Ahhh, me finger
Posted on | February 7, 2007 | Comments Off on Ahhh, me finger
Cryptic title I know, but all will become clear.
Yesterday, I took delivery of a consignment of manly power-tools. All men love power-tools (all men that I know anyway). I believe it’s the atavistic urge to do things with tools combined with the geeky pleasure that this particular tool has a plug on it and can do everything that our ancestor’s pointy sticks could but at 2000 times a minute. Power-tools are good.
Except when they hurt you.
Among my power-tools was a combined belt and disc sander. A useful addition to my arsenal and no mistake. The belt part of this sander is on the top and the disc part is on the side and the whole thing sits on your workbench. With me so far? Now, the belt needs to be ‘balanced’ or else it tries to wander off to one side or the other as it spins. There’s a little turny-thing to accomplish this balancing. As I was engaged in turning this turny thing with my attention focussed on the belt to determine which way it was wandering, I done a mistake. My little finger (I will never say ‘pinky’) made contact with the rough-grit, quickly-spinning sanding-disc part on the side.
Ahhhhhggh. You stupid bastard of a fucking sanding bitch. Jesus. My fucking finger, you fucking fucker.
I looked at my hand and was impressed to see that even this brief contact with the disc had managed to sand the top of my finger square. I jumped about for a bit holding my injured hand with my other hand and reeled a stream of expletives at the sander. Dripping blood all over the place, I rummaged through the first aid kit. I swore some more as the alcohol swab stung my newly-squared finger top like a swarm of maladjusted wasps.
Fucking antiseptic bastard.
I finally managed to get my finger wrapped up roughly with gauze and sticking plasters and eventually stopped swearing out loud but continued to think in swear words for another few minutes.
I’ve since changed the rough dressing for a couple of neater plasters that do little to improve my typing ability. It’s also quite sore at the moment. I wince every time I have to hit the right shift key. i may start typing everything in lower case.
still though. power tools. cool, eh?
Sick-boy
Posted on | January 30, 2007 | 1 Comment
I’m not feeling well. I woke up yesterday, feeling as if someone had fitted a nice pastry crust to my eyelids and baked them at gas mark 5 for an hour. Had to scrape off a string of yellow gunk before I could see enough to notice that my eyes were all swollen and bloodshot. I looked like Marty Feldman, but a Marty Feldman that had been poked repeatedly in the eyes with a sharpened pokey-stick.
As usual, my wife was full of sympathy, empathy and a general feeling of concern for her debilitated spouse. “They look fine to me – you’re overreacting” she retorted when I stated my wish to cry-off work and high me to the doctor’s. Not so easily disheartened, I went back to bed to rest my infirm eyes until the doctor’s surgery hours.
Half past nine. That’s when the doctor starts. I know from bitter experience however, that there is generally a steady influx of malingerers and fakers from about quarter past nine. I arrived, smugly, at ten past. “Take a seat, there are three people in front of you” said the receptionist. Damn these early rising invalids. I reasoned that three people couldn’t take too long though. How wrong I was.
Patient #1 was in and out. Efficiently sick – excellent. Patient #2 was a different matter however. He was a small man in a small suit with small feet, clad in small, neatly polished loafers. He was with his son (I gathered). He made and received several Important Business Calls while he waited. He was evidently some sort of widgetmonger and, from his loud phone voice, I assume that he was quite proud of the fact. After each call he would turn to his son and make some remark along the lines of “Mr. X didn’t get his widget, you can’t trust anyone to do anything”. His son gazed proudly at the year old National Geographic he was reading. They were called and they both went in. His son was out in a couple of minutes but the small man didn’t make his exit for another forty-five minutes. Jesus.
During this time, I was treated to Patient #10(ish), a very big and stocky bloke falling asleep, snoring loudly for a few minutes before waking with a start, looking embarrassed and then repeating the pattern.
Eventually, my turn came and the doctor told me that I was unlikely to expire due to my illness but that I did have a nasty case of bacterial conjunctivitis and had also managed to pick up a chest infection. Nice. Prescriptions all round.
Let’s see… Antibiotics, fine. Eye drops. Eeeuuuugh, but I suppose it’s necessary. Eye ointment. WHAT? Eye Ointment? Ointment for eyes. Oh sweet Jesus. I’ll freely admit that I’m a complete eye-wuss. Even the thought of the drops was making me cringe and I believe that anyone that uses contact lenses is a freak, but ointment. Eye ointment. Make sure you rub it in well, now. What the hell are you supposed to do with eye ointment?
I declined the ointment and will make do with the drops, although I’m unsure how useful they are when I cry like a baby after applying them.
If you see a sheep, you’ve gone to far
Posted on | January 16, 2007 | Comments Off on If you see a sheep, you’ve gone to far
Irish directions contain no absolutes. They are generally vague, ambiguous and completely relative to the point of view of the person giving them. I suspect it’s a hangover from a time when we didn’t need to go more than a mile or two from our homes to conduct any business that we may have had.
These directions were provided by the owners of the house at which I recently stayed in Roscommon. They are from the nearest ‘big town’.
- You’ll come to a roundabout – take a left.
Usefully failing to mention that since the directions were written, a new roundabout has been inserted, with a left turn that leads to Tesco. - Past the hotel.
- Take left at second roundabout.
Actually third now, but never mind. - Over bridge – follow road
Useful - Take left
- Follow road for six or seven miles
I’m not travelling by donkey. I have an odometer. Is it six or is it seven? - Through Village.
No name is provided for this village and, although it is capitalised on the directions, it’s not actually called ‘Village’ - House on right a mile or two out. You’ll see the Roscommon flag.
Very useful unless the damn flag has wrapped itself around the pole so tight that it has been rendered invisible. Still, at least this was an attempt an a landmark of sorts.
Please let me have a town name, a road number or something. Anything to let me know I’m on the right path. No more ‘go right at the tree and it’s a good walk from there’.
Job done
Posted on | January 14, 2007 | Comments Off on Job done
Well, I’m back from a few days helping some friends record their new album. Excellent progress made – 10 songs tracked and a couple of jams recorded too. Drums, guitar and bass all recorded. Good work. Long days and very long nights. Pretty grueling sessions. Lots and lots of beer. Late nights, no lie-ons. Well, no lie-ons for me anyway – my damn body clock wakes me no later than ten and won’t generally let me get back to sleep (it used to be even earlier but I believe it’s had pity on me since I’ve become a father).
Ten o’clock, I hear you shout, surely that constitutes a lie-on? Not if you got to bed four hours earlier after consuming a pond’s worth of Stella. It’s a young man’s game, that. A game that’s fine if you’re able to lie in the bed until two in the afternoon without a problem (as were my colleagues). Not so fine if you’re up and about at ten however.
This pattern was repeated for the duration of our stay. I wiled away these solitary morning hours before my colleagues’ rising by feeling like I was wearing someone else’s head, drinking a small plantation’s worth of tea and reading. Got to finish my book (the excellent John Banville’s “Eclipse“) and start a new one (the so far excellent “Fugitive Pieces” by Anne Michaels). I’ll long remember those woolly-headed, hungover mornings, shivering in the chilly conservatory (as it was the only sitting spot that wasn’t covered in beer bottles and fag-ash).
As to the recording, any ‘engineering’ I had was a doddle. The boys know what they’re doing so once levels were set and the record button hit, I usually had very little to do until the track was finished. A bit of rewinding/overwriting here and there. A bit of tweaking for the odd clip. A little shouting of ‘break now’ over the talkback if they weren’t 100% on the song. The occasional kicking of the Mac as Pro Tools complained about holding off interrupts or some such. Other than that, all I needed to do was press the right buttons at the right time. Easy-peasy.
And, contrary to my previous boasts, the time there was groupie and limo-in-duckpond free. The only vices on offer were beer, a little pot, some serious shite-talk and many, many cheese toasties. I’m sure Keith Richards would approve. I hear he loves a nice toasty.
Let’s rock
Posted on | January 8, 2007 | Comments Off on Let’s rock
Well, for the next few days, I’m off down the country. My interesting life means that I’ll be helping some friends record an album. Rather than a proper Led Zeppelin style, tiny picturesque cottage in Snowdonia or huge, fuck-off, tumbledown mansion however, I’ll be heading to wonderful, sunny Roscommon and a crappy, rented holiday home in the arse-end of nowhere.
This type of operation was performed before by my talented friends for their first album (sounds damn good and was pretty well received). This time they’ve asked me to pop along with them to help them engineer the thing. This is an overly impressive way of saying that I’ll press buttons, twiddle knobs and poke microphones into places.
I expect that there may well be some drinking involved too. I reckon that we may partake of a sweet sherry or two after a hard day’s recording (rock and roll types, you know) and I look forward immensely to that.
Anyway, I’ll be lucky if they have carrier pigeons where I’m going, much less a high-speed, broadband connection with which to make blog updates so this will be a post-free zone until Saturday or Sunday. Given the pretty sporadic nature of my posting, I doubt anyone will notice. On my return I’ll, no doubt, regale you with tales of groupies, class-A drugs and limos in duck-ponds.
Rock and Roll (I’m making devil’s horn signs with my fingers as I type)
The End
Posted on | December 20, 2006 | 2 Comments
I mentioned my wife and films in a previous post. I thought that I’d expand that and discuss a pet hate of hers when it comes to films however.
She really, really, really hates it when films end. I don’t mean when they finish and the words ‘The End’ (or ‘Fin’ if it’s a posh one) appear on screen. I mean when they don’t come to an obvious conclusion with all threads nicely sewn up.
As an example, we watched Broken Flowers the other night. I liked it a lot. Bill Murray stars and makes a bit of a study in stillness which was refreshing. Anyway, after watching it for 90-odd minutes, the film ended without answering a couple of questions that were posed throughout (sorry if this is a spoiler – if it is, it’s not a really bad one). Personally I quite liked the lack of a ‘Hollywood-Happy-Ever-After’ ending but I knew that my wife wouldn’t be keen. Sure enough, she expressed her displeasure wholeheartedly.
Another example was Lost in Translation. I know that’s two Bill Murray movies. I’m not stalking him or anything – it’s just another example that I’ve thought of. At the end (another spoiler) where Bill whispers to Johanssen but we don’t hear what’s said… Man, did she hate that (the missus, not Ms. Johanssen).
Basically, she considers it a cheat. If she’s sat for 90 minutes or more, she wants a pay off. She needs the money-shot to bring it all together. I like the non-Hollywood endings and they’re even more enjoyable if I’ve watched the film with my wife. Bring on the rant.
I hate the bus
Posted on | November 24, 2006 | Comments Off on I hate the bus
Getting the bus into town the other night. Sitting quietly upstairs listening to my iPod when the bus stopped sharply. Something rolled along the floor and hit me in the foot. As I shifted to look at it, I noticed the girl in the seat behind me shifting and looking at the floor. So, chivalrous as you like, I picked up the object which turned out to be a half-empty soft drinks bottle. I turned in my seat and held it out for the girl to take back. She just looked at me like I was a nutter.
Moving at the speed of embarrassment, my brain registered the fact that the bottle actually wasn’t hers and that she had been looking on the floor because it had brushed her foot on its journey to stop at mine. Instead of a nice guy returning the nice girl’s drink, I was in fact a mentalist offering rubbish to a stranger on the bus.
To top it all, I had a half-empty bottle to deal with. I couldn’t put it back on the floor as that seemed like it would be even weirder (and it would just roll around again). I couldn’t wander around the bus to see if it had an owner. I don’t know the etiquette for this sort of situation. What do you do? I had to hang onto it and nonchalantly pretend that nothing was wrong until my stop. Then I left it on my seat. I hate the bus.
« NEWER EntriesGerry Hayes
I mostly sit around all day and drink tea. Occasionally, I write stuff and send it to strangers so they can humiliate me and deride my efforts. Other than the self-harm to dull the shame of failure, it's not a bad life. Like I say, there's tea.
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