Nothing (much) To Report

After spending last week doing what I normally do (i.e. not a lot) I forced myself to leave the house on Saturday. It wasn't as much of a hardship as I thought it might be, except for actually getting up part. Sod's Law dictates that when you want and need a decent nights sleep, you will not get it. As, I'm sure, you are all aware.

During my perusal of our local paper on Friday night, I read that the almost annual event of the Medieval Fayre was rolling into town again. It doesn't roll, nor is it particularly medieval, but then this city is good at making something sound tourist friendly.

What it is about is a chance for some charity fundraising via the local Rotary club, I know not what for, and the pubs and shops get to join in trying to drum up a little business down Westgate Street, which usually means the pubs and sandwich shops have barbecues on the pedestrianised thoroughfare. The stalls are more or less the same that appear on a Friday, at the Farmers' Market, except the stallholders are dressed in Ye Olde Worlde costume. Some of them anyway. There were also a couple of small groups of folkmen and women playing traditional musical instruments, wandering up and down, playing little ditties. There may have been a hurdy-gurdy in action but I can't confirm either way. And, of course, Morris men.

Some very un-Medieval attractions included: a fire engine, that's been turned into a limo, essentially; a very broken-looking helicopter trying to raise funds, probably for the air ambulance, but unfortunately I can't be sure - I dashed past it rather quickly; a congo line that had no accompanying music, I didn't witness this, sadly - but I think I may have pissed myself laughed a little if I had caught even a tiny glimpse of this event.

I spent the day helping out on the same stall that I've assisted for the last 5(?) years. My memory won't allow me to remember if that is correct. The stall is Granny West's Country Wines. Well, it had to be something connected with alcohol, I wouldn't do it otherwise. That's not true. I enjoy helping Mandy out, I don't expect to get paid for it, financially or with a bottle of something (elderberry, this year, incidentally). She's based in Oxfordshire, Woodstock way and this is the only event she travels to this part of the world for and thus the only time I see her. She's produced some interesting stuff over the years - medlar, vine leaf and rhubarb, to name a very small number and all of which I have sampled. The mead sold especially well this year, the Sloe Gin not so. I bought one of the only two bottles that were sold. It's still not opened, which is remarkable for any booze in this house.

After standing nearly all day, my feet were screaming at me. There was nothing other to do than relieve them whilst quenching my raging thirst…. at the pub! A little, erm, quite a bit of cider was consumed. I left the place still able to stand, walk, and form almost recognizable sentences, a unique series of events for me. There will be is a review here of that very nice pub quite soon.

One last thing: Any man who utters "flicking the bean" more than once in a conversation, and in an entirely non-ironic manner throughout, justly deserves not to get laid. IMHO.

I've committed myself, which probably means I should be committed.

Two days ago, my bestest friend invited me to her Hen Weekend, in Ibiza. I'm not one for sun, heat and humidity, in fact I sizzle burn very easily. I don't do brown, in any shade, I just go from very pale to doing a amazing impersonation of a lobster, without the claws. And I've only ever been as far south as Cornwall before now.
Course, it had to be Ibiza. She would never have suggested a couple of days running around the Welsh mountains or something equally physically active. She isn't that kind of girl. Sparkles, shopping and squealing is more her thing. I think I'm the chalk to her cheese, or am I the cheesey one?
She has tried to persuade me to go blond and spend sometime on a sunbed before her wedding, the other Big Event on my calendar this year. I've refused both. Why is everyone trying to get me to change my appearance before their nuptials? Am I that hideous? Don't answer that!

Back to the point of this post, (there's a point??):
The alternative idea for the hen-do was a spa midweek break. Not something that I could have done, even if I really wanted to - I'm a carer during the week.
I've been pressed for an answer today, and I've said yes. A sure sign of madness. 3 nights in Ibiza, near San Antonio Bay, at the beginning of July. I shall now buy up all stocks of factor 50 sun cream.

I’d like to say that I had a weekend of high culture and low alcohol consumption, but I really can’t. Sorry.

Friday
The wedding was very good. Some notes, scraped off of the floor of my brain:

The location excellent, I’d share a link with you, but I can’t. Risley Hall of Nottingham doesn’t seem to currently have a web presence.

The weather stayed fine, despite all forecasts predicting otherwise.

“Jim” looked as any bride should: radiant, beautiful, and very happy.

After I’d teased certain members of the family about crying a few days before, what do I do? Yes, I blubbed like a baby. For which I’m slightly embarrassed about. Someday I hope to gain some sort of control over my tear ducts. I didn’t get drunk though, despite what some may think.

• 1 x dark rum & coke
• 2 x bottles of Blackthorn, yuk! but it was the only cider they had
• 2 glasses of red wine
• 1 glass of champagne, or cava, or sparkling wine - the truth about which is something only those in the know err, know
• 2 x Smirnoff Black Ices

- does not get me drunk. Not over a period of about 7 hours, with a slap-up meal in the middle-ish.

It didn’t help with my photography skills. But then I’m rubbish with cameras. Despite that, I did manage one photo that I’m particularly proud of. Once I’ve figured flickr out, and the pics are a little more presentable, I may share them with someone.

Dad’s speech was amazingly short. Too short really, not even a teeny-tiny embarrassing story told. Nor did he sneak in the word weasel. Tragic.

No fights occurred, well not that I could see. Or maybe everyone held off on that until the disco, but we left before that kicked off.

The least said about my brother, the better. So I won’t say anything more.

More may well have happened, and if I ever remember it, I’ll update this.

Saturday
Ah Ha! Eurovision time again. And this year I definitely got drunk drank somewhat. Oh, and ate cheese. Cheese, wine, Terry Wogan and crap songs - perfecto!

Sunday
Ouch! Thus, a late rising from my bed and a generally lazy day. And besides, my feet were still in recovery.
(Another!) Lesson learnt, the hard way: Do Not wear flip-flops for the first time in a year when one’s feet are soft and unused to the tough life of fresh air to an important do. Blood blisters on the soles of my feet are not fun things to experience. Although, they did produce some highly-comedic silly-walking.

I immensely like this, for some strange reason, it's from last week's b3ta newsletter:

#3 Testicles
'Got a bloke drunk and bet him that he couldn't
get both his bollocks into a standard Marmite
jar. This is an easy feat: one simply pops
them in, one at a time. Unfortunately there
isn't room for both a plum and a digit,
negating the chances of removing said testicles.
Nothing makes Lord Manley happier than watching
a grown man's face as he holds a claw hammer
and contemplates smashing the glass jar which
houses his gonads.' (Lord Manley)"

With the combined joys of Marmite and testicles, I ask you all two, who needs Womble porn?

I have about 5 or 6 embryonic posts currently running amok in my head. They're causing all kinds of grief, mostly to my sleeping pattern. The trouble I have is turning these ideas into meaningful, coherent, structured prose. I should jot down these disjointed thoughts when they're running freely about the emptier parts of my brain at 2 in the morning, but I can't be arsed to get out of bed and scrabble about finding pen and paper, for I don't possess one of the mythical objects oft called "laptop". But that's something I want to write about in a proper post, once extracted.

In other news, tis 3 (count 'em, three!!) days till my wee sister's wedding. She'll stop being a Little Miss and become a Respectable Married Woman. She was the first to fly the roost, is the first to get hitched, and will probably be the first to make me an aunty. Unless, no the unless is too horribly painful to even imagine.

Stars spotted on the edge of a massive black hole

I know, it sounds like ITV's Saturday night schedule. But it's not. Arf!

Strange new rodent discovered as Asian snack

The article doesn't state if it tastes like chicken or not though.

Never before has blogging taken up so much of my time.

Not writing or even thinking up what to write, obviously, but reading. And then there's all the links you've just got to check out. Sometimes these little adventures into cyberspace can lead to something beautiful or educational. Occasionally you're presented with something which up until that point you didn't know you couldn't live without. My music collection has swelled, not entirely legally. I've downloaded at least 10 different apps in the last month, none of which I quite possibly wouldn't have known about if it wasn't for various bloggers mentioning them. (Gordon McLean mostly.)

I have blogging to thank for my recent love affair with Firefox. And all it's fantastic little extensions. How did I cope before tabbed browsing? And FoxyTunes? And ForecastFox?

I've very almost laughed my head literally off, and once in a while I've read something that's had me in tears.

Sure, there's a great deal of crap blogs out there, this one included, but my life would be all the more poorer if this medium didn't exist. Although I would have more time to do real world things, like developing my social skills (ha!) or watching more shite tv.