The show last night was very good, Bill Bailey really is half Klingon and part troll. I got there early to pick up the tickets fmr the box office and had arranged to meet Martha and Phil outside the Apollo on Shaftsbury Avenue. I met Martha at 19:20, we knew Phil was going to be late so we headed on in for a drink. The drinks were extortionately expensive which I resented. That some establishments are so blatant in stealing your money makes me wish bankruptcy on them, I had already had to pay £30 for a ticket and then I'm charged nearly £5 for a Guinness. I shall write to Bill and tell him that although he is a funny man, he is a very expensive night out.

We missed the beginning of the show and before we took our seats we stood in the foyer and asked the ticket lady if we could leave a ticket for Phil. Martha was trying to phone him and did actually get through when he told her that he was in the upper circle, we were one level down. The ticket lady was interested in why, or how Phil had managed to get to the upper circle sans ticket. When Martha told her that the gift of the gab got him in she wanted to get him out, get her staff in and find out how this happened and I just wanted to go to my seat and enjoy the show. We left Phil's ticket at the front desk and turned to leave when Martha asked the ticket lady if we could leave Phil's drink that we had bought at the bar for him with her. She very tactfully told us that it might be better if we just took it with us.

The first half of the show was tainted by Martha's concern for Phil. I on the other hand thought, well, he's late and it's his problem, there's nothing I can do about him being late so let's forget about Phil and enjoy the show. We found Phil at interval. After the show we headed off to china town for crispy duck pancakes. I then took the tube home and Phil, with his preference for busses took the bus.

My slow-release hangover demands that I stop writing and start drinking coffee.

I knocked off work early on Tuesday, Andrew was up in London and just happened to be coming round the corner of St Paul's when he rang. I am a 2 minute walk from the filthy cathedral so we arranged to meet on the corner of this and that street.

Delicious pints of Landlord's Best were teased down our gullets in the Blackfriar. The Blackfriar is a wonderful pub and a listed building. It has bas-reliefs of monks that look more like Yoda sculpted into them arches with words of wisdom nearly as corny as 'If you build it, they will come' embossed around the upper edges of the arches.

I should spend more time in the Blackfriar soaking up the atmosphere and free wisdom, in a pint-pot.

I am off to see Bill Bailey at the Apollo on Shaftsbury Avenue this evening. The show is titled Part Troll. I am expecting it to be good.

I discovered something my father would like. I popped out to buy an expensive sandwich at the piss-taking Italian deli up the road the other day when, out of the corner of my eye I spotted a sign that I had not seen before. I used to walk that route every day so I was quite surprised that I had never seen it before. It is the birthplace and home of a certain Samuel Pepys - diarist.

I passed into the new butcher on Clifton Gardens yesterday. It's a swish organic/free range butcher that I have decided to investigate since my fight with Tesco regarding the treatment of chickens and other livestock. Tesco claims to do organic chicken but these chickens come from the same battery farm and the only difference is that the 'organic' chickens are separated from the troops doing battle in the battery coup. If an 'organic' chicken gets sick, it's still pumped with antibiotics. Buying Tesco organic produce is a scam and meaningless, it's labeling and we are still being lied to. Organic produce comes from the same place as non-organic so what's the point.

I have to say that the meat and produce in this butcher looks very, very good. In fact it is some of the best looking meat I have seen in a long time. The downside is that it is fucking expensive. It is run by a very charming if not over enthusiastic Japanese lady who is very well versed in butchery. I love conversations about food with women. You get to say things like 'you like your meat well hung' or 'so do you beat your meat?' I am tending towards the tacky side of suggestive conversation, but try it sometime, conversations about food are the most seductive and suggestive.

I purchased a couple of sirloin steaks at the most ridiculous price and I suffered buyers remorse until I had finshed eating it when I sat back and thought it was worth every penny. I thought of South Africans who always say that the English know nothing about meat when in fact it's the other way round. It's about quality not quanitity and apart from the most amazing filets of beef that Gail got in the Eastern Cape somewhere - having heaps of red meat in the supermarket does not make it better. These sirloin steaks made me realise why Henry VIII or James I fictitiously knighted the piece of loin, Sir. The word comes from the French word Surloigne - but I do like the myth.

The above meal was washed down with some Bombardier Ale. A shortage of Belgian Bevvies in the neighborhood watering holes has turned me to good English beers. At £5 for 5 pints or Bombardier you can't go wrong. Andrew blessed me with a bottle of Balvenie double wood 12 year old single malt. OK, it's a Speyside but it's a fantastic Whiskey. When it comes to lifes pleasures we must always try new things. I shall give it a good sampling tonight.

I have just read the list of worst jobs in science on the popular science site. The heavyweight occupying poll position is that of Anal-warts inspector. Surprisingly nurses are at number 10 followed by computer helpdesk support at number 11 which doesn't leave me far behind, if there was an 11^1/2 position, I'd have it. It's not that my job is bad, as we know or expect bad to be, it's just that it doesn't really amount to much, it's all virtual, it doesn't really matter.

I left for Wales on Friday evening. Paddington station was hell and the train to Wales was particularly bad as there was an international Rugby match on at the Millenium Stadium in Cardiff. I was pleased that I had booked a seat, I could watch as others fussed, sweated and choked as they fought for isle-space and the chance to breath. I could sit back and read in relative comfort.

Andrew picked me up at Cardiff Central. The lines on his face cut even deeper by laughter and torment. Trench warfare in the battle between time and youthful looks have gullied a scarred and rugged terrain all over his face. If faces tell stories then Andrew has a fear and loathing cult classic printed on his mug. We chatted into the wee hours of Saturday morning.

The assembly of Andrew's new computer started on Saturday morning. I was ungracefully woken by Robin who was walking around the edges of the bed as if it was something she did every morning and I just happened to be there. I went in to deep denial peeking out at her from time to time, careful not to make eye contact. She was fishing for my attention, she was lulling me into waking up. She then stepped over me, clumsily yet perfectly bumping into me, sat on top of the sofa and read her book, out loud, as I guess she does every day. When she tired of reading out loud she put on one of her audio books, Pooh Bear. By this time Andrew was awake and before I knew it a strong coffee was there to help me through the trauma of waking up.

A barrage of questions about my fictitious dragon Pyro came from Robin and I was already dreaming up another ludicrous yarn that could be accompanied by a book just to take the heat off. I bought her a book on Dragonology to take the heat off me and my story of a owning a dragon, it only served to fuel the young mind. Perhaps something factual yet fascinating could be summoned. That way my imagination could never be ambushed, facts are cold, you look them up and don't dispute them. Maybe I'll buy the kid broadband and a tutorial on using Google. Breakfast consisted of porridge, peanut butter and maple syrup which was a taste revelation. Andrew claims to have dreamed up the marriage of flavors and Nicole claims it was a result of pregnancy cravings. Since Andrew neither smokes dope nor endured pregnancy, I'm going with Nicole on this one.

Assembling a computer never goes according to plan. I had a half-built system with its guts hanging out when I realised that there were a few components missing. Andrew and I decided to drive on into town and buy them from PC World. PC World in London is a pit. PC World in Cardiff is the mother pit from which all other pits were spawned. PC World sucks, PC World in Cardiff is the definition of suckiness. I was looking for a S-ATA cable and a heatsink with three clips, not one. I asked the lab rat in the purple PC World shirt if they had any of the afore mentioned items in stock.

'Sorry sir, we don't do cards' came his reply.

I asked for a Serial ATA Cable. What the fuck are you talking about or are you just to much of a piece of store front shit to tell me that you don't actually know what I am talking about? For those of you who don't understand, it's like walking into a supermarket, asking for flour and being told that they don't stock baking trays.

Normal service resumed as Lab rat then gave full attention to his clipboard.

We located a S-ATA cable, made our way to the check-out, paid and asked for directions to Maplins where we might stand a better chance of finding a heatsink matching our description. The till boy also needed to be taken outside and boiled in oil for pretending to know something instead of just saying 'I'm sorry, I don't know'. Had we followed till boy's directions we would have driven over the round-about, not round it, we'd have driven over garden fences, cats, dogs, children, basically 'in that direction'' as he pointed out to us - I wonder if he saw our microlite in the parking lot. Maybe we're the stupid ones.

We set off in search of the mighty Maplin's, driving round the traffic circle and doing everything till boy didn't tell us to do. The only thing endangering our lives now was Andrew's driving. We'll get to that later. Maplins on City Road was at the other end of town and negotiating traffic was hell. Because of the rugby match, Cardiff central was jammed.

Cardiff is an ugly town and every time I go there without a digital camera I cry. It looks like it belongs in the old Communnist block and even the more modern parts of Cardiff look, as Andrew describes 'like they were designed by a man who wears white shoes and a dodgy suit'. The first thing you see when you enter Cardiff is the Central Hotel, well at least what remains of the Central Hotel. It burned down ages ago and for as long as I have been visiting Andrew in Cardiff, the black, charred and rotting corpse of the Central Hotel is the first and last thing you see as a visitor.

We found Maplins and the device we were looking for. We paid, left and made our drive back to Cowbrige.

I planned the trip up to Wales mainly to build the PC. Getting to stay with the Taits is always a treat, but this time I had work to do. There was no way I was going to leave an unfinished PC in Wales. What Andrew neglected to tell me, because like every good man he had forgotten something his wife had told him, was that guests were coming round for dinner and they were expected round 17:³⁰. The guests arrived and I had to move the disemboweled heap of tech away from the table and start cooking as I had volunteered. I am starting to understand why the Taits like it when uncle Xander visits. Uncle Xander can take the heat off parents even if it's only half and hour. When you're dealing with inquisitive, jet-fuel driven minds, a 30 minute break is probably a rare treat. Uncle Xander is like an asbestos blanket for the child and the kitchen utensil you just cant buy.

The guests were a Welsh couple whos child is a friend of Robin's. I was not aware that the Taits had never really socialised with these people. She seemed nice, Welsh, demure and a little weird. He had two great big golden earrings, his shirt was exposing to much hairy chest for my liking and his head was shaved. When I heard that he was a Tottenham supporter I knew immediately, he was scum and more than likely a repressed homosexual. You could see that he was a secret bovver boy, a boot boy skinhead, like I said, scum. He wasn't half way through his first glass of wine when he started slurring, which was a clear sign that we were in for an interesting night. Interesting is not always a good thing.

Boot boy's teeth became blacker from the wine, his mouth looked like it'd had it's way with a drain plunger. He was over weight with fatty deposites on his head. Because of the extra weight it was difficult to properly distinguish his features and left you with a sense of uncertainty when mapping his face for memory. He was in the air force and she had worked as air traffic control or something similar, I wasn't really paying attention but hours of talk about airports, airplanes, pilots, russians and news crews ensued.

Boot boy then mentioned that he was in the first and only gulf war, he didn't say what he did but I wouldn't give him mre credit than maybe being the fella who removes the chucks from the planes wheels. He said was a right-wing Tory, but a working class man all the same, he became more and more fervent, telling us, not conversing with us, well, I can't include myself, I was miles away, I had sent myself into a Zen-like state wishing the clocks forward, speeding up the hours and wanting the night to end. His confidence grew proportionally to the blackening of his mouth. Sometimes I look at people and I don't see a human, I see an animal, their features, expressions and behaviour become animal. He had turned into a beast of sorts, spittle was coming out of his mouth, great big blobs of it, landing on his shirt, he'd rub it in with his hand and I'd be sittting there thinking he's going to want to press flesh at the end of the evening... make a mental note to disinfect my hands after that happens.

The inevitable cockney slang conversation came up and Boot boy was ready to show us all how it was done. The next thing we knew he was going on about 'half a pound of baccy' - Pakis. The 'Pakis' were going to invade Buckingham palace and ruin the country. Boot boy ranted on about 'Pakis' invading the country while we all sat there gob-smacked, hs wife was clearly mortified. The dinner had been planned as a starter and dessert, soup und strudel. I think we were all glad that a) boot boy did not deserve a main course, and b) no main course meant that they got the fuck out of there quicker.

I have run out of steam and the acrid memory of boot boy has faded.

Last night was uneventful. There was less than nothing to watch on the telly, bringing new meaning to the phrase idiot box. Instead I prepared myself for a trip to Wales this weekend to help Andrew build a new system. I have hardware lying around, components that could make up a system that would require you to strap yourself down.

I had to shave this morning, which I resented. The facial hair gene should be removed from the model, it's of no use. All it serves to do is render a man untrustworthy. A sweet, elderly waitress called Babs once told me 'Never trust a man with a beard, never trust a man with a middle-parting and never trust a man who doesn't drink.'

I can never get the shaving thing right. I've never had the amount of facial hair that you might expect a Bulgarian or a Greek to have, or like the moustachoed Portuguese fella's at school who had daily shaving rituals and five 'o clock shadow, when they were 12. I've never had a steady enough brush of stubble to become accustomed to the art of shaving. The marketing aspect behind the razor is also something that tends to piss me off. Since when did a dual blade razor become insufficient thereby flooding the market with tri-blade razors. The world is now expecting the arrival of the Schick quad-blade razor and it doesn't stop there. The new Gillette razor is battery operated. Just in case your tri-blade razor is not enough to deal with the hair on your face, this razor emits small electronic pulses that are supposed to create a force of attraction between the hair and the blades, resulting in a closer shave. Stubble by nature grows up, it's hair for fuck sake not hemp growing out of your face, hair. Ladies wax it, we need double edged, deadly sharp quad-blade electronic impulse, ergonomic, titanium, tungsten-tipped, rubber winged and gel-oozing razors to shave our faces.

I should grow a beard in protest. I won't though, not because it would render me untrustworthy, the main reason being, I don't have a sufficient amount of hair on my face and I would only end up with a beard that resembled the Swedish Archipelago that Stockholm is built on.

I had a relatively crowd-free ride to work on the tube. There are pockets of chaos and lulls quiet, the underground breaths, I got to work while it exhaled. There were no Metro newspapers available so I read my book America by Joe Queenan. He rants and moans about the hideousness of America and the culture. It has inspired me to boil my blood and spill the blood of others. I need to refocus my blog, change the washer on the steam valve and let rip.

So after a period of quiet on the blog, I think I have stewed enough to build up a wee repository of rage to release here.

I'm being heard. I got a reply from Tesco basically telling me that my complaints about the battery chicken are inane and ineffectual - that they have been doing what they do for years and noone else has ewver complained. The have virtual teams of animal rights experts and veterinarians who can endorse their chicken production management system to be of the most ethical order. I am wrong and disillusioned and they hope that their feeble excuse will serve to allay my distress.

I have been in contact with the Council of Westminster Environmental Services, who seemed to take a great interest, especially since Tesco is involved. Tesco was fined £25,000 for lack of health standards yesterday.

The council are going to investigate and my case was handed directly to a Westminster Health Officer. Whoever it was that I spoke to knew about the black spots and also found it distressing.

I'll report back on what the council's findings are.

The footie was good, we won. Arsenal reserves beat Everton 3-1. The songs the crowd sing are very funny...

'Does the social know you're here' and something about scouser bastards was amusing as was the song 'cheerio cheerio' sung to those scouser bastards being removed from the grounds by police.

I had a good weekend in Manchester. It's always great going up there to see Babs & Co. They have nice big sofa's, both Babs and Bernard are great cooks as well so it's all sofa and food. I went to see Tor after I got back, I'd been meaning to go and see her. It was Tor's birthday, this time of year has two important birthday's, Tor's and Maman's.

I am off to the footie this evening after having managed to get tickets to the Arsenal v. Everton game.

Those lovely ladies I was talking about!

It's Friday and the week has gone smoothly. I am off to visit Babs in Manchester and I'm looking forward to escaping London for a couple of days. There is a promo today for Axe deodorant and there are models dressed as sluts swanning greasing it around the office. They are wearing stripper police outfits and have the biggest, most gravity defying silicon tits you have ever, ever seen. I made myself known immiediately and told them that I've been a bad bad boy and that I deserve to be taken into the stationary cupboard and interrogated, cuffed and beaten by all three of them.

I'll post photo's on Monday.

I went shopping the other day only to find a horror show in Tesco. The battery chicken is disgusting and I've decided to go strictly organic. In the canteen downstairs you can buy a half chicken for £2.50. As far as I am concerned, a whole chicken should cost round £8 - £10. When you can buy a chicken for £3 - £4, something is wrong. There are 60 million people in the UK, lets say ¹/₃ of them eat a quarter chicken, a breast or a couple of thighs, that's ⁶⁰/₃ = 20 million people eating a quarter chicken, thats 5 million chickens a day. That's a lot of chicken and you can be sure they are not reared with names or even numbers, they live in their own piss and shit, are crippled and walk amongst their own dead, every chicken coup in the land is like a chicken somme, and i'm not abbreviating consomme, I am referring to the battle of the Somme. Chicken Somme. I wrote a letter of complaint to Tesco.


Dear Tesco Customer Service,

A new Tesco store has opened in my neighborhood. The store in mention is on Clifton Gardens, Maida Vale and I have been going in to buy my groceries since it opened. I am afraid to say that I can no longer support shopping at Tesco and will be forced to source a more ethical alternative. There have been two occasions in the last week where I have been subjected to the most appalling sight in your store.

I was shocked to see the state of the whole chickens in your store. The chickens have black spots on their legs and I’d like to know if you are aware of where these black spots come from. Battery chickens are pumped with steroids and grow at such a rate that their legs are not developed enough to carry them. As a result the chickens live in a pool of their own feces and urine. This then turns to ammonia, and it is the ammonia that burns the legs of these animals.

You can see why I have a problem with the fact that right next to the ‘Organic’ chicken, is a whole chicken that has been burned by the foul morass of its own piss and shit. Tesco has a responsibility, as outlined by its own declaration of ‘Healthy Living’ and ‘Social Responsibility’ to provide the customer with products that are both healthy and obtained in an ethical manner. I can only assume that your corporate talk of social responsibility is a slick marketing ploy to reel in as many of the fools that are born every minute as you can.

As a result, I can’t believe that your organic products are what they say they are. Tesco is making a mockery of the organic movement and needs to gain control over quality assurance and standards, as this role appears to be vacant.

Sincerely,

Alex Learmont