What had become of all the things we'd planned?

Enjoying a brisk stroll from the Recycling Centre, along the bank of the River Avon, it struck me; I've grown up. Maturity crept up on me whilst I was still laughing at knob gags.

Rolo yoghurts are too sweet and sickly, I prefer dark chocolate to milk chocolate, and I'd prefer a Roast Dinner to almost anything else you could offer me. In fact, given the option, I'd take the main course over the dessert on most occasions.

Food puberty is not all I've endured. Landscapes now hold inherent beauty, walking is pleasurable rather than a chore, while Terminator, Goldeneye and Die Hard are no longer good films.

Not only that, but I'm reading literature by Nietszche, listening to Elgar and have a vague awareness of Politics (although I still didn't vote, on the basis that they didn't make it effortless enough for me).

I find Television irritating and noisy, and have little to no knowledge of the music in the charts. A lot of my clothes are dark green or brown.

All this has happened by the age of 20. What is there left to do? Should I grab some Werther's Originals, a copy of The Times and a pair of tartan slippers; wave goodbye to youth and vitality?

Having said that, I'm still partial to running around fields, scaling foliage and I haven't watched the News in quite some time. Also seeing breasts in films is still a surprise. So perhaps it's not all over yet.

It's a Butane-ful day....

Life has never smelled so sweet. My senses are alive again; the fresh smell of olive oil mixes with the odour of a dusty and damp old house, creating an unlikely fusion upon a backdrop of traffic noises and screaming kids. Yes, it feels good to be alive.
But it is only after the storm that this calm can be found.

Today, the storm was turbulent, a force so strong that grown men would weep in blind panic, and women would cast their children to fall prey to the whim of its figurative gusts of wind.

The knob broke off my Gas Cooker. Whilst the Gas was on.

If Death has a face, it is in the shape of a stiff "D-like" valve. Try as I might, bending forks, and fashioning crude pliers out of knives, I could not prise that shaft to the 'off' position. By this point, I had set the hob on fire, not wishing to succumb to gas suffocation. But each moment the hob remained on, money was haemorraging from that gas valve, and I was finding myself increasingly out of pocket (especially since it turned out that certain members of my household decided it was my privelege to provide them with their utitilities). In a state of disarray, I threw my hands up heavenwards and probed "Why has thou forsaken me? Also, how can I turn off this wretched appliance?".

It was then that I was struck with inspiration from beyond human knowledge. There are 3 other fully functioning knobs on this cooker. Use one of them. My get out clause. My lifeline. (For those of you without the flexibility of mind to connect the dots here, I took one of the Knobs that wasn't broken and put it on the shaft where the broken Knob incident occurred, thus fixing the problem.)

And so it was that on April 22nd, 2009, Death came knocking, ever so quietly, on the door of 12 Highland Road, Bath. To my fortune, some wanker has my front door key, so neither Death incarnate, nor the EDF energy man can enter this premises, no matter how persistent their knocking.

Jade Goody 1981 - 2009

Only the good die young. It's a phrase that has become all too familiar with the passage of time, with countless of our greatest pioneers being plucked from existence far before their time. And here is the latest, one of England's great ambassadors for peace, truth and beauty.

In her short time walking this cruel sphere, she spoke out against injustice wherever she saw it, selflessly promoting tolerance between cultures, and always making efforts to bridge gaps between people the world over. When she wasn't flying the flag for a better world, she was creating didactical material to further both the mental and physical aspects of human nature, that even after her passing, we will still continue to learn from.

Who could deny the impact this wonderful lady had on our world, and who could say what she had left to achieve, if in 27 short years she achieved so much? Certainly comparable to Princess Diana were her efforts, and no less tragic was her death. A deficit encroaches on this world, a gaping absence that will remain for time immemorial.

And so we must thank both Jackie Goody (Jade's Mum) and Endemol, for bringing this beacon of light into our otherwise bleak and ever darker world. We can only imagine as Jade's spirit is guided towards the gates, God's face will shine; "This is my child, with whom I am best pleased". Sometimes a spirit shines so brightly that perhaps it's not meant to be contained on this earth, and maybe, just maybe, it was destined to belong with heavenly creatures.

Onwards then Jade, and upwards too; towards the final curtain you now fly. Onwards to continue your thankless commission, your selfless servitude and relentless toil. Fern Britton sings (the fat lady).

Do you know how to touch a girl?

It's not what you're thinking.

The time is 11:31 PM, and I'm waiting for the England vs Scotland penultimate fixture of the Six Nations tournament to be uploaded to the BBC iPlayer. I watched the Ireland vs Wales fixture in realtime; exciting and tense stuff. Great television.

Meanwhile, I've happened across a little-known american RnB singer, Jojo. You might remember her from such hits as "Leave (Get Out)" and "Too Little, Too Late". Those of you who know me might know that part of my eclectic but fairly focussed and ignorant music taste includes some RnB artists. Jojo is one of these.

Here's why:

Do You Know How To Touch A Girl?
If You Want Me So Much
First I Have To Know
Are You Thoughtful And Kind?
Do You Care What's On My Mind?
Or Am I Just For Show?
You'll Go Far In This World
If You Know How To Touch A Girl

Inspired lyrics there, like so many RnB artists on the scene.

So, Jojo, if you're reading, I'm thoughtful and kind, I care what's on your mind, and I probably know how to touch a girl. And I can play guitar. So if you're interested, hit me up with an email or something.

The sun has got his...

act together. I hope it is sunny again tomorrow.

Spotify has also proved its value once again. Using the Radio function I had two hits in a row. If I Were a Boy - Beyonce, followed by Ooh Baby - Tommy Tucker. Although I must say I prefered Beyonce's hit, Tommy Tucker certainly shows perhaps artwork, although still using the same ideas and themes, is not what it once was.







If I Had a Boy?

What a load of Bank...

I may have been too hasty in my analysis and cutting satire of the current economic crisis (below). As it turns out, my assets (very little) are accruing a piss-trickle of interest. And here's where it gets interesting. I have an account with NatWest, and in that account is a sum of money to the sum of just over two-thousand pounds. I can tell what you're thinking - "Hello player, bet you're making a tidy profit off of that stash" - well you'd be wrong. Eleven pence. Eleven pence a month.

Mental. Over a year I get one pound and thirty-two pence of interest. That's insulting. So my reward for entrusting my tender with NatWest is the equivalent of a Solero ice-cream. Or perhaps a portion of chips. Or some of Bertie Bassett's Liquorice Allsorts.

So I'm thinking of ways I could sensibly invest my portion, to accrue a reward equal or greater than the equivalent of 50 posi-drive woodscrews. So far I've got:

-Offer a local drug-dealer my financial backing in return for a 30% stake in his enterprise.

-Get a homeless feller back on his feet, in return for a personal rickshaw service around Bath and the local vicinity.

-Start my own sex service, providing quality sex at credit-crunch beating prices.

-Invest in my future at a wishing well.

-Start my own bank, lending out money I do not have, and pay myself a tidy bonus for doing a shit job - and also give my clients a totally shitty interest rate. Or a Solero.

46p for 500ml? Yes please, 4...

It's happened, despite global economic downturn, a disturbing level of knife and gun culture, Jade Goody's plight, Polar Bears' struggle with changing ecosystems, Homosexual Priests and rampant drink driving, Asda have continued to offer great prices and a comfortable shopping experience; highlighted by my acquisition of a 500millilitre vessel of Frijj milkshake for 46 pence. That's a price that would cheer up even Howard from the Halifax adverts (reports are in that he's now a raging alcoholic and lurks around branches of HSBC screaming "Who gives you extra? We do!" through an upturned traffic cone).

What's more, Frijj released a limited edition run; Vanillaaarrgggh (Vanilla). It tastes great, and the simplistic black and white design caught my attention, standing out amongst a crowd of dairy produce. This limited edition, in my opinion, far surpasses the Raspberry flavour of yester-year, and races on by, like a vanilla Lewis Hamilton (not a racial slur, by any means).

Now I'm not an expert on the economic crisis, and I've no investments, and as such have no fear of the liquidisation of the FTSE, and I was never invited to the NASDAQ party anyway. But, if Asda can offer Frijj for 46p, it looks increasingly like everything will be fine. And that's something we can all be happy about (except Jade Goody and David Cameron {the death of a son is at its core an inherently humourless subject, even less so with a disability in cumulation to the death...So I'll leave that there}).

And on top of all this great news, I'm getting 83% of my RDA of Calcium. I'm really over the moon.