Mar. 6th, 2017 10:25 pm
keresaspa: (Default)
*Insert weak joke about visiting Edinburgh lots before waffling for ages about most recent visit*

Therefore )


Jul. 17th, 2015 09:43 pm
keresaspa: (Reiko Ike)
Is this thing still on? Only one way to find out I suppose:

London )
keresaspa: (I got the last dodo!)
I do believe I may have just talked myself into a rather large project involving a fairly major overhaul of the back garden. God knows it needs it because the place has virtually turned into a forest these last lot of months but I'm a sedentary man at the best of times, cursed with a chronic lack of energy caused by my dicky blood, and as such the whole effort thing is a bit off-putting. If I'm being honest the appeal of gardening is rather lost on me. I can look at the landscapes of a stately home and find a beauty in them (for a couple of seconds anyway, before I get bored) but the fuss people make of the tiny little plots of grass and mulch at the front and back of houses has long mystified me. I suppose some flowers might look dinky enough but the sheer back-breaking toil involved in getting them makes me throw my hands up, rather less than gusted. The shoulder aches, the breathing difficulties from hay-fever, the tingling bite of nettles, accidentally standing in and/or lifting piles of cat shit, the whole kit and kaboodle really. No horny-handed son of toil am I, but rather a dyed-in-the-wool city boy for whom flowers are things you find for sale on petrol station forecourts, potatoes come in large bags with Fane Valley printed on the front and grass is that stuff that people smoke and so the prospect of a large scale garden project does rather give me the abdabs. I'll do it anyway because that's the sort of magnanimous bugger I am this week and because it will give me plenty of ammunition for moaning but still, sulk.

But that's all for later as I have an appointment with my hellbitch podiatrist first. I've only had one appointment with her so far but suffice to say it was definitely one too many and I'm ready for the cow this time. There are few things I detest more than snobbishness but this "lady" had it in spades and, as is often the case with that type, you turn up with a working class accent and tattooed forearms and you are immediately adjudged a thick chav who can be spoken to like a total moron. I would love to say I had never met a more patronising, smug, self-important tosspot in my life before but unfortunately I have as they seem to enter the medical professions at an alarmingly high rate. I wouldn't mind but her so-called treatment - insoles (I ask you, bloody insoles) - has made the problem with which I went to her a lot worse than it was and they've stretched my boots all out of shape. The fun arrives on Thursday but she sure as hell ain't getting off as easy this time as she did last time. They're supposed to be the "caring professions" so why go into them if you are completely misanthropic? Oh yeah, the money, silly me.
keresaspa: (All cops are not nice)
As per my usual patterns this season today was time for my weekly football jaunt. A distinct lack of options faced me, caused by a combination of away games, totally unsuitable Friday night on the outskirts of west Belfast matches and an unexplained postponement of the entire second tier card, meaning that I was left with only three choices - the "Big Two" at the Oval, Crusaders v Ballinamallard at Seaview or last week's mob Sport & Leisure Swifts away against the bloody PSNI at Newforge Lane. Glentoran-Linfield was out from the word go - rival gangs of loyalists beating the crap out of each other holds no appeal and even if it did that's about the only guaranteed sell-out in the Irish League so no chance. I considered Crues-Mallards until the very last second when, largely due to considerations of cost, I swung a left at Sunnyside Street and wended my way to the home of the erstwhile RUC FC.

Newforge Lane is a couple of miles from my house and is quite possibly the poshest street in Belfast. Every house is a mansion,every vehicle a four wheel drive and car ownership is presumed to the extent that there is no pavement, only road. The filth's ground is actually one part of what amounts to a coppers' country club and I had my ID checked by a surly old man on the gate who, rather bizarrely, suddenly became all smiles and matey banter the very second he approved my card. The ground was not unlike Glen Road Heights except (a) it was part of a country club and (b) the pitch was an absolute bowling green rather than the raggedy mountainous affair in the west. Quite narrow seats that really didn't agree with my stupidly big mincers but that's a problem I have long since gotten used to. A bumper crowd packed the place out - there was easily forty people there, only a quarter of whom were club officials. I was surprised to see that the PSNI actually had some supporters. Why? Even if you are a rank unionist who loves law and order surely Linfield would still be your football club? Things even got heated in the crowd with two older gents an ace away from coming to blows. Nose to nose at one point - whatever makes them feel young I suppose.

The game itself was a bit of a bust. Swifts keeper played well and their number six was decent but otherwise they were awful, playing a forward at centre back due to a total lack of players, with a number having departed for the rarefied environs of Immaculata, a team several levels below in the Northern Amateur Football League Division 1B but still apparently preferable to poor old Leisure. The cops went 2-0 up in the first half in a slightly bitty match in which one of the Peelers took a swing at a Swifts player only to escape a booking, much less a red card (the incident sparking the near melee in the crowd). It was more of the same in the second half with a Swifts player sent off for two bookable offences and a second given a straight red for a foul in the box, with PSNI scoring the resulting penalty. The pigs-slash-brutes added a fourth late on, having also hit the bar twice in what was a bit of a gubbing really. The result put Leisure joint bottom with the mighty Killymoon Rangers (me neither) and they look a team in a real slump. Desperately short of players, they'll be doing well to avoid a last place finish if they don't rope a few more bodies in soon. Still, I'm sure I'll check them out again before too long as it's hard not to feel a bit sorry for the poor sods.
keresaspa: (Greylag goose)
So last night by a complete accident (the accident being that I am accidentally a total clod with clown feet) I stood on the magic power box that makes my laptop battery work. I've no idea what it's really called but it's the box thing that sits halfway down the flex that links laptop to electric wall socket and ensures that your screen stays brighter and you don't get "silent mode on" warnings. So next thing I know the magic power box shoots off a bunch of sparks and the smell of burning plastic is wafting everywhere, albeit with no visible fire. As I type this now I am using said piece of damaged machinery and to its credit it is working fine, powering this thing like there's no tomorrow. The only problem is the smell of burning plastic remains and despite my total lack of computer hardware knowledge even I get the feeling that when the magic power box starts shooting off lightning bolts things ain't quite right. Thus, knowing as I do that there are two or three of you out there who are very well versed in this sort of thing, I am throwing this little story out here to ask if that burning plastic smell is a sign that I should stop using the power thing immediately lest I burn the house down round my ears and if that's the case is it possible to get replacements for this sort of thing or even to get them repaired as the old laptop would die pretty quickly without it? Any help appreciated as, like all things electrical and computer-connected, this one has me licked.
keresaspa: (Ivy the Terrible)
Being a large man I have tended to be immune to the effects of the wind. Obviously a strong headwind slows me down and a brisk tailwind speeds me up but my burly frame has traditionally meant that the sort of extreme effects I've seen others endure don't come into it for me. Today however I finally succumbed and suffered my first wind-based mishap of my adult life (don't recall any in childhood either but it's possible as my memories of those days are sketchy at best). As I was walking out east I lifted my right leg in order to advance (which is how walking actually works, you see) when a blast of wind hit and suddenly old righty went flying out under me. Fortunately I am in possession of a pair of size 14 clown feet so it is virtually impossible for me to actually fall when sober given the surface area my stabilisers cover but today I came as close to it as a duckfoot can. As I said my memories of childhood are sketchy so I can't quite recall what each number on the Beaufort scale was supposed to mean but I'm sure it was as high as 7 or 8 before you got to "makes burly men with ridiculous feet almost fall". Or in short today is the windiest day I can ever remember enduring and I don't like it. Now can we make it, and all other weather, stop please and just have a run of calm, dry winter days instead of this Roaring Forties crap? Thank you.


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