Re-kindled

My life long passion for reading has hit a new high this year. It was my 40th birthday and I was presented with a Kindle. When I was working nights I used to bring a rucksack with me filled with library books. It was cumbersome to be honest and the fact the local library closed down didn’t help much either.
I’ve really taken to the kindle however, it’s so nice to have a collection of books that doesn’t take over the house and end up getting covered in damp out in the garage.
So far this year I’ve read Lolita, Asimov’s Foundation, The Blind assassin, A long way down, The beach, The book of Dave, Liver, The big sleep, The long goodbye, Farewell my lovely, rant, Wolf hall, god is not great, 2001 a space odyssey, a short history of nearly everything, Consider phlebas, Pride and prejudice and zombies, Hard times, Fear nothing, Tuesdays with morrie, Fatherland, The Strain, The greatest show on Earth, The player of games, Solar and Umbrella.
I’m sure there are a few more too but the point is, my library is rather like the TARDIS, small on the outside, huge on the inside and able to transport you across worlds and time.

Advertisements

Conspiracy theory

I remember when I was a student nurse and a chap was sectioned under the mental health act. He was convinced that through his study of numerology that there would be a war against the Islamic nations in the next decade. This was in 1993.
Recently we have seen a continuation of sporadic terrorist activity perpetuated by individuals and erm..drones. This being the age of the internet has allowed conspiracy theorists to exclaim loudly that my long ago detained chap was right in his assertions. That we are being engineered towards a new crusade that will bring about a perpetual plutocracy whereby the vast majority of the population will be little more than serfs.
Indeed, the growith of those convinced that conspiracies are real seems to have exploded over the past 20 years. I have always been a little sceptical of conspiracies. Primarily this is due to the fact I doubt any politician to have the necessary skills to orchestrate the intricacies of the plots involved. I’m also very wary of the idea that people meet in secret or in plain sight (the Bilderberg group, the tri-lateral commission). Having worked in the public sector I am an expert at attending meetings, indeed meetings to discuss what should be on the next meetings agenda list, meetings to discuss how we might best culturally be sensitive towards non-existent minority groups and perhaps most depressingly meetings about how to promote the health and safety of people using the car park.
If meetings are the main tool of the illuminate then no wonder the world is in such a mess. If the aim of the secret group of men is to bring the world under order then frankly they need to review their strategy.

The surreal housewives

Trapped inside a black metal box, the surreal housewives of Hindley Green play out their vacuous lives in the hope that their attention glands can be saturated.
Their lonely days are spent injecting botulism into their foreheads and augmenting their flesh with silicone so that they can lure the faceless viewers into their world, where in turn their engorged desire glands cause a chain reaction linking their frontal cortex to the narcissism centres.
Having feasted upon this, the housewives encourage the viewers to sample further their aspirational feast; perhaps the viewer would like to see rich people going on dates? Or perhaps rich people throwing lavish parties for their offspring?

I’ve been watching too much daytime tv.

Hello again!

Crikey! It’s been an absolute age since I last updated this site. Oh well, let’s see. Things have been quiet acting wise recently, had a few days filming earlier in the year when it was bitterly cold. I have been out of work for a few months too which hasn’t been terribly fun at all. Still, it’s interesting to see how despised unemployed people have become in the eyes of the media. My last job lasted only for a few months before everybody was made redundant. One would have thought I had murdered somebody given the press perception.
Time for me to smack my bottom and think of things to write about I suppose.

To embrace the sunshine once more

I have quit my night job! No more shall I be enduring 90+hr working weeks, the soul-crushing non-existence between shifts. Indeed, so exhausted was I that I had no impetus to blog, nor indeed to read a newspaper.
My rare nights off meant that my sleep pattern was of no use to a chap with a family, nor indeed one whose primary interests are on stage.
A whole season of auditions seems to have passed me by and I have sorely missed this.
I did however manage to borrow a Kindle from a family member and have read somewhat extensively during the nights.
From Hitchens, to Dickens, from Will Self to Margaret Atwood and Shakespeare to Moby Dick.
To be seen reading at 4am by colleagues produced the usual response of shock and horror. Without spending my time with illustrious authors I fear that my own sanity would have fragmented into a million pieces too.

The night belongs to me

Well, first night shift since 1998 completed.

I was the only nurse to look after 23 people and it took me almost 3 hours to do all the drug rounds.

Saying that, it was jolly good and there were no problems.

It’s a strange thing working nights though.  It’s so quiet and peaceful and I quite like seeing the appearance of the dawn.

I wasn’t expecting however to work split nights. This means that I’m going to be working a Sunday, Tuesday, Wednesday Thursday and then back on Saturday.

It’s going to take a lot to get used to this system. I feel a little light-headed and floaty at times with this regime.

Hmm.

 

My brief claim to the Paralympics

When I was 6yrs old I decided to rush across the street to read my new comic. I was hit by a car. Fortunately as this was the 1970’s, the car was rubbish and I managed only to break my leg/ankle whilst flying across the road.
Months later after having my leg broken again whilst in hospital I was sent home and told I probably wouldn’t walk. They gave me a huge wheelchair that weighed approximately 4 metric tonnes.
Now, being in hospital meant that I had 1-1 tuition for the best part of a year. Also, being in traction meant I couldn’t run across any roads or climb any tree’s. Instead, I learned to love reading. I was discharged smarter but couldn’t walk.
For the best part of a year I was in a wheelchair. I didn’t feel any different, I still had the same sense of humour, liked the same music and still refused to clean my teeth as any British child does.
However, people assumed I was some kind of imbecile. I was given sweets by old ladies, who would say ‘ahh’ or totally ignored by adults.
I did try to do stunts in my wheelchair, such as the bob-sleigh or bunny-hops (which nearly killed me).
Fortunately my dad got me walking again despite the pain it caused me and the sheer exhaustion I experienced.
I soon abandoned the chair and limped about. Soon, the limp disappeared. I have some amazing scars on my leg/ankle and a gruesome bit of muscle that hangs out of where my tib/fibula knotted.
I’ve been a pretty fit person ever since, I’ve done cross-fit, Olympic weightlifting and martial arts.
Just think, if my old man hadn’t pushed me I could have been one of those Paralympians.

Vampire life

Despite the fact that summer happens for about 3hours in England I shall soon be shunning the daylight and entering the nocturnal world. A life half-lived soon awaits as I start the night shift.
This is not particularly what I was looking for. However the promise of a job where I can avoid meetings and Human Resources seems very appealing.
It does interfere with my theatrical goals however, but all is not lost. Instead I shall be having some decent ‘head shots’ done and seeing what filming is going on. Being an extra isn’t acting, but it does provide one with a constant stream of good quality food. As I love food, this is quite good.
The nights shift will allow me 4 days off at a time too. Of course the first day is just awful as you have to re-adjust the body clock.
Hopefully the house will be sold soon and we can focus on actually finding work that I want to do. Drama school is out of the question I’m afraid, far too expensive when one has a family to support. I’m quite keen on opening up a guest house. Perhaps one with a theatrical feel to it. Also my grumpy behaviour may just been seen as part of the ambience!

Selling up!

Well folks, NoBacon towers is on the market. Well it has been for a few weeks and not a sniff of interest. I suppose given that banks don’t actually lend any money these days is largely responsible. Indeed, I am at a loss as to what the point of banks are. Of course they exist to take money from taxpayers and pay themselves handsome salaries. British banks are also very good for money laundering, but other than that?

On the rare occasions I go to the bank to make a deposit or some-such humdrum activity I am kept waiting whilst an employee tries to sell me credit-cards or insurance. If Dillinger were alive today I doubt he would be as keen to rob them as the staff would probably stuff their sales leaflets in his swag bag.

I am the worst kind of customer. I don’t like to buy things very often at all. I like to mend things if possible or just save up for stuff. This thrifty attitude serves me well and I’m glad to see that my son has the same mind.

It’s the same with food shopping. When out in the supermarket and the employee’s attempt to whet my appetite with some fluorescent food I am almost apoplectic with rage. I tend to go to the big store to buy flour and self-raising flour. Other than that I opt to use butchers and greengrocers. I’m just a traditionalist and I think the quality is much better than the water filled cack the sell on the shelves.

Hopefully my new abode will be able to accommodate a green house so I can grow my own veggies rather than rely on spending any cash. I know I must sound like a Scrooge but we eat well and have clothes on our backs. I have no desire for shiny objects, Apple-phones, Digital film cameras or any such rubbish.

Sorry modern world!

Farewell to the game

 

I’m glad the Olympics are over.

There, I’ve said it. For two bloody weeks we’ve had people talking about how proud they are that somebody won a medal at dressage or sailing or some-such nonsense.

I’m also glad to see the back of the word ‘Great Britain’. We aren’t Great Britain, we live in the United Kingdom. We haven’t been Great Britain for ages. Also it’s worth highlighting that Great doesn’t mean fantastic or super or smashing. It means large.

Specifically bigger than Brittany in northern France.

(For a more informative rant please watch David Mitchell on soap-box).
Beware of politicians and their ilk using the words ‘The Great British People’. It’s stupid and leads only to switching off the brain.

Anyway, the sad thing about the games finishing is that I shall no longer be able to watch Womens Beach Volleyball on TV.

This is the only sport for me now. I say sport but of course I mean something else.