The Annals of Jimlad

We'd Like to Talk about Ourselves

2010-07-10T10:02:00.004+01:00

It was a long time ago. We

Well, we

We

Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

I’ve completely forgotten what I was going to say, but wasn’t that fun! I’m sure there was a serious point somewhere before that happened! We’ve been seriously busy, haven’t we? It’s still in fashion? It was fashionable about a month ago. Most of the peer pressure haven’t updated their blog since, so.. going out on a limb here but probably if I talk about what’s kept me busy it’ll look ok.
OK. I wasn’t really that busy unless you count Curly D. I follow Curly D around. She is very good, I don’t mean “walk on water” kind of good. Because she says it would be too close to blasphemy, so she runs instead.

Curly D has a lot to learn about control. I never seriously tried to teach her. It just didn’t feel right. Not like with Cauliflower, my brother. I showed him the breathing exercises: how to breath just the right way, then gulp and then belch. Eventually Cauliflower even surpassed the dream. We both knew the theory and I could push it out the other end as a fart, I showed him that, but I’d never actually managed what I knew, just knew must therefore be possible. The in-between bit. The intentional tummy rumbles. I couldn’t hold it, then churn it around in the middle. But he could.

Curly D wanted to burp. We were in a hotel bar in Dublin and she felt a little windy. “The trick is”, I told her, “to take a mouthful of air and gulp it down.”
“Of course, there’s a fine line to be met between achieving the burp and getting hiccups.”
“Hic”
Tried to show her how to stop but knew it was a lost cause. She just didn’t have that level of control. She didn’t hiccup for very long though.

Which reminds me, I was busy with work and it seemed it would save time if a program did the analysis for me because I had to go to Zurich for the first time in ages and talk about stuff I didn’t have time to look at before going to Zurich for the first time in ages. The trouble was I had to write the program and the world cup was being watched by me at the same time. Probably lots of bugs scuttled in while I had my eye on the match, but I do mean to finish it sometime. Kept wondering what would be the best way to watch it. I mean, write it. Haven’t got back to it because I’ve been busy trying to make myself shallow with the excuse of being healthy so I don’t have a heart attack when I’m older.

To retain some depth of character, I’ve been reading a classic but it turned out to be a comedy so I’m not entirely sure it’s helping. Catch-22 it’s called. Heller is a great writer. He reminds me of something Babette something sometimes but he’s not quite as good. It pleases me, this, because being a writer seems somehow more attainable. Not being as good at writing as someone doesn’t mean I can’t be a writer because someone else who is better than me at writing is an actual writer but isn’t as good as the other someone who isn’t a writer. So maybe it’s just a case of being good enough. But there’s a catch; Catch-2: Me not being good enough anyway. That’s some catch, that catch-2. Babette could be a writer but she needs to go to war first to have something to write about. War would also solve unemployment issues.

Being good enough would be easier if I wrote more but even easier again if I read more. But then being a good friend would be easier if I spent less time reading and more time exercising. No, not exercising, that’s so I can be a friend over a longer period, more time with friends I mean. But then I wouldn’t have anything to talk about and by that token no friends, unless I watch the world-cup. But television costs money so I have to work. But work is busy. Work would be less busy if I wrote a program to do it for me. Then I’d have more time for music.

A Guatamalan from Mexico came to Dublin and told me that because I’m Sagittarius I might have a tendency to shoot arrows in too many directions. But he’s wrong. I just don’t have enough arrows and he just doesn’t have enough targets to appreciate this. And too much knowledge of astrology and not enough of the Bible to form a convincing argument.

2010-05-19T23:21:00.003+01:00

Out came a bunch of office workers to a rousing cheer. Picture a man in plain smart dress beginning to talk BUT AS he goes ON you reaLISE… he. is. talkinginawaythat rhyyymes. And if everyone talked in this way the world would be SO MUCH BETTER, So Much fullofstyle.. (and bad grammar). And as he gets on with saying hello to the audience a song starts, and I’m not sure how or when, and he seems to be introducing the band, Franz Ferdinand.

But their songs held more than great timing, a beat to dance to and good voice emphasis. Their songs generally contained repetition of single pieces of a melody before they moved on to the next part of the melody coinciding with change in beat, instilling a wonderful sense of adventure, adventure perfectly reflected in the singers eyes, staring off into the distance, one arm outstretched, fingers splayed to control the tremors of music emanating from deep within his soul, body twitching to the resultant beat. Brilliant. Plus they are Scottish. They have cool accents.

Now, since you've been such good readers, I've gone and drawn you an actual picture. Don't be givin out about me leavin me camera in the car now. Or I'll bate ya.

And then Saturday was over (It was now Sunday)

2010-05-15T11:11:00.005+01:00

It had been hard to decide whether to sleep in our wet, bet down tent or go to our car. Thankfully though, we were spared this very difficult dilemma by the presence of Curly Dee’s brother in our tent for a second night.

And we saw that it was bad. And yet, we slept in that car until half three on Sunday afternoon,

which meant we were rushing to get to the Kooks on time, the second day.

But I forgot my camera again, so...

to be continued

A Tale from Two Thousand and Six

2010-04-24T14:59:00.010+01:00

On the Friday Eve of the two day music festival known as Oxegen, Jimlad and Curly Dee were fashionably prepared: 2 tinned rice puddings, 2 tinned scotch broths, 2 tinned stews, 3 tinned beans, 2 tinned curries, lots of parboiled rice, 1 jar coffee (fair-trade), camping pots, 2 plastic mugs, 2 plastic plates, 4 packets of crisps, 3.5 large packets of peanuts, 1 large packet of cashew nuts, 1 packet of pistachio nuts, 6 small packets of popcorn, 1 large packet of marshmallows, 2 packets of biscuits, 1 jar chocolate spread, 1 jar peanut butter, sleeping bags, airbed, torch with siren and flashy lights in case of emergency, torch, mini torch, 12 plastic bottles of cheap beer (no glass allowed), 6 cans of beer, 8 cans of stout, a little water, a bag of light clothes, coats for the rain, toiletry, tent already set up by Curly Dee’s brother, tickets 4 miles down the road, all done by 00:30. Perfect. Except, ah yes, 0 camping stoves, 0 bread and obviously, 0 cop-on. So we drove and got the tickets and drove to Punchestown with most of our food rendered almost useless, hoping that we could survive on peanuts and beer. If not, cold tinned Lidl stew would taste good to a pair of starved cadavers. Anything would taste good when you were starved, wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t? Eugh. Thankfully it didn’t get to that, but I’ll never be able to look a peanut in the face again. Mind you, I could never look them in the face before, since obviously they don’t have a face for me to look them in. I did bring myself to eat some of the food they sold at the event, and survived. €7.50 was only a small part of the price I paid for daring to try that tiny pasty tray of “pasta carbonara” they sold at one of the stalls. I won’t do that again.

We got to our destination at 3:00am in the morning to be told that actually, we couldn’t get in without the car parking permit that they sold at the Ticketmasters stall, which was shut, so we would have to go home and come back tomorrow morning. But the guard on duty let us in anyway, being an understanding sort of man. As soon as we parked the car we knew it was going to be a weekend to remember. The loud conversation of passers by appeared to be an attempt to say the stupidest things that came to “mind”. I have observed this sociological behaviour before, but on a much smaller scale. It was amazing to watch this time. You see, there were so many drunk people that everyone had a chance to realise, subconsciously, that the drunk people seemed to do stupid things and get laughed at, and then PRAISED for bringing happiness to so many, and then everyone would say of the very drunkest, who always seems to be called Cooney, “Cooney’s a legend” and everyone decides, “Cooney’s a Hero”. And deep down, everybody wants to be a hero, so even in the improbable event that one isn’t drunk one does exactly the sort of stupid thing Cooney only does because he’s too drunk to do anything else. But one can’t quite measure up to Cooney’s actions so maybe a little more drink will help, and soon everybody is drunk except for the snobbish aloof observers, and me and Curly Dee. Does anyone know, is Cooney a second name or just a nickname that people give to some guy from some place of whom the only predictable thing is that they will consume large amounts of alcohol? Is there a Cooney family somewhere that carefully breeds these legends?

The first thing that happened when I got out of the car was a young fellow (Not Cooney. HE was fighting someone with his jumper somewhere in one of the campsites over a personal dispute. The dispute was personal only to Cooney. The other guy didn’t have a clue why he was being attacked other than that it was Cooney. What a Hero. There were probably more Cooneys out there. Maybe they knew the reason.) who detached himself from the crowd and, drawn to my philosophical aura couldn’t help but ask me that ageless question, “Have you got any boppers”. Of course the answer changes with context but in this universe the answer happened to be, “No.” at that time. Curly Dee then entered into the mood of things with another question,
“Do you know where campsite A is?”
This provoked a thoughtful pause, and Curly Dee offered a little more information,
“I think it’s near the main stage”.
There followed a few hesitant starts to sentences until the proper form of words was found, and then,
“I don’t know, but I’D imagine that the main stage is the one with the most lights, so if you head towards the place with the most lights you should find your way. And, I don’t know about you, but I’d say…” the finger wandered vaguely for a few seconds before resting decisively on one brightly lit area (which later turned out to be exactly where the main stage was, proving the cognitive ability of our newfound companion) “it’s over there”.

Having successfully answered our question, it was our companion’s turn. “Where are my f***ing friends gone? Have you seen my friends?” We hadn’t seen them and couldn’t answer the former question, but since he had asked two in a row the game of philosophy was ruined. Had we lost? Should we continue? Besides, he hadn’t answered our true question. Where was our campsite? But where were his friends? Seeing that we were useless to each other, we parted company.

Eventually we discovered that the campsite was half an hour away and headed there with some of our beer and popcorn. We walked through the mass of tents to reach our own, almost missing it because of its easily overlooked nature. We then discovered that Curly Dee’s brother had spilled beer inside our tent, which looked a little bet down, but we fixed it up and put our airbed inside. Unfortunately it turned out that the airbed had two holes and only one stopper so it became a mat. That was ok. The main thing is that we could fit the bed into the tent, as it was easily overlooked in nature. Here is a picture to demonstrate this fact. See the tent on the left? That’s someone else’s. Our tent is the one with the red curly haired girl “in” it, laughing.

She’s laughing at this,

followed by this,

(just checking he's still alive)

Nobody seems to know this man. He was just walking through our area when he fell down, possibly on account of not being able to see. It had been noticed that his pupils were the size of pin-holes which would surely have made seeing a little difficult. Eventually some security guards came and took him away, having been alerted by some genuine humans (probably girls). We never saw him again. But anyway, the tent was supposed to be a two man tent but it turned out that three people fit in it. Curly Dee’s brother came in during the night for some reason, asking could he sleep in it. As I was asleep myself, (we had decided to come down on Friday to make the most of the weekend but since we arrived at our tent at about 4:00am after having about 4 hours sleep the night before (party) we were too tired for fun) my instinctive sarcasm rose up before my brain could tune in and said, “Sure, why not just cuddle up between me and Curly Dee (my wife) here”. So he did, being drunk of course. My sarcasm always gets me into trouble with drunk people. At least we knew him, unlike the people in his own tent who thought that they were sleeping beside him until daylight revealed someone else, a complete stranger who simply wandered off again in the morning to get lost in the vast crowd of tents.

Having had such a wonderful night’s sleep we just had to have more in the morning, and we missed all of the less interesting/unknown bands. The sky was like this:

And this is Curly Dee smiling to show how much FUN we are having:

But we plucked up the courage to brace the weather for the big bands. I was looking forward to taking these next photos. I remember reaching into my pocket in the satisfactory anticipation of getting a chance to use my latest toy, the digital camera, for something a little more momentous than worthless photos like those above. I knew these next photos would have value because I didn’t need to pay through the nose to see stupid people, but musical superstars were another story, a better story. My hand groped greedily for the shot I could show off to my friends, groped desperately. Changed pockets. Patted my coat, my trousers. Sent a signal up to my mind, waited. Waited. Waited, received a signal, check the car. The car, of course. Out of reach. Need legs. Tell mind we need legs. Mind sends a messenger down to legs. Legs turn body. Eyes! A message from eyes. It says: Can’t see stage. Mind calls a meeting between hands and eyes. A compromise is reached. We will get the camera tomorrow. Hands will produce an alternative for today’s concert, worth exactly what we have lost. A picture is worth exactly one thousand words so here you go. One thousand words each for every picture I wanted to show you.

Very good.

To be continued...

Hard Times

2008-09-21T17:53:00.002+01:00

And so it has come to this. The recession. At first I didn't believe it was real, now I'm finding it stampeding into my home, turning over tables and throwing me out, homeless. Yes friends, the recession has brought about some changes and I am left with no choice but to give you the following announcement:

I can no longer afford to keep my home. I know, Google Blogger is supposed to be free but they never tell you about the extra costs involved, the electricity bills that rise every moment I spend writing here, expensive snacks that keep me happy enough to joke about life as I type, the drugs that inspire me. You call that free rent? You call that oh wait I just said that.

I'm going to live with my friend, well not so much a friend as a personality I can't get rid of, but he has given me my own little section on his site. With his impecible ability to annoy he has decided to very obnoxiously refer to my room as a category, like he has to categorise EVERYTHING, OMG. And by the way, G stands for goodness, or gosh, or anything but God, because I'm not even allowed to use certain phrases in every day use which he somehow manages to CATEGORISE as offensive. This is not good.

Here is his site: MR PERFECT. Please come and visit. You'll find I've already settled in. It isn't as high on the property market as here is, owing to the fact that he has lived there and not me up until now, but I'm hoping you'll bring the value up and we'll somehow beat the recession. You can visit me under the categories section on the right hand side, filed nicely between his archives and my address book. Click on "The Annals of Jimlad". Do not talk to him or click on any of the other categories. He will only piss you off.

What mighty exploits do we see here recorded?

2007-07-10T13:07:00.000+01:00

For the past five months, it has been my task to sit down and stare straight ahead, keeping my body still save for my tiny, perturbing fingers. The occasional twitch of the mouth is acceptable, lolling the head merrily from side to side less so and singing random hymns is frowned upon (yet another example of discrimination against the church).

Speaking of this, seeing that all was well amidst the brethren of one sacred society and that it was difficult for me to do more than supervise the unfolding of their plans to conquer an area far far away, I decided to bring my particular talents to bear to a more needy group close by my current residence. Being a man of action, I acted on this decision some time ago and since then I have transformed the Sunday's of this church. It is unlikely that others may have thought to do what I have done, but even if they had none could have succeeded. I have filled a place on a seat for the past months with a bottom that no one else can perfectly emulate. I have added a new voice to their music and specifically - it is my voice that has been added. I see the organist nodding to himself appreciatively as his ear singles my voice out from the masses. And how they thank me for my mere presence, marveling at my youth, prodding my eye-balls and nodding with smug satisfaction at the youthful rate of my reaction. "Ah, the passionate indignation of youth" they say.

And then there was the mighty battle with the corporation who sought to prevent me from visiting this virtual world that we know as the world, Wideweb. You may remember that I once disguised myself and infiltrated their dark tower for several months, leaving it a week or so before I found the ring and brought it on a journey to the Ottoman Empire (see Yeats' "Sailing to Byzantium") with my now famous companion, Curly Dee, where I threw it into the sea from whence it came not, looking up to the heavens in satisfaction as I saw the Death Star explode in a haze of mixed metaphors. From my prior espionage I had escaped with some inside information that stood me in good stead, and yet it took a full quarter of a year (even with the aid of Curly Dee) before the way was opened for full communication to be possible with Wideweb. Even now some pamphlets have come into my possession that display an attempted theft which I must counter before I finally allow traffic through. I am currently allowing vocal communications only to pass through the portal as this involves too little information to allow even half-lives through or facilitate bandits. To my faithful followers: I will visit you more frequently when the gateway is fully operational.

Slim Jim, an evil legacy of, em, evil
From now on, when we meet in public you are to call me Slim Jim. Lo! I was in a holy place and I felt god speaking to me, saying "Go forth in my name", so I said, "what is your name that I may go forth in it?", but I couldn't really hear what god was saying; the wishy (or was it washy? maybe both) feeling of being in his presence was giving way to nausea as I strained desperately to hear, and I thought I'd better stop asking questions in case god was annoyed with me. I thought well, he's given me a brain so he's obviously telling me I need to use it. So I thought about other recent revelations until it came to me.

I joined a gym (note: GYM not jim! I'm jim and the gym was in) and they had to measure my blood pressure because I wanted to do weights because they didn't take as long as other exercise even if they are boring. So. They said I had high blood pressure which I thought was strange because I am young yet and not vastly overweight. Hmm, the plot thickens. So I went to the doctor and he took some blood and tasted it, and then measured my blood pressure with a 24 hour thing and said my blood pressure was OK and the high blood pressure from the original test was because I didn't like getting my blood pressure taken, which made my blood pressure rise - sort of a Heisenberg uncertainty effect going on there (according to someone). But then he stopped and frowned. He licked his lips and ran his tongue around his mouth. "Uh.. I think.." he said, and held onto the desk. He started shuddering, slowly at first, then quickly until he was positively vibrating! Positively vibrating, not negatively mind because then he would have died of course. Then he shook himself and relaxed, and finally shifted to face me. I will never forget that look - eyes sharp and piercing, expression serious as he uttered the words that would change my life forever. "I taste high cholesterol" he spoke.

It turns out that this is my parent's fault. My father, along with most of his family are hereditary. That's what the doctor said anyway, and it means they generate more cholesterol than necessary, and apparently my father did this to me too. This is not the first time he has sought to control me from afar. He had the cheek to lend me money when I needed it in order to become a master (see He-man and the Masters of the Universe), and now I must consider the best way to give it back. Oh he says not to worry about it, but I know it is all part of a sinister plot. I know. So now I have to avoid cheese and full fat milk which I used to have every day. Apart from that I was fairly healthy but I believed in cheeses. They were my life. No chocolate either. And I have to become really active. That is why I have to become Slim Jim, not out of choice, but out of duty to my family.

It could have been worse. I was afraid that I might be turning into a diabetic at one point. I don't know what that is, but I know what diabolical is. I think it is a diabolical robot. It sounds cool but I'm in a different school. I rule. You mule. ~Eat Gruel, fool! cos I'm into maths just like Boole!

Anyway, I am going to take my considerable talent and transform the Christian Music scene by writing music that is relevant and rhymes, and is natural and living. Taking my music I will start a new type of Presbyterianism, a break-away that will be known as the Organic Presbyterians. We will state our outrage that the Westminster Catechism requires no good Christian to eat organic food and save the earth for Jesus. That is to say, it doesn't mention organic food and it should as this is moral. What new dangers will lie in wait around this corner? You will have to wait and see. I have done so much already in my short life. Now I am going forth. Slim Jim at your service.

Disclaimer: BBC have asked me to say that they have nothing to do with any embellishment of the truth here. They say they don't even know me, before anyone starts to question them to make them publicly renounce their alleged words so please, please just leave them alone. They also want to make a public statement that the explosion of the death star was coincidental to the loss of any wedding rings or any epic journey to dispose of a similarly fashioned ring, which also had nothing to do with telecommunications companies. The labels used in this piece were obviously carefully chosen to imply great adventure where there was none and the person who wrote it all is a sad, lonely man who has minimal impact on even local affairs, save that he gives the impression (by playing with phonetics) that the church is a conspiratorial society, and this has resulted in a major, baseless turn in public opinion which may shape the church of coming years. Also, typing at a computer daily is not considered an amazingly difficult task. And he doesn't even practice the piano enough, and he isn't slim. That is all the BBC have to say. Good evening.

Anything!

2007-06-18T13:41:00.000+01:00

Just leave your comment there.

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Hello!

2007-06-15T12:39:00.000+01:00

It's been months since you've left a comment. Come on, say something!

Sick of idiots like him

2007-02-24T17:31:00.000Z

I'm talking about this dude here. I know exactly what he's talking about, and all he had to say is: I tried out teaching, but it didn't suit me. Now I have a new job, feeling good about it. Instead he goes and makes a huge song and dance about it. Well, a maybe just a song ... ahem, without any music. That's cos he doesn't have my musical talent. He's always asking me to make up music to his lyrics, but he doesn't get it. I don't care about him. He's an idiot ... a religious idiot, in fact, who has to make even the most fun stuff in life into a tedius religious lesson. Did you know he won't even have sex with his wife? He says that marriage is about godly partnership. Not about gooey physical stuff. You never know who might be watching. Though, of course, he would say God is always watching. They make nice dinners together instead.

You know what else? This guy once annoyed me by suggesting an idea that I'd already thought of. I was having a conversation with my fan club where they were asking me what I'd do for my next blog title. That was before I ruined it all by my, "high-levels of kookoo and has nothing to do with me or my superb blog." according to Goodthink, the new face on the web who has clearly made it her goal to destroy me by her clever use of psychology. I still haven't forgotten that. And I'm not kookoo. My fan club still love me, even since that episode. They just don't know what to say anymore. They are too in awe of me to comment on any of my posts. You know, this morning, the moment I woke up, I clutched myself in glee and said, "Oooh, It's me!". That's how happy I am about being me, and you'll never bring me down. Never!

But anyway, I was saying... This Dave guy, he suggested I have a blog where I slag off another blog, which would in fact be also my blog. That would be funny, he said. As it happened, I'd already planned on doing that in my very next post, and then I couldn't, because it would be unoriginal. Grrr. Well I decided to leave it until everyone had forgotten that conversation, so that no one would realise I was stuck for ideas. Anyway, another of my fans, zoomtard, said in the same conversation, why didn't I slag off Dave on my website, by putting up a silly picture of him on it. Now, Dave is a dangerous guy to slag, and it seems kind of mean anyway, but sometimes if one wants to keep on being popular, when fiends like Goodthink are trying to bring you down, you just have to give the fans what they want. So I tried drawing Dave from memory. The tiny face in the middle was my first attempt.

It went downhill from there. So I decided to forget about his face. You see, I reckon Dave could take me to pieces given the chance, so I have to take him out in one go, by giving him the most offensive slagging ever. Ha ha. Here is the picture. I was able to do both!

The main point being of course, that Dave is in fact TALL! The poor guy. Also, he hates pigeons. That pretty much sums him up. And to add one final insult, Dave, I'll call you a sheep's bleeting noise. You're maaaaaaaaa. I've never understood that one, but that's what makes it so good. How can you make a comeback against an insult you don't understand? By repeating it back at the person who slagged you I suppose. That's what everyone in school did. Hopefully Dave won't think of that.

Anyway even if he does slag me back I don't care. I'll go hang out with my friends, who are all cool. We even have our own special sayings that only we understand. I'm going to talk to them right now in fact, cos they'll all comment on this page now that I've satisfied their desire for entertainment.

Please. Try to care a little more won't you?

2007-02-15T14:36:00.000Z

All right, I've got a few minutes. Here, take some. No no... I've plenty. Here, stigmund, do something good with them. I don't do anything these days (I got married), so I'm giving away my spare time. I'll keep a little for blogging, but I don't have anything to write about, besides teaching. And I'm giving that up so.. Yeah, giving it up, did you not hear? Yeah, that's life, isn't it. How are you doing anyway? Oh is that right? Yeah, same here. I find that I've so many difficult things to deal with. Gosh my life is such a struggle, it must be really important if I have to struggle this much. Since it's so important I'll continue to tell you about it for a while, no I should condescend to ask you how you are. How are you? Oh really? Yeah, I know exactly what that's like. Do you know I'm giving up my teaching job? Yeah I'm going into another job. It'll probably be even worse, but that's me, that's me, my life is important so I have to struggle no matter what.

Feck that, I'm going to play a computer game. Bye bye school. If anyone is wondering why there's no teacher in the next class, it's because Mr. Lad has given up on reality.

Too busy.

2007-01-24T15:04:00.000Z

Sorry, not now. I don't have time.

Things that iritate me

2006-11-18T17:48:00.000Z

Lately I've been getting quite irritable. Normally nothing much gets on my nerves. It must be my new job. For instance, every time I say, "This is about office tea cups" people think I've just said, "This is a bout of fisticuffs" and start punching at me, with me weaving back away and hitting my head off the wall. I'm getting paranoid now. I've started arranging to talk to people far away from any nearby walls when I need to say, "This is about office tea cups" to them, which is really difficult. The thing about nearby walls is, as soon as you go far away from them they aren't nearby walls any more. They morph in some really weird way that I can't describe or even understand so that they become instead distant walls, and then I have to go back to them and start again. I haven't figured it out yet because just as I'm starting to get my head around it (it always takes a few tenuous walks away, a few quick spurts and cautious returnings to the spot beside the wall) someone comes over and says, "What's this all about?" and I say... well you know what I say since you already know what it's about. I just don't know what to do. I don't even work in an office. I can't remember how the whole thing started. That's all that irritates me really, but it is very irritating.

Heh

2006-11-03T21:20:00.000Z

Heh. Still slightly amusing every time I think about it. Though it used to be a vibrant comedy in glorious technicolor, and now I have to squint to see a faded monochrome image, sort of a double image, like the original image made itself skinny and fat at the same time. Still makes me laugh though. Once I laughed at an unexpected but beautiful step in a maths derivation when I was driving myself crazy in fourth year trying not to fail. Try not to do that. It brings on low self esteem when someone normal rubs their normality in your face. Can't meet their eyes. They know I'm really strange. Weird. Why would I be that strange? Why would I laugh at a mathematical proof? Look at them, blinking at sociably acceptable rates with their eliptical eyes, eminating sound waves, reflecting electomagnetic radiation. I wish they'd stop doing that. I wish I wasn't here. Oh, I'm not. Well, goodbye.

Heh.

2006-07-20T13:19:00.000+01:00

Heh. Heh heh heh heh heh, HAAHaHAHAAhahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahHAHAHA Ha. Ha, haaa, aaaaaah. Ah.

Aaah, that was good. Here, this is going to be my funniest yet. No, sorry. Ok. Here you are:

This hahahahahahahaha HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAHAHAHAHA. HA HA HA HA HA HAHA HAHA HAHA hgghhhhhghhhhhghhh, ooargh, better stop myself, if there's one thing I hate it's self indulgent laughter that sounds like breathing difficulty, well, next to people who say, "loo" that is.

I'm sorry. You'll have to wait for my next entry. Hopefully it won't be as funny and you'll get to read it. Incidentally, I would have written one before now, but I've been writing about my travels to Punchestown whenever I have had a chance between housework, people and job hunting (people hunting is my favorite, housework is way too easy to hunt down and doesn't feel pain and jobs are way too hard and difficult to kill without repercussions). In the absence of photographs of Punchestown I have substituted thousands of words. If only I had more time to spend on pointless exercises. Writing is EVEN better than sliced bread regardless of the content. Soon I will put it on the internet and you can waste your HAHAHAHAHAHhhhaaaaaA, ahem, sorry the true subject of this blog just popped into my head again, time for a while too.

Not So Usual (a comment)

2006-06-09T17:02:00.000+01:00

So you thought you could stop people commenting on your blog by making your comments closed? You were wrong. Imagine my dissapointment when I went to comment and realised I couldn't. Mind you I only wanted to comment on the fact that the comments were closed, as I was asleep until the bit where you started talking about some guy called John wishing he was called Fiona.

However, the desire to comment on your website has given me the motivation to use hyperlinks on my blogger blog, an action I had been avoiding until now. I once knocked over a hyperlink in my rush to avoid the toilet, and the guilt had kept me clear of them till now. I might even get around to doing it properly on my serious blog. It needs a bit of work right enough, but I've been avoiding work. It tripped me up on my way over to sure-ality, and I've been on uncertain terms with it ever since. I'm actually trying to hunt it right now, and once I get it I'll grab Zoomtard and we'll make serious blogging sexy. yeah.

And guess what? You won't believe me, but I've actually found a friend's blog type thing that doesn't need an excuse to exist. The usual excuse goes something like, "eh, well, my friends like me and they read it.", or "it's funny" as if humour was ever IMPORTANT, or "I get to express my views. I also have an excuse for why my views are important, if you want to see. Because they are Christian. Yeah, I've got an excuse for Christianity here somewhere too. I've expressed it on my website, which I've got an excuse for.". Only a computer nerd would come up with a recursive excuse. pah. Only a Stigmund or a Liam would tell me that they don't need an excuse because the fact that they know that their website is great is enough. And then say, "enough" again, like an order to me. Is it a coincidence that the link for liam is invalid? I think not. Anyway, the worth of this girl's website is obvious. A picture tells a thousand words. Mind you I've always wondered which thousand words it tells. Are they random words, or is their worth intrinsic to how they are linked together? And what is the unit of a words worth? How many words did he write? How many drawings did lia-fail draw? The answer to this question may reveal Wordsworth's worth, relative to lia-fail's. hmm. deep questions.

Deep answers.

And don't ever ask me about parties again, Stigmund. Not after what you said the other day, bless you. No! I said blast you! Get your ears checked if you can't tell the difference between, "blast" and, "bless". For all the tea in China!

Actually...

2006-06-01T19:02:00.000+01:00

Anyone got any change for the bus? I'm too tired to walk. Cool, maybe someone has 5c. Cheers, alright, seeyez soon.

No, actually I'll hang around for a while.

2006-06-01T18:42:00.000+01:00

Ever feel like no matter what you do you'll bee aa a chocolate coated marshmallow? What? Sorry, I got distracted by a chocolate coated marshmallow. No, come back here! No! You can't leave me to go make a chocolate coated marshmallow. Come back! I am much more fulfilling. They're pretty good though, aren't they. You know you want one. Ah they've gone. It's just me and the lads now.

What I was saying is, women, right? They're, . Ah, no marshmallows in the cupboard? No chocolate. Ah well. There goes the topic for this blog. Too many women around. Speaking of topics, they aren't the best thing since sliced bread are they? I only eat them when there's no other Cadbury's Heroes left.

The thing about women is that the only time they can comfortably resist chocolate is when they think boys are going to talk about them while they are eating it. No, apparently that's not true anymore. That got them going. They wouldn't like us guys to think they cared about what we were talking about, would they? So actually, what were we talking about? I don't think it was about women at all was it?

The trouble with being tired is that random thoughts come much more easily and then you follow this train of thought that doesn't lead to where you wanted it to go. Ever feel like no matter what you do you'll be bored? When you feel like that, it means you are too tired and should go to sleep. That's where I wanted to go with this blog. That's why I didn't go to my wife and I didn't come back here to say anything to you.

'Night.

Marriage was better than blogging for a while.

2006-06-01T18:37:00.000+01:00

Then it got boring. Ho hum.

So I'm back :)

So, any news?

Pffff. I think I'll go back to my wife.

jimlad shakes hands with Babette.

2006-04-24T21:57:00.000+01:00

I was attempting to explore the accuracy of my first ever blog post, "loo" when I noticed that bathrooms remind me of heaven. Not that I've ever been to heaven, but I've seen enough films to recognise in the bathroom that same white light that bathes everything in calm optimism. For a moment I thought, "Amazing. Perhaps I was wrong in my previous appraisal of such matters." I said this a little too loudly, arousing some odd looks when I came downstairs for breakfast, but I take no notice of people who have the gall to form an opinion of my character.

I am never to be judged. I never make a mistake, for as I reached for the toilet paper I felt this horrid sinking feeling that would get one thrown out of a place as wonderful as heaven, where negative emotions are outlawed. As I reached for the toilet paper my world degenerated. As I reached for the toilet paper I noticed that it wasn't there. Have you ever been in that sort of position, where your nice innocent viewpoint is violently taken to pieces by harsh reality? Bathrooms are not heaven! They are not loos! They are rotten dungpots and I hate them!

Suddenly, as if things couldn't get any worse, this disappointment also used up the last of my stock of moral fibre. Suddenly, I realised that life is just one big disappointment. Finally, I realised that I was actually getting married in FIVE DAYS! Five days until marriage, which Zoomtard and Neuro both tell me is the biggest disappointment one will ever face.

Toilet's are evil places.

Avoid them.

jimlad has left the building.

2006-04-08T08:31:00.000+01:00

So..? Who cares? Anyway he is clearly still inside typing away at the computer, the big nerd. If he wasn't such a loser nerd he'd be outside enjoying the sun with a laptop instead of sitting in front of a state of the art computer from 1998. What does state of the art mean again? Oh, I see. I think the phrase I was looking for was solid state. No, this computer is not state of the art. I art stayeth over upon the lodgen time place of Curly Dee this past eve (eve the evening, not Eve the bridesmaid. The olden word usage is designed to encourage a sense of middle age prudency (not middle-aged prudency. we all know what those middle-aged people can get up to, right? (heh heh, yeah... (actually, what do they get up to? I don't actually know (it could be the same as young people got up to in the middle ages (in which case all this qualification is a waste of time and brackets.)))))). I miss programming sometimes, but teaching is much better, which brings me to my main point.

White curtains. Why? I could still be floating around my dreams if the curtains had been kind enough to filter out most of the light coming in from the sun. I enjoy a bit of brown or red light in the morning. It is sort of apologetic even when it does eventually wake you, but no! The curtains are not brown, not red, but glaring in yOuR FACE WHITE! I tell you. Such things are not the concern of Curly "I need to sleep :-(" Dee though. Ah well. The inspiration of many artists and writers comes out of terrible circumstances, so I suppose you should all be happy at getting to read my juicy thoughts as a result of her laziness. But I digress.

jimlad has finally left the school building after one whole enjoyable albeit slightly stressful week. I'm used to stress though (pause for sympathy) (Ok, I'm getting bored waiting), so I really loved it. Also it was a posh school and most of them wanted to do well anyway. Only it was an all girls school. I don't know what they were laughing at, unless they were all geniuses. Sometimes geniuses laugh at maths. They must have been really clever though because they were as giddy as school girls. Supergeniuses, if you will. As one of maybe five men in a school of about sixty teachers and many more schoolgirls I was something of a novelty. Some of the students had never been taught by a man before. The students gave me TWO lovely cards, TWO lovely easter eggs and wrote up nice things on my white board on Friday (Oh no. I think I forgot to wipe the board off when I left).

While I was touched YEAH, touched in the HEAD. Hah HAH Hah. Oh, very funny. While they touched me ALARM ALARM ALARM ALARM ALARM ALARM Stop that. While I was touched by their generosity, and I really like those kind students and would love to teach there again, I can't help worrying about my status as their teacher. It is hard to be strict when the students are so nice to me, but there is no choice in the matter. I am a softy but I will learn. Still, looking back, the main problem was that I was less confident when teaching geography. I knew exactly what I wanted when teaching maths, the subject I was qualified in, which means I knew exactly what I wanted the class to do, no messing. Well, not much messing anyway. I think I will be fine. Mind you, I have a feeling that I won't suffer from students being nice too often in my future stints. Maybe I will get to teach there again.

By the way, most of you probably haven't heard. A week and a half ago I handed in my notice in my customer care job and started one weeks substitute teaching last Monday. It was a posh school and most of them wanted to do well anyway. Only it was an all girls school. I don't know what they were laughing at, unless they were all geniuses. Sometimes geniuses laugh at maths. They must have been really clever though because they were as giddy as school girls. Supergeniuses, if you will. As one of maybe five men in a school of about sixty teachers and many more schoolgirls I was something of a novelty. Some of the students had never been taught by a man before. The students gave me TWO lovely cards, TWO lovely easter eggs and wrote up nice things on my white board on Friday (Oh no. I think I forgot to wipe the board off when I left).

While I was touched YEAH, touched in the HEAD. Hah HAH Hah. Oh, very funny. While they touched me ALARM ALARM ALARM ALARM ALARM ALARM Stop that. While I was touched by their generosity, and I really like those kind students and would love to teach there again, I can't help worrying about my status as their teacher. It is hard to be strict when the students are so nice to me, but there is no choice in the matter. I am a softy but I will learn. Still, looking back, the main problem was that I was less confident when teaching geography. I knew exactly what I wanted when teaching maths, the subject I was qualified in, which means I know exactly what I want the class to do, no messing. Well, not much messing anyway. I think I will be fine. Mind you, I have a feeling that I won't suffer from students being nice too often in my future stints. Maybe I will get to teach there again.

By the way, most of you probably haven't heard. A week and a half ago I handed in my notice in my customer care job and started one weeks substitute teaching last Monday. Aagh, somebody help me! I'm caught in a loop! Help! Help! Help! Help! Oh phew, I think I'm out of it. phew.

Gosh, I'm out of breath now. Okay, better go. Curly Dee has risen, but is apparently rushing off somewhere now. Goodbye.

jimlad in the workplace.

2006-03-15T16:12:00.000Z

Grrr. I can't think. grrrrrr. I have a head cold. My left nostril is leaking, as is my left eyeball, and I'm sure some of it is leaking into my left brain (I have at least two brains) , because I can't think so good.

I'm in work, sniffing into the phone at occasionaly abusive customers. The customer on the phone right now isn't talking for some reason, so I am taking advantage of the free time to write in my blog. Obviously no one cares about my cold. No one has commented on this blog entry yet so they obviously don't care. At least Goatfiend said awww when I told him my left eye had a cold. He is drinking coffee.

Oh, they've finally hung up. Woo hoo, they've rung up again. My left eye is crying. It makes me feel sorry for myself, in case you haven't noticed. My right eye is watering up now too. They still aren't talking. I wonder is there something wrong with my phone. I hope so. When will I be given a furious thinking blog? I have at least three brains! Zoomtard is supposed to email me about it. Furious thinking is an amazing group of people. Normally, a person who I consider to be cool has to be either aloof, elite or elect. Oh, they've hung up again. Grr. I have to talk to someone now.

Ah back to my blog. The aloof are those who scoff at anything that is trendy, pointing out the logical inconsistancies of the day. They include the musical aloof, such Liam McD, who scoff at NME. For example, the Strokes are a good band. You can tell they're great even if you don't like them by noting my opinion. However, they have also become trendy, so it's defenestration for them in Liamo's Tower. Furious thinkers are culturally aloof.

The elite are those who are genuinely great. Only, the aloof still consider them worthy of criticism. The elite ignore this because they are actually better than the aloof. Examples of the difference might be art historians like Curly Dee as opposed to artists like lots of people in the family I am leaving to be with her. Why am I leaving them then? Because I am also one of the aloof, and it is a lonely if lofty state. The aloof need someone to appreciate them, to make them feel elite, as it were, even if they are soft like a cushion. There are also examples of musical elite, such as people like Liam McD, who is much better even than good bands such as The Strokes. However, they are, Ah yes it's the end of the day. What a horrible day. I wonder how many lives I have messed up by being too stupid to do what customers wanted because of this cold.

The elect are those who don't have to be great and don't have to have an opinion. Their opinion is often formed for them. They know they are cool by default. They have been elected to be cool, which makes them cool, but they are neither hot nor cold and will get spitted out. Wait, no that's wrong. But anyway. Aaaaaargh. I want to sleep.

Don't bother reading this by the way. It's nonsense. Not even supposed to be funny. Sorry Stig, you should have realised, if it were funny, I would have said, "bottom" by now, or suchlike. No, this is just me dealing with being stupid for the day. I hate head colds. Furious thinkers are culturally aloof, intellectually elite and just plain elect, which is why I want to be one. Farts are funny.

So, hopefully somewhere along the way in my ramblings I have convinced you to stop picking your nose. And I can't stress enough how important it is that you see two great films, "Shawn of the Dead" and "Walk the Line", so I didn't bother mentioning them at all. In fact, I'll just reverse what I just said, so that you will really want to see them when you see that I couldn't stress seeing them at all! ."eniL eht klaW" dna "daed eht nwahS" ,smlif taerg owt ees uoy taht si ti tnatropmi woh hguone sserts t'nac I dnA There, I've deleted it. Bye. Hi, sorry. Forgot my phone. Now, bye really.

A dangerously acrostic occurance.

2006-03-09T13:15:00.000Z

Ambling beautifully, curly Dee emerged from Glendalough Hotel. I, jimlad kindly lent my new overcoat, positively quivering. Rotten sleet! Trotting urgently, valiantly we xcrified* yonder zone.

Oh dear. Whilst experimenting with language I seem to have inadvertantly given my fiancé a piggish persona. Well, since this is the first time I have named her online, she must henceforth be known as Curly Dee. She is however a bit sexier than Curly Wee, and in her defence she has never acted like a pig towards me yet.

But every great achievement requires sacrifice. If I have degraded the name of my beloved I have done so nobly, for behold! Two great discoveries have been made.

Firstly, we have found that by arranging a brief paragraph so that the words follow each other alphabetically, we automatically promote a sense of advance within the prose, even though when there is very little of note occurring. Incidentally, the text takes on a poetic note. Even though we are taught about acrostic poems in school, it is very easy to forget that it is just as powerful as rhyme is, albeit subtler.

Secondly, a new word has entered the english language, created by none other than jimlad himself!

* xcrify: to leave a place with such hurried abhorance that it is actually more true to say that the place is leaving you. As one exits, the situation is crucified in one's mind, and if one is to ever return there it must be resurrected from death.**

** Glendalough Hotel is a lovely place, but that sleet was no normal sleet. It was made of blood and guts! Not a nice experience, just stepping out of the door when VOOM, a sudden downpour of snow mixed with blood. I actually can't remember anything about it since we xcrified the area, but it must have happened seeing as I wrote about it just now.

Is anarchy compatible with humanity?

2006-02-23T13:15:00.001Z

Deos tihs bother yuo? Even wurs, dos it bodher yuo thate my lats post had only 1 spc afeter each full stop?

THIS IS A TEST!

Anarchists who are reading this are horrified to find that they are not truly anarchists, but humans! They used to believe that the order of society should be completely overthrown but now they realise that they hate the consequences that this has on the communicative aspect of society. This is how everyone would write if complete and utter anarchy occurred! Dreadful dreadful dreadful. Imagine how bad the effect would be on everything else, when you even hate the outcome of applying it to just one element of one element of society.

My dear post anarchist, don't worry. I will never write in the above manner again. Sometimes one has to be cruel to be kind. I may occasionally deliberately mis-spel a word, or format my prose incorrectly, but this is only to keep you aware of your humanity. Whoops!!! There goes the second space again! Now, not many people are extreme enough to be bothered about that one, so you should really consider becoming a little more sane.

The Teacher.

Loo

2006-02-17T17:02:00.000Z

I've been thinking.

This word is one of the great metaphors of life. Think about it. It represents the bubble of dreams, the curtain of falsehood, the rose-tinted eye patches, the stupifying self-deception through which we interpret everything. Yes, how stupid we all are. How stupid. Loo. What a great word.

Ponce: "I'm going to the loo"

jimlad: "I'm going to the shit pot get rid of this stinking mass of brown gunk that's been building up inside me."

Ponce: "May I use the loo?"

jimlad: "Do you want me to fill your sitting room with this stinking mass of brown gunk that's been been building up inside me or would is there a place for me to excrete it?"

Ponce: "Where is the loo?"

jimlad: "Where can I go to think in peace?"

The word, "toilet" is perfectly acceptable, as people know what goes on in a toilet. There is this hidden assumption in the phonetics of the word, "loo" that makes us feel ridiculously carefree about the whole matter, just like the word, "poo" does. Just like, "Woo! Look what I'm doing!".

I like to use the word waste too. It isn't a vulgar word, but an apt description all the same. Though I suppose shite can be useful as compost.

I don't like bathroom. One does not relieve oneself in the bath.