Annoyed!

Almost every Monday I am taken in by WHSmith's kind and useful half price book offer (except when they try to sneak in tat), but never again! Oh no, not after the nice checkout lady handed me this, the literary equivalent of poo in a bag.

I'm so annoyed, I really am SO annoyed by this book. I have not words to explain my contempt. To the point that I feel obliged to issue this warning to Second Life residents everywhere: for FUCK'S sake don't buy this book.

You see, the author comes with great credentials: judging by the jacket description, which pretty much credits him with single-handedly brokering the 2003 Geneva Accords, there's nobody more qualified to write a mystery novel about peace negotiations in the Holy Land.

So why, WHY, for the love of all things wordy, did he decide to include Second Life into his plot? WHY? He's quite clearly never been near the thing, I don't want to sound like some sort of metaverse protection agency because I'm not in the slightest bit bothered about misrepresentations. Publicity is publicity, innit? It's nice, in a way, that a mainstream writer is including our 'weird' little hobby in his lovely blockbusting romp. But why did he have to go and balls it up so badly?

Not one single thing his character 'does' during her entirely shoehorned-into-the-plot wander about the grid could actually be done. One does not left click another avatar to stroke them, one does NOT log in stark naked and wait for the pixel fairies to clothe one and one can certainly not be reduced to pixel goo by another avatar. Not without clicking 'ok', anyway. Oh and his main character appears to be able to open SL from absolutely anywhere, at speed, without any pesky 30mb downloads or 'with this graphics card? you'll be lucky' error messages.

So I am now in a position where I am utterly unable to appreciate what ought to be a fascinating insight into the Middle East because the author is a) so keen to be the next Dan Brown he's elbowing the plot aside to shove in 'clever' twists - involving, of all things, a virtual world and b) obviously so blasé about his research that he can't even be bothered to splash out on a free download and spend 3 minutes experiencing what he's writing about.

SO AGGRAVATED -.-

Cheesy beans and candy

I am ashamed to report that poor Canimal's impression of England will be dominated by a preoccupation with soft cheese and a vomit-flavoured jellybean.

Canimal Zephyr, uber-famous SL fashion designer and one of Style Disorder's head honchos, is over from Israel on holiday, so it was up to WillowZ, Kris Ritter and myself to entertain her for the day.

We started out (once we'd actually managed to find each other) in CyberCandy, a fantabulous store that imports chocolate and sweets from all over the world. They have all the stuff you see them eating in movies but have never seen in real life, like Tootsie Rolls and Twinkies and Oreo cereal. I squished my Twinkie :( But it still tasted good :D

We went to various pubs and eateries, drank beer and cocktails and sampled a couple of our purchases. Firstly a chocolate bar from New Zealand that looked like a normal Dairy Milk but had a different surprise centre in every square. I ate a piece that tasted (and looked) like pureed skin and Cani discovered that she does not, in fact, like turkish delight.

We then tried the Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans, based on the Harry Potter books. Now these weren't the meek and pointless version they put on sale over here, these were bona fide evilness in a box. Between us we tried earthworm, booger, soap and earwax flavours and I bravely accepted the challenge of eating a vomit bean. It was not an experience I will be repeating. We left some on the tip tray, which probably means we're banned from the Zoo Bar.

The mystery of the information WillowZ found on the internet was solved: they do have cream cheese in Israel after all, they just don't have Brie. Cani was grilled (like a piece of cheese, in fact) for dairy-related information and it's safe to say there's now little I don't know about Israeli cheese.

So here's the question we couldn't answer: if you were to give a tourist one item to take home that truly represents England, what would it be? And WillowZ, if you say "a pigeon" one more time... -.-

Today we are mostly listening to...

...Anton's entire CD collection. Anton, I would like to make a public apology for the sheer length of time they've been festering on my shelf.

Scrat here is attempting to convey my deep and heartfelt shame.

All billion of your albums will be returned to you shortly and I may very well buy you a pint, should I judge you to not yet be suitably placated.

P.S. This picture is not of a captured spy squirrel.

Squirls

Apparently, the Iranian police have arrested 14 squirrels on suspicion of spying. They were found on the border equipped with eavesdropping devices.

Now squirrels are my favourite animals precisely because of their talent with covert operations, but even I hadn't cottoned on to their potential.

I wonder if they were disappointed to have been spotted. What a self-esteem blow for the poor little mites.

P.S. This picture is not of a captured spy squirrel.

Old Person Strawberries

Riding the wave of controversy my beaner post inspired (ahem), I thought I would follow it up today by submitting a view shared by myself, sis and Laura for your consideration, which is as follows:

The best strawberries are old person strawberries.

We believe the most succulent, juiciest, yummiest little beasts come from the loving care lavished on strawberry patches by their OAP owners. If you have nans or grans or nandads who indulge in fruit farming, you will know this to be true.

Not to mention the jam, nothing beats a good bit of strawberry jam.

I should like to propose also that everyone book themselves a trip to the pick-your-owns this next couple of weeks, if only to have the chance to repeatedly use the word 'punnet'.

An ode to beaners

OK you can blame Laura for this post, which I am aware will take my blog on a dizzy ride into the heady heights of weirdness.

I wish to spread the word about beaners, you see. Laura, like myself, enjoys the odd runner bean - my granddad used to grow them and her mum does the same. But she isn't eating them properly, for she does not have a beaner!

The beaner: ancient invention of vegetable goodness. Lop the end of your beans off with the sharp bit at the top and then thread them through the round bit, which is filled with a grid of sharp bastards that cut your runners into spaghetti-like strands.

Note that the beaner has a built-in adjustment lever, such that no bean is too big or too small. It also has handy little side blades that remove the stringy outer layer.

Coming next week: sprouts, myth or menace?

Viewing greed - says Who?

I am astounded. No, really, I am. I've never forgiven Billie Piper for the tripe she subjected England to as a 'solo artist' and so couldn't quite convince myself to torment my senses with Doctor Who when it relaunched. Also I managed to forget about it once a week for over a year. Impressed? I was.

Oh what a fool, I managed to bypass the most brilliant piece of UK television in years. I'm not surprised it started out with Christopher Eccleston, for of all the talent we've managed to belch out over here, he's among the very best. In fact, I highly recommend the miniseries The Second Coming for Eccleston fans, it's genius - I bought the dvd, I loved it so much.

David Tennant is clearly the best Doctor yet, of course, for anyone who was wondering. My best mate's been in love with the man for years and I would just like to say: kudos, dude, you were right :P

But I just saw the last episode featuring Rose (the Piper wench) and I'm a soggy mess of tears :( Why, why did she leave, why? UGH to painful separations, UGH. Piper, this time it's war -.-

And if anyone's reading this wondering wtf I'm on about, you can watch it all for yourself here. Hours of scientific, yet fictional, entertainment.

And in related news, for Doctor Who fans: my new favourite word is OOD.

Uber-excitement

YAY! My first actual, proper commission as a freelancer!

I met up with Editor Jenni on Friday in Oxygen, Leicester Square (my very favourite bar). I've not seen her since we moved to our Baker Street offices two years ago - the last round of redundancies, when we went from a company of about 50 to, well, 10. It was great catching up, we discovered some mutual loathings we'd not known about and swapped some gossip, old and new.

She'd previously written up for me a list of contacts who might be open to a cheeky speculative cv submission, so I dutifully emailed them all and hoped for the best - and one of them has come back and asked me to write three articles!

The deadline is the 16th, so I will actually be finished before I even leave work, but that just means money coming in quicker, which is never a bad thing. Oh happy day!

Such lies!

Lies! It says I've only used the words bastard (twice) and shoot, but I specifically remember mentioning the bucket of fuckers. And I'm sure there are a good number of bollocks, considering.

Oh I stole this off sis's blog, by the way.

My first crush...seriously

I've developed a bit of an inclination (it's not reached obsession stage yet) with the new Battlestar Galactica, which reminded me of the embarrassing fact that Apollo from the original series was my very first crush.

Look at him, all coiffed and handsome in his brown brown suede. What a happy little bastard he seems.

Now I ought to point out I can only have been about five at the time, but he really is a pretty specimen of 70s manhood, don't you think?

As for the new series: loving it. It's been three posts now so I can safely mention that it was Graham who loaned me the box set (ah box sets, beauteous invention) and I am cursing him, for this is not helping my job hunting.

The only thing I don't like about it is that blasted blonde cylon. Ima belt the woman if she doesn't stop talking like someone glued her bottom lip to her teeth.

Now, I ought to sign off by pointing out that the years have not been kind.

From this...

To this....

Crap.