Nick's Blog
Battle of the Blog
29/10/2006 @ 16:23
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Today at 10:30am, Greenwich Mean Time, in a daring daylight raid, forces of Rhubba.com attacked the tree stump in my garden.
It is believed an axe, garden fork and pick axe were used in a flanking manoever to remove the irriating bastard from the Earth.
With his battle cry of "euuurrrgghh! Die you son of a bitch!", Rhubba commander Nick "Destructo" Hughes wielded his axe for 2 hours on the network of wood, roots and whatingodsgoodnameisthisstuffmadeoff until the main body of the stump was losened and hanging tenuously by its manky root system.
"Victory did not belong to the swift or the strong today" Nick said in a press conference attended by Wifey and her parents "but to my bloody mindedness and pure hatred of that damned Leylandii stump"
"Now you're done with that, can you churn up this section of soil" was Wifey's reply.
Human Rights organisations have been quick to condemn Hughes' actions.
Blog Rock
25/10/2006 @ 22:45
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I'm a happy boy today (all those of you who came here to read a rant, I'm sorry to disappoint you). I've just discovered a great internet radio station to add to Nostalgie and KDNK: Prog Rock Radio! Now I can listen to 18 minute long songs about concomitant timelines and energy curves all day and night (until Wifey throws a brick at my head). Bands with 20,000 changes in personel! 2,000,000 chord changes and everyone gets to have a 90mph solo!
Of course, this is anti-girl music. I once cleared a room of females at a party by putting on an Emerson, Lake & Palmer album (I believe it was "Brain Salad Surgery"). I don't get why a lot of girls don't like Prog Rock, I mean, what's not to like? Talented musicians playing complex music for hours on end about the Plains of Elysium and other Greco-Roman-Norse-Celtic myths. So what if you can't dance to it? You don't have to have a bit of a bop to everything do you? Whatever happened to listening and nodding thoughtfully when listening to a Mellotron solo?
Speaking of music, here is a link to what I think could be the best example of misheard lyrics ever: An interpretation of a Pantera song. I won't go into any more detail as this is a family website, but here's the link:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d2_jUYfYyIs
Dive Blog
23/10/2006 @ 16:25
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On top of everything, I've now got another cold so I'm slumped here and thinking death will soon envelop me. Ach, you women just don't understand, do you?
Anyway, having a stinky cold means no going swimming for me today. A couple of weeks ago, Wifey and I joined a gym with a nice swimming pool, jaccuzzi and steam room (I'm leaving the running machines, weights and hi-impact training for another day). It's really nice and doing me good but that's not why you read my blog is it? To hear nice things? No, you come here to read my rants....OK, I've got one for you.
Today, I'm reserving my ire for a group of people who go swimming that I call "Splashies". We've all seen them; they're the ones that really thrash about whilst swimming lengths under cover of "serious swimming". Nah, they're selfish gits and they're going on my list. They can't do the front crawl without sending tidal waves throughout the pool which splash us less powerful swimmers, send water into our eyes and mouths and virtually drain half the pool itself. The breast stroke is performed with all the hamminess and overwroughtness of a Tom Cruise "serious film" and then they save their worst until last with "the butterfly".
Now I've never seen the point of the butterfly stroke. It's not as convenient as the breast stroke, as quick and graceful as the front crawl or as relaxing as the back stroke. It requires you to jerk about as if you've been harpooned in the butt, cause mini tsunamis in the pool and make as much noise as possible. It's the ultimate anti-social swimming stroke; akin to dive bombing small children or leaving a jobbie floating. The Splashies just don't care because they're doing their thing and you're just in their way.
In fact, I think they do it so you can watch them in awe at their physical prowess and swimming nouse (all Splashies wear rubber swimming caps and eye goggles, you know, the gear). In their world, we just provide little islands to swim around and douse with their water spray. They want us to watch them in awe and then vacate the pool so they can REALLY crank up the speed and splashes. And if you want a bit of revenge on the Splashies, just remember....the women all have shoulders like Mooses and the men wear tiny speedos which show they have small penises. Now rest easy.
Homeblog for DIY
20/10/2006 @ 15:05
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GGGGGGRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!
Yes, it's that bloody stump again! I've just come from half an hour of hacking at the damn thing with my new axe and it still won't topple over! I've got blisters on my hands and a strange, unsettling shiny film on my palms as well which doesn't bear thinking about.
Buying the axe was an adventure in itself; I can't mention the exact name of the store I went to but it starts with H and ends in omebase. The staff were all nice, very friendly and chatty but it was the little things that made it seem odd. Especially when the first member of staff you ask for help says to you:
"Aaagh! Is there something on my head?"
"What?" Says I
"I think something has fallen on my head, some particle or something, can you have a look?" He tilts his head down, it's a bald head with some combover strands on it.
"Erm, no, there's nothing there" I winced as I realised I may have inadvertently touched on his lack of hair.
"Ah, must be static electricity then. It happens around here"
I immediately reply to that statement, instead...and with increasing reluctance...I say "I'm looking to buy and axe"
"Oh we've got lots of axes, and I think I have the one just for you!" he says all beaming and bubbly. How does he know what kind of axe is just right for me? He leads me to an area where they keep the axes and asks if I would rather a chainsaw to get rid of the stump instead of the axe. Then I remember the words of Wifey and her dad "it only needs cutting down with an axe and packing in charcoal...don't waste money on things" and I say no, just the axe...oh and those extra powerful monster root killing crystals.
The man helps me and then he was off to find the source of the static problem. I then proceed to the checkout where I'm served by a middle aged man who looks like he was once in Jethro Tull. Not tatooed or boozy or yobbish but well spoken but with hair right down his back and a long beard that could outdo Gandalf's.
"First of all sir, I have to ask you, what purpose will you be using that axe and that powerful poisonous solvent for?" He says in a very friendly way. "You see, I have to ask these questions...routine, you know?"
"I understand" I don't, but I lie nevertheless. "I'm trying to cut down a Leylandii stump in my garden"
"A Leylandii?...then we should be giving this axe and poison to you sir for free; you doing the world a big service." I wish it was actually company policy, but it wasn't. This trip was like being in a country grocery shop, where the staff are all chatty and chirpy and asking you how your day was, where you live, how you like it there, will you be going up 'pon the windswept moors today, aaarrrrr it be fine weather for a dance around the Maypole today, so it is and all that. But this is North London, and all I want is "That'll be £24-99 please".
So the war between me and the stump continues...I'm bloody knackered and I want UN troops posted there to keep it under control!
The History Blogs
17/10/2006 @ 23:46
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I started the day off romantically, surpassing my usual standards. Back in July, I lost my wedding ring whilst swimming in the sea off the coast of Naples. The water was lovely but it was very choppy in the afternoon and the only way into and out of the bay where I was swimming (which didn't require me to swim miles) was a metal ladder imbedded into the rock. In trying to get up the ladder, I was repeatedly smashed against the rocks (not helped by me wearing flippers either) and after a mad scramble up the ladder, I noticed I lost the ring.
Anyway, yesterday I got a replacement and I surprised Wifey at breakfast with a nonchalant "oh by the way, this arrived yesterday" and asked her to place it once more on my finger. Now I will no longer be targeted by single women who think I'm available....Begone foul harlots and bother me no more!
Right, that's the slushy bit out of the way, now the pretentious bit. Last night I was at an arts group meeting called Artisan; essentially it's a place where artists, writers, film makers, actors and other dole scum hang out once a month. I did a little plug for Rhubba whilst I was there and got to meet, albeit very briefly, the comedian *** ****. You see, I have to conceal his name because I don't want to nix my chances of ever working with him by being blatant on this blog (ooh, too much alliteration there). I can't say too much here but I really want *** **** to appear in an upcoming sketch me and Richard Conolly (I can say his name though) have written. So trust me, all will become clear one day...and we also want ****** ***** to appear in another sketch so fingers crossed everyone!
Now October 17th 2006 is the National Trust's Day of Blog where everyone is asked to write a blog entry for the day and give it to them for posterity. Historians in 300 years time will read something like this and conclude all the wrong things about life in the early 21st century. Or the computers will crash and all the blogs will be wiped. I really want to say that I saw something amazing today; something like Patrick Swayze wrestling a Swan, or Rod Stewart doing fart noises on his arm for the bemusement of an old lady, but even though these things may have actually happened today, they didn't in my presence. Instead, I worked some more on my Champions RPG for Thursday, cleared the shed of some junk (including an exhaust pipe which I didn't even know was ever in the shed) and received a really nice phone call from my friend and colleage Claus, whose a sound recordist on a German film currently being shot in Ireland. Nothing major happened; no highs and no lows and I couldn't even get annoyed at The Wright Stuff like I usually do.
But don't think I'm idle...I'm planning all kinds of things for Rhubba and beyond. First, we need to impress ****** ***** and *** ****, then we need to get something in the region of **,*** ****** (sorry, don't want to nix that either) and then we can go on and film the ********** ******'* *********** and ******* **** *** ******** sketches before submitting them to the ****** **** ** ********* festival in ****** sometime in ****. But I've said too much already.
Put Another Blog On The Fire
11/10/2006 @ 23:27
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Due to popular request (ie, one) here's an update on the tree stump problem which is vexing me most royally.
Wifey and her dad assured me the best way to remove the stump in a way that would cause the least disturbance to our neighbours (which ruled out all my napalm, explosives and monster truck ideas) would be to pack coal around the stump and carbonise it with a system of heat transferrance. OK, I'll buy that for now. Next, I was told to wait until dusk before I light the fire because that would cause the least disturbance and if I lit it during the day people might get their lungs choked with coal fire smoke or else their washing would get soiled with soot.
So, on the stroke of 5pm, I lit the coals and retired to a safe distance.
After an hour, I realised that I had created my own coal effect fire in my backyard and it was strangely alluring and pacifying to watch the glowing coals and warm my hands over them. Come midnight and the coals were still about half lit and the flame and heat working their way gently around the base of the stump. I decide to go to bed...Wifey, however, has other ideas. She's worried that there's a chance the coal fire might get out of control and burn the house down and with it the neighbourhood. I assure her that I've taken all safety precautions I could have reasonably taken, namely:
1. I dug a one foot deep trench around the tree stump which will shield the coal and stop it from, oh I don't know, leaping out of the pile on its own accord and flying all of 20 feet in the direction of the house..
2. Buying low smoke, slow burning coal which doesn't produce flames or a raging inferno but instead a nice, fairly passive orange glow.
3. Clearing every flammable plant, tree and object from the stump in a 10 foot radius and turning my back garden into something that resembles Flanders, circa 1916.
But all these reasonable safety measures, put into place by me at my own expense and discomfort (see previous blog entry), aren't enough to stop Wifey from worrying and so she decides she's going to set the alarm to WAKE US UP, ON THE HOUR, EVERY HOUR until 6am.
Yes, you read that right...every hour the alarm will shock us out of blissful slumber just so we can go and check on a small coal fire that lies in a pit in a garden all designed to turn a tree stump into charcoal. 1am, the Stentorian voice of our alarm chimes out..."It's 1am...time to get up...TIME TO GET UP...TIIIIMMMEEE TO GET UP!!!!!!" I mumble some ancient curses and we go and check on the fire, or rather I maintain bed warming duties while Wifey checks. No uncontrolled infernos yet. 2am; "It's 2am TIME TO GET UP! TIME TO GET UP!" Check on the fire...nope, just a nice orange glow...in fact, it looks like a fake fire of the kind made popular in the Seventies.
Then it hits me...what if a fire was to break out at 5 past 1 or 2 or 3, just when Wifey's come back to bed? Do conflagrations occur on the hour? We could wake up at 3am to find ourselves hemmed in by fire. So this nighttime vigil's usefulness is now coming under question...I decide not to share this thought with Wifey.
The next day, with the house intact and the stump still defiantly solid, it rains and puts the fire out. Now if only that had happened at half midnight....Anyway, next evening we're out having dinner with our friends and I'm having a chuckle with them about our through the night fire-watching when suddenly the girls in the room all start backing Wifey up "of course you should have woken up and checked on things! What do you mean you didn't get up with her and stayed in bed? Didn't it occur to you to stay up all night and not go to sleep in order to make your home and loved one safe? What kind of man are you?"
Wait a minute! I'm the bad guy all of a sudden? Heck, it was me who dug that trench around the stump, packed the coal in tight and made sure I bought a safe brand in the first place so we could all rest safely in the night! I do all the right things and yet I'm still wrong, according to this unelected Oestrogen Committee! Oh yes, I was forgetting...I'm a man, we're wrong by default!
Meanwhile that stump is still rock solid in the ground...time for Mr. Napalm to pay a visit.
Blog Stump
09/10/2006 @ 14:55
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I sit here, typing with one hand, my body paralysed in a ricktus of pain. What happened to me? Why am I today a shrivelled husk of humanity with merely the functions to breathe, excrete and go "uuurrruuuggghhhuuurrrggg" at intermittent intervals? What caused this once proud man to wish for the day when he could once again get up out of a chair without going AAARRRGGGHHH F*&#!!@$%!! YOUSONOMBEECH!
Well, I tried to dig out a tree stump last weekend. A Leylandii to be exact, Britain's most despised tree. This was a legacy that my mum left me in my house a few years ago; I didn't want it, I begged and pleaded with her not to plant one but she said it would be excellent for privacy and keep other people from looking in my garden (why she felt this was important, I don't know as I'm hardly the type to have satanic rituals or sex orgies in my garden).
So now I'm stuck with the remnants of the damn thing. A few weeks ago, I managed to cut it down with an axe (Wifey thought a chainsaw would end in tears as I'd have most likely have gotten bored with just cutting down trees and would start to use it to slice ham or destroy children's soft toys), so it was now time to get rid of the stump.
Everybody recommended that I dig down into the root system and then lever it up using a pitchfork. All you people who told me to do that...you don't know jack. It is you I partially blame for my current predicament of only being able to move only two of my fingers on my left hand. A Leylandii is a persistent bugger which won't be shifted by conventional means; it's root system loves trying to seek the Earth's core.
If it wasn't for our crypto-communist government, I'd blow the stump up with some easily obtained chemicals that I could work into a crude bomb. But oh no, we're not allowed a to make explosives; even with a genuine reason that would not result in the loss of human life. I mean, this is why I'm against punitive banning of anything which could conceivably have a useful, domestic (or fun) application. You just wait, they'll ban cans of hairspray next because you can easily turn them into a flamethrower.
So I dug a one foot deep trench right around the stump and exposed some of its roots. Now I would at this point drench the thing in petrol or parafin and burn it away but I was told that would be antisocial and annoy the neighbours so I have to instead surround the stump with coal and slowly char grill the wooden nemesis until it be dead. I have no idea whether it will work; I just know it's the state approved PC let's not hurt too much even if it is really fun method of tree stump disposal. Once the thing is out, I'm going to carve the remains into an attractive wooden foot bath for my mum; that's once I can move my arms again.
Blog Bath
04/10/2006 @ 17:23
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Phew, just got back from Bath where Wifey and I have spent our first wedding anniversary. That's right; one whole year of blissful married life, manacled together.
Bath certainly justifies its reputation and it doesn't disappoint. One thing has been lacking there, however, until only recently. For centuries, the natural spring water has bubbled underneath providing first the Celts, then the Romans, then the Plantagenets and then the Georgians with natural healthy mineral water to bathe in, all naturally heated to between 70 and 85 degrees Farenheit, and bestowing its curative and medicinal properties on all who would "take the waters". That is, until 1970 when Bath Council said you couldn't do it anymore. Nope, you lot can't keep running over the old Roman remains of the baths, getting in the water and having fun. Just because the sign at the town entrance says "Bath" doesn't mean you can go and have one.
So for over 35 years, the Roman baths would sneer at visitors, taunting them about how wonderful the old bathing experience was. Even the Georgians, who weren't exactly hygiene role models, would bathe in the mineral baths but the clean living folk of the late 20th Century had to do with the municipal Avon water.
Until now! Wifey and I were able to go to the new Thermae Spa baths that have only been open for 9 weeks but its what Bath has been crying out for. The whole set up is excellent; with a rooftop pool that is nice and warm despite the torrential rain that came down on us, the spectacular Minerva Pool which is designed as if you're in a parallel universe where the Roman Empire had never fallen like in that episode of Star Trek called "Bread and Circuses" (or so I've been told) or some goddammawful Harry Turtledove novel. I even got into the whole experience of Roman style bathing by plotting the downfall of Flavius Germanicus Marco...whoever he is.
Now I'm a happily married man with no quibbles, but I do have to say...and this is for the benefit of my single friends who might be reading this...that there was an 8:1 female to male ratio in the Thermae Spa. Now, have I influenced any of you into going there? By the way, you don't have to book ahead.
