MarkCity    |
|
|
A sprawling metropolis of the mind. Est: 1970. Population: 1. FAQs Suede at HMV Big Brother Eviction Gloomy Bear Harry Potter & Me Top 10 Books Top 10 Albums Top 10 Films Teaching in Japan New Year in Kyoto Being Veggie in Japan Photo Albums Asakusa Tokyo Tokyo 2 Bangkok Chiang Mai Phi Phi 1 Phi Phi 2 Kyoto Farewell Fusako Nova Kids New York 1 New York 2 Rats! Las Vegas San Francisco Los Angeles San Diego SD Zoo Winter Wonderland Routes outta MarkCity: Peak Performance Japan Today Sports Injury Bulletin Bookgirl The Guardian Hmmm Chariotaku Toast and Coffee Raymi the Minx I am a Donut Japanese Streets Sashimi Girl James Braxton Bamboo Life Strange Place Japan Box J-list Northern Monkey Auspicious Fish VegNews Mori Chack 
 Archives 
|
Sunday, August 31, 2003
My current hometown, Tunbridge Wells, has been in the news again. Apparently, it used to be the most debauched town in England. Hey, it's still pretty wild now. The other day, I saw two of the spotty teens who hang around at the end of my road, looking like they've escaped from an Avril Lavigne video (have I said that before?), snogging! And the local Blockbuster has one or two soft porn films on the shelves, or so I've heard. Wild, huh? Walking through the Wells is like being in a scene from Caligula, or even Carry on Camping. I went to a wedding reception on Friday night and things actually did get a bit raunchy, in a very British way. A hairy old rock band played hoary old rock standards all night - 'Woolly Bully', 'Ridearound Sally', er, 'Teenage Dirtbag' - before launching into that one that goes 'You can leave your hat on' from The Full Monty. I think it's called 'You Can Leave your Hat On'. A group of the groom's friends proceeded to pull their shirts off and drove the ladies wild with their writhing bods. They were sickeningly well-toned. It almost made me want to go to the gym. Almost. One of Butter's colleagues was drooling and wondering aloud why her boyfriend didn't know any gorgeous men like that. However, it didn't get very debauched because there was no sign of an actual full, or even half, monty. Last night, the 'give peace a chaaaaaance' brigade had another of their parties. Which might have been quite debauched, although their proximity to the Tunbridge Wells Conservative Association and the HQ of the UK Independence Party probably made them feel the need to tone it down a bit. There was no out-of-tune singing this time, and the music, which sounded as if it was emanating from a huge speaker inside my pillow, only went on until 3am. Butter bought some LoveKylie undies yesterday. I asked if she'd let me take a picture to put on here. She said, 'Don't be a moron.' Monday, August 25, 2003
 The future is female Terminator 3, which I went to see last night, scared me even more than T2. Why? Because there's this virus, right, that, like, gets into all the computers across the world and, kind of, like, takes over and kickstarts nuclear armageddon. Just like the Sobig F virus! Um, without the nuclear bit. But it's pretty bloody terrifying, innit? And if there was a computer-launched nuclear attack we Mac fans wouldn't be able to sit back and say, 'Oh well, it doesn't affect us.' We'd be fried along with all the Windows users! Rat fanciers will be delighted to hear that even though our vet is so rubbish that he didn't even charge us because he knew he was rubbish (he looked at them, sprayed them with flea stuff and then said, quaveringly, 'Get back in the box, you little bugger' when Nancy went near him), the sneezes and splutters have almost completely stopped. The only rodent-related problem we have now is that our flat smells of wee. No, it's nothing to do with my girlfriend. Not this time, ha ha. (I'm going to get beaten up for that one.) Nancy and Syd have soiled their hammock and are lying in it. But in an adorable way. I was dancing in the window earlier after getting overexcited watching Blue Crush (it's Point Break in bikinis, dude), when I sensed an outbreak of mirth down below. There were six people in the street looking up at me and laughing. Hey, I'm sure they were laughing with me. Congratulations to cousin Martin for getting engaged to Andrea. Nice to see someone other than Bush and Blair doing something for Anglo-American relations. Friday, August 22, 2003
Is it me or has the whole world gone spam crazy? Before yesterday I got one or two junk emails a day. Today I've been getting one or two every five minutes! The people responsible will hopefully burn in their own little corner of hell, where they will be forced to delete unwanted emails for eternity (whilst having red hot pokers shoved up their jacksies, of course). I've been working at home today because the workmen outside our office cleverly drilled through our ADSL line. But it meant I got to spend two extra hours in bed... bliss. A day without enduring the living nightmare that is the daily commute. I bought my annual season ticket this week. £2852! I could have bought a new iMac, the services of a couple of wenches and 3 or 4 Wolves players for that. Sheesh. Right, back to shovelling my way through the spam mountain. Sunday, August 17, 2003
 We want goals The football season is back back back, and I'll quickly pass over Forest's 3-0 defeat to Reading and move on to the real topic of interest: Fantasy Football. Yes, MarkCity FC are competing in my office league. We had an auction the other night - 50 million quid each, a wishlist of players, mucho tension and sneaky tactics. I managed to end up with precisely one of the players I wanted, and that was Veron. My strikers are well-known friends-of-glamour-models Andy Cole and Dwight 'not quite as ugly as Ronaldhino' Yorke. Now, there are some who might say that Cole and Yorke are past it, but Andy Cole knocked in two past the hapless Wolves keeper yesterday, and with a goal from one of my midfielders, Paul Scholes, I was laughing. Until I realised that because I have a Wolves defender, Dennis Irwin, I'd lost loads of points because the Premiership newcomers let in five goals. So after one day I'm languishing in mid-table obscurity. Go MarkCity!  A sweet but sickly rat Syd and Nancy took their first trip to the vet's on Tuesday. He gave them antibiotics to tackle what looks like mycoplasmosis, a horrible respiratory disease that can be triggered by exposure to wood shavings. Guess what bedding the crappy pet shop were using? Syd is still fine, but Nancy's wheezing like a creaky door. Poor little thing. Despite the sickness, both of them are much less shy now - they both love coming out of the cage and exploring the bed and sofa, sitting in our laps or on our shoulders. Syd is a true star, leaping out of the cage the moment you open the door, running up and down your arm. Although she went a bit far and ran up my trouserleg... no, we didn't have to give her the kiss of life. Nancy particularly enjoys pooing on the quilt and then settling down on Butter's lap. Aah, it's like a proper family. I just hope poor Nancy gets better soon. Sunday, August 10, 2003
So, today history was made: the hottest day in England since records began. 98.1C. This event has lead to much use of the word 'torpid' in the MarkCity crib. As in, 'Uuuurgh, I feel really torpid' and 'Syd and Nancy look everso torpid'. Speaking of the little critters, Nancy is still sneezing and will be going to the vet very soon, but she's perked up a lot and she and Syd are wrestling as we speak. Now, I hope it's play fighting and not heatstroke that has made them go mad. The heat hasn't made me want to do much wrestling, although last night I did feel the urge to mow down my neighbours wiv an uzi. Butter and I had returned from a barbecue, the highlight of which was when a stray greyhound wandered into the house. Surreally, we were talking about dogs at the time (cue Twilight Zone music) and if we'd been imbibing substances other than Pimms we might have thought we'd, like, conjured the dog with our thoughts, man. But we hadn't. No, it had sensed the imminent cooking of sausages. We christened the pooch Willie then called the dog warden who came round with a big net and some dog food flavour lollipops... sorry, the heat's getting to me too. He was actually a very nice man. Let's hope Willie is claimed by an equally nice family and not her original neglectful owners. We got home, went to bed, tried to sleep, feeling as if we'd slipped into one of the circles of hell. And then, at 1 am, just after I'd fallen asleep, our neighbours started to have a garden party. For the next two hours we were treated to the following one-liner, sung over and over again in the style of a tone-deaf football hooligan: All we are saaaaying, is give peace a chaaaaance There's an irony in there somewhere. After that, they started murdering 'Imagine' before turning to what I heard one of them proclaim the "greatest song ever written - better even than David Bowie" - 'Three Lions'. Aaah, there's nothing better than hearing a dozen pissheads bellowing 'Football's coming home' at two-thirty am on the hottest night in the history of the world. Butter said she could feel me glowering beside her. But I've calmed down now. Deep breaths, Mark. On a more positive note, the 2nd best programme in the history of television, after Big Brother, has returned to if not rock, then pop my world. Pop Idol. It's brilliant. And I praise God that I'm too old to audition because otherwise I might be tempted to shame myself on national television. Butter says they'd say I was 'pure cabaret'. Cheek! Thursday, August 07, 2003
Here's the first picture of Syd. It's a bit blurry, but she won't sit still and also I don't want to dazzle her with the flash. No pics of Nancy yet. I'm worried about her - she keeps sneezing and her breathing's a bit funny. Could be stress, or an allergy. Hope it's nothing worse. Maybe it's just the heat... it's disgustingly sticky tonight. Anyway, there may be a trip to the vet's in the offing. Wednesday, August 06, 2003
Today was the hottest day ever recorded in London. Ever! It was 35.3° C in the capital today, although it felt more like 53° in my office. However, my boss, being a very kind, wonderful and warm human being, let us go at 3 o'clock. Hurrah, I thought. I can put the afternoon to good use and go to the pub. Butter had other ideas. She instructed me to collect and carry a huge flat-packed chest up the hill. Miraculously, I'm still alive. I had to rest about 100 times on my way up the hill. This was after travelling on the hottest train this side of... well, I was going to say India but Hell would be a better example. All I and my fellow commuters could do was sit and ferment in our own sweat juices, enjoying the odd breeze that floated in through the windows. The trolly man was selling warm cans of beer and looked as if he wanted to kill himself. International readers might be mind-boggled to learn that this week trains in England have been running at a maximum of 60mph in case the rails buckle. I'm so glad I don't work for Connex any more. Sigh... his whole heat thing is probably a sign that global warming is flaming out of control and that soon we'll all be floating around in a post-polar-meltdown ocean, or dodging endless forest fires. Time to move swiftly on. 
Left-right: Butter, Mark, Ron, Scabbers Have you seen the pics from the forthcoming Harry Potter film? Terrifyingly, Harry now looks more like me than ever. He's even got a track top like mine, with stripes down the sleeves, and although Hermione doesn't look much like Butter, apart from the blonde locks, they share a number of characteristics. Number one: they're both bossy. Two: they're both swots. And three: they both hang out with boys with hair that won't lie flat. BTW, I read The Order of the Phoenix and loved it, despite being cynical about it when it first came out. Sorry, JK, I take it all back. And now, the big news. We've got rats. I wasn't going to announce it until I'd managed to get them to pose calmly for photos, but that might never happen. Also, Butter has leant our camera to one of her friends. Anyway, the little beasties are called Syd and Nancy, a pair of does, and they are sweet as. Syd is lively and has already performed one daring escape, hiding behind the bookcase for half an hour. Nancy is shy and quiet and spends most of the time hiding in her tube. There'll be lots more about them in the weeks to come. Saturday, August 02, 2003
 
Thursday night I went to launch party for the BBC Book of the Future. Yes, that's right - it's out. Only £4.99! From all good bookshops, if you can find it. It's not exactly Order of the Phoenix, is it? Anyway, you can buy it here. The party itself was cool, as you can see... no actually, you can't see hardly anything in the pictures above. Except that my friend Maggie and I did a great impression of conjoined twins and if you have a powerful enough microscope you can see us in the middle of the group photo, beneath the chandelier. Butter couldn't make it, due to an attack of lazyitis, so I went with Maggie instead, which was interesting because she attracts sleazy blokes like Coke attracts wasps. One such sleazy bloke was a BBc employee. He was chatting to her, everything seemed wonderful, and then she mentioned her husband. I've never seen a conversation end so abruptly. Not since I was an English conversation teacher, anyway. He should be ashamed of himself. The only real problem with the party was that they were giving away free booze. Yes, I know that's a quality problem, but when you have an hour-long train ride home and have to go to work the next day, it's not funny. The train journey home seemed to last about a thousand nauseous years, with the woman beside me squawking about 'being sent to Baghdad' into her mobile the whole way. Got home at 12.30, still pissed. Had to get up at 6.30, feeling like I wanted to die. Or at least not go to work. Somehow, I made it. Anyway, the book's great, and I'm on page 76. And I'm going to stop going on about it now. It's also time to wave sayonara to the Bad Lyrics competition. There's been lots of discussion about this on this site, by email and in my office. As grand judge, jury and executioner (oh, I wish... someone put Bryan Adams's neck on a block for me...) the final decision is mine and mine alone. Here, in reverse order are The Worst Lyrics in the World... Ever! In fifth place, the so-called Queen of Pop proves she's as good a lyricist as the Queen of England: I drive my mini cooper And I'm feeling super-dooper Yo they tell I'm a trooper And you know I'm satisfied -Madonna, 'American Life' In fourth place, it's those New Romantic goons, Spandau Ballet: She used to be a diplomat But now she's down the laundromat -Spandau Ballet, 'Highly Strung' In third place, the most reliable of all atrocious lyricists, Stiiiing: It's no use, he sees her He starts to shake and cough Just like the old man in That book by Nabakov -The Police, 'Don't stand so close to me' The runner-up would have taken the crown, but for the brilliant rhyme of 'triangle' and 'my angle': Bermuda Triangle Makes my woman disappear Bermuda Triangle Don't go too near Looking At it from my angle Do you see why I'm so sad Bermuda Triangle Very bad! -Barry Manilow, 'Bermuda Triangle' And here it is, the winner of the Worst Lyric of All Time. It's unspeakably bad. so bad that it's not even funny. Just totally totally tragic: I'm afraid of the dark Especially when I'm in a park When there's no one else around Oh I get the shivers I don't wanna see a ghost It's the sight that I fear most I'd rather have a piece of toast Watch the evening news -Des'ree, 'Life' |