
But, teach a man to phish…