Waiting on the Wing

I’m waiting for The West Wing to download. whilst waiting here by my computer on my hard wooden dining chair, barely softened by the once effective red Ikea cushion which is attached to it, I realised that I’d not posted for a while.

I don’t usually sit here and wait of course; it’s the last episode I’m waiting for, the very last episode of my favourite TV show for the last seven years. I won’t go on about it.

So no posts, what can I say, there’s been stuff happening and I even have news. But the stuffs not been big enough (like that usually makes a difference) or I’m just not able to tell a story about it. And the news is something I’m not ready to talk about yet. Nothing bad and Michelle’s not pregnant or anything I just need to know a little more before I post.

Wondering what the happening stuff is that I can’t spin out to a story? No? Well I’ll tell you anyway. Helped David move into his flat, Michelle head butted a wardrobe while drunk in David’s flat, I went to Largs on Saturday with Laura and Stuart and, most importantly, I actually beat Stuart at Halo (sorry mate had to be said).

So my download is done now and I’m off to watch and maybe shed a tear for the end of the Bartlett administration. Next time I’ll talk about something I swore I wouldn’t ever discuss again in this Blog: Work. Don’t worry though there’s a twist in the tale.

‘Till then.

Every Party Needs a Paul

I wondered what the hell was going on at midnight on Saturday. We were up at Nigel’s flat for his 25th, just a small group of close friends with the notable exception of Sparkie (don’t talk to me about it), when at midnight Claire, Lindsey (I apologise for spelling if incorrect) and Kenny, normally an experienced survivor until the end on nights like this, were leaving. They all had legitimate reasons, work and long travel during the day, I’m not moaning about their leaving at all, I was just shocked at the prospect the night could potentially come to an end at this juncture.

Stupid really. There was no chance of an end in sight at this time. The post midnight guests were as follows: - David, Laurie, Shaw, Michelle, Iona a couple from Nigel’s work (the female was Michelle but I have no idea what her largely silent bows name was), Mark (Nigel’s older brother) Myself, the birthday boy and the never ending entertainment that was Paul, Nigel’s younger brother.

While Mark was, as always a funny guy (save for nicknaming me Geoff for the night after deciding my beard gave me the likeness of the Biker Grove legend), Paul was a force of nature. from trying to convince David to let him down the bottle of his illegal in 49 states alcohol he had won in the Dominican (which would have killed him) to an impressively blush free bought of dancing, and actually getting Shaw to listen to his point of view (they said it couldn’t be done!) Paul kept the party alive. In fact it was not long after he fell asleep that the taxi was called (at 5am). All respect to the wee man he took a fair amount of abuse, what more can you expect from an older brother and his friends, but he kept smiling and got back up after every blow (only Shaw actually physically assaulted him in a ‘my street fighting is better than your black belt’ demonstration (don’t worry he only pinned him)).

It was a great night. Michelle, who won’t mind me saying, couldn’t be bothered going out ended up disappointed to leave and Nigel was smiling covered up in his bed when we left (though I felt he could have waited until we left before getting naked). Happy Birthday Nige’! Or since you’re a quarter of a century old would you prefer Happy Birthday Michael? What is the threshold on Nicknames?

My Stag

"A bachelor party (also called a stag party, stag night (UK and Ireland), or
bucks party (Australia)) is a party held for a bachelor shortly before he is
married, to commemorate his final opportunity to engage in activities a new wife
might not approve of, or merely to spend time bonding with his male friends. A
bachelor party may involve activities such as going to a strip club, hiring a
female stripper, drinking alcohol and gambling."

The above is the reason I thought it best not to have a stag night. I didn't really see the point, I mean I don't drink or gamble and, I know this is weird but, I don't want to go and see strangers getting naked in front of me. However I was convinced, by David, that if I agreed to have one it would concentrate on the "bonding with male friends" and despite the fact that I'm not much for male bonding* either I agreed.

* Stereotypical common activities of male friends include watching sports on
television, drinking beer, or going for a curry.

Following that agreement I found myself very nervous about the prospect of the Stag, I had been told that David with Sparkie were going to a lot of trouble to think something up that I would like, which while nice I was sure would be a disaster. I don't mean to sound ungrateful, I was, I am very grateful for the thought, but lets be honest; I am not an ordinary person who likes... well much of anything really, and its nobodies fault that they can't understand that, I'm odd and I'm fine with that but some people, I think, think that I can't really not like the stuff they do. After all they like it so why wouldn't I? Anyway, I was nervous and I phoned David and called it all off.

Not long after the call he was round at the flat and was again assuring me that it would be fine and I'd have a good time and blah blah blah. It ended up with a list. He told me to write a list of things that I wanted for my Stag Night. The list was as follows: -

1. No Nudity of any kind.
2. No surprises.
3. A quiet night.

Simple. Not ambiguous in any way, wouldn't you agree? So you can imagine my surprise when I found out my best men had organised this.

And also planed for everyone to dress in superhero costumes while out in Glasgow.

I found out when I overheard someone express concern that I wouldn't like what was going to happen. They never told me what the something was, David told me after a few texts expressing my concerns and then a few more which expressed my violent opposition to the costumes. He wasn't too happy about it all but he did agreed not to do the ambulance thing right away and eventully gave up on the costumes.

So all is said and done now and it looks like I'll be going for a quiet drink at the Crooked Lum. Now some of you may read this and think "that's a rubbish Stag Night" and you'd be right. But it is my Stag Night, and it is all I ever wanted to do if anything at all.

UPDATED

It's come to my attention, that is a few people have said, that this post appears to convey anger and that I have been mean spirited in its writing. If that's how it comes across I am sorry for that. I'll admit I was angry when I heard of the proposed plans for the night but my objective here was to make people aware of my peculuarities. It was a good Stag night that David and Sparkie organised, truly it would have been a great stag. My point was I don't want a Stag night and I felt I had to make people aware that when we go on that night out before my wedding that they wouldn't be attending a stag night.

The Whole Hogg

For your viewing pleasure I have included within this post an example of the fine work done by Mr Dave Hogg in his daily diary comic strips from a few years ago. Even if you've never met Dave I'm sure you will find, as I did, that Dave has a real talent for capturing the essence of small occurrences and quirks in an interesting, sometimes odd and frequently amusing way.

The example of the strips which I have included is, for me and if you know him I'm sure you'll agree, a perfect snapshot of Stuart's personality.

Click of the image to see the rest of Dave's strips.

Miller Genuine Graft

Saturday was my second induction at the gym. As I walk into the changing rooms to find some guys bare arse staring at me while he was bent over to remove his kegs I was reminded of why the idea of joining this type of establishment had never much appealed to me. However, after condensing this image into a tiny little ball and storing with the other disturbing and angry thoughts, I myself got changed and headed for the exercise bike to warm up.

After my recommended fifteen minutes on the bike at level 5 (way too low apparently) I beginning to wonder what all the fuss was about this fitness malarkey; I wasn’t even feeling look-warm never mind “the burn”. Then Craig Miller walked in to greet me.

Craig Miller is a school friend of David’s who I has a casual acquaintance with and who just happened to be my instructor for the weight training I was about to receive. Now for me going to the gym is embarrassing enough, actually embarrassing may be too strong a word but can’t think of another so let’s just say it doesn’t sit right with me. Anyway, I was saying that being that I’m not too comfortable with the gym experience as I am, having a person I know instruct me didn’t help put me at ease. That being said Miller was very professional and did not stray into personal territory whilst instructing me. Though I do think he may be trying to kill me.

Each machine I went on he would predict a weight which I could lift and then ask if I was comfortable with that weight. I said yes each time and each time the weight was increased. He explained that on each machine I was to do 10 to 12 repetitions and that I should feel by the time I get to the end of those reps that if I was to try a thirteenth it would be impossible to do so.

As I dragged myself to the changing room at the end of the instruction, in which I had done said 10 – 12 reps on each machine at two different weights, and as the blood pounded in my ears I felt what I can only assume was, having never felt it before in my life, The Burn.

I did weights before, when I was younger at home, and I had what could pass as muscle on my arms but I have never felt the tightness and the aches that even now, 33 hours after leaving that gym, I still feel. This is the deal. This is what it is to work to achieve something. It’s hard because it should be and I will not back away this time. I’ll be there tomorrow, Wednesday and Friday after work and I will do what I have been advised to do because at the end of the day, when all is said and done, I’m not giving those torturing bastards £33 a month and having nothing to show for it!

In closing I have to confess that while going to Glasgow yesterday I was thinking to myself that I couldn’t be bother with the gym, that I’d use to pool for the 3 months until I have the option to leave and then drop it. At the moment I’m reading a great book called The Tipping Point, which you can read the synopsis of here, and in it a wealthy man talks of how he got his beautiful and huge home for a price less that what it was worth. The man says that at the time he thought of approaching the owner to convince him to sell for the proposed price he wasn’t sure he would be able to do it, but as he always says “if you don’t try, you’ll never succeed.”