Brennig Jones

Said small tabby cat who doesn’t live here, as she jumped up on to my bed and nuzzled my ear.

Koff, I replied as I pushed her back to the floor. Do you have any idea what time it is? It’s three o’clock. Three o’ bloody clock. I told you I was letting you stay in on the understanding that you behaved yourself. No secret drinking, no sneaking friends in and no disturbing my fragile sleeping pattern.

She jumped back on to the bed and nuzzled my ear again.

Bastard things, cats.

They worm their way in to your affections; start off on nodding terms but before you know they’ve attached themselves to your life like soft cuddly little limpets.

Tabby-coloured limpets.

So I opened my (first foor) bedroom window and threw her out.

Well no, of course I didn’t.

I gave her a stern glare and tried to sleep.

Both failed.

Bastards.

B.

Or hackers as they like to be known.

I have spent part of today wondering if I caught the little bastards before they installed a trojan script (a device to open a backdoor on to the server) in any of my database files.

Bearing in mind how cack-handed they were in trying to hack the .php access it’s entirely likely that I caught them before they had their hand up my dress and down my knickers.

To use a metaphor.

But if they did…

Well, if they did I’ll have to ditch the rather lovely theme and go for something less striking.

Ah well, at least thinking about this little issue helped stop me from falling asleep on the tube this evening.

B.

To the total ringpiece that tried (and failed) to hack the podcast website.

Tough shit.

It took me a massive 14 minutes to repair the damage you did trying to hack my config.php file.

Another 20 minutes deleting and reinstalling the database.

Three minutes reinstalling podpress.

Three minutes reinstalling the theme.

Four minutes reconfiguring the widgets.

And that’s it.

Oh yeah - and less than 20 seconds to reinstate the RSS feeds.

So…

Forty four minutes to repair (including reinstate to ‘as was’) the damage you did fucking around trying to own the database.

Did you think the source files were unprotected?

Daft bastard.

Your mistake?

Missing my utility tracker which captured your IP range - file has been sent to your ISP and your local police force, you malicious snot-nosed fuckhead.

Anyway folks, This Reality Podcast website is back up and running.

The recovered text and duplicate source files to Episodes 20 and 21 will be relaunched Friday/Saturday - because I’m in London and my backup audio files are on EDDs at home.

Episode 22 will also be out this weekend.

If Eps20 and 21 come down our RSS pipes again I’m really sorry. I’ve been thinking about it and there is a risk that might happen but I don’t know how to mitigate against it.

B.

Saturday evening already.

Tsk.

I’m off to bed - that doesn’t make me a lightweight at 21.30, it means I have to be up at 04.30 because I need to leave the yard by 06.00 with Vin in the lorry and everything neatly packed for a one day event at Stafford.

We drove up and walked the track this afternoon, it looks absolutely brilliant.

Apart from two changes of rein the show jumping is very well set out. The cross country looks just a little short of absolutely bloody perfect.

Let’s hope Vin and I remember to ride as we rode for Mandy last Sunday!

Before we drove up I took the lorry down to the filling station and tanked up ready for the trip to Stafford and back.

On the way back to the yard I got involved in a head-on collision - I wasn’t involved in the crash, it happened just in front of me. But there’s a story to be told there.

Perhaps I’ll blog it during the week, perhaps I’ll mention it on the podcast.

And on that front, the podcast will be late I’m afraid. There aren’t enough hours in the day today.

Back at the yard I schooled Vin and then cleaned tack and then picked up Soph and drove to Stafford.

Bit of a trip but as I’ve mentioned we have to leave the yard at 06.00 tomorrow just to be there in time to check in and start warming up for our dressage.

If I wanted to walk the course tomorrow we’d have to leave around 05.40 - and that’s just stupid.

Hence the trip to Stafford today.

Love the cross country fences!

They’re up to maximum height but properly designed, seriously well built and they look an absolute joy to jump.

The going is just slightly on the firm side of soft which, for Vin, is again close to absolute perfection.

We stopped for a meal on the way back and once home I showered, got things ready for the morning and we ahem, spent a couple of hours enjoying each others company.

And now it’s bedtime - because of that bloody early start.

Normal internet service will be resumed tomorrow afternoon, once we’re all back from Stafford Horse Trials, safe and sound.

B.

WTF?

I fell in to a vacant seat on the tube, fiddled with my laptop case and then looked about me.

Wished I hadn’t.

Sitting opposite was a vision in super-bright yellowness.

I mean Oh My God!

She was just so yesterday.

The Barbie Beach Girl.

Yellow sandals (but they did look like nice shoes), super-bright canary yellow dress - trimmed with white around her extremely ample cleavage.

A tiny way-too-spangly silver bolero cardigan-type top, huuuuuge sunglasses (also bright yellow).

And lots of really bad blonde hair with a massive dark area on top where her roots were coming through.

Oh yeah, and finger- and toe-nails painted silver to almost match the funny little bolero top.

At that time of day sitting on a tube in Brixton she looked a little…

Out of place.

B.

Hi.

Yeah. It’s me. Again.

I’m sorry.

It’s been a while hasn’t it?

So how’ve you been doing?

Trying not to sound like Joey off of Friends there.

Should I explain the ‘off of’ phrase that Soph and I use occasionally?

No?

OK, good then.

It’s Thursday evening - 20.38 to be precise.

I’m sitting in the kitchen in the house in Brixton, waiting for the delivery of the pizza that I ordered an hour ago.

Well I can’t really complain because when I called the order in he said it would be an hour.

An hour?

To make and deliver a pizza and garlic bread and a soft drink but I can’t remember which one?

Yes, an hour.

So I’ve waited.

The reason why I’m waiting for the delivery of a pizza and garlic bread and an unmemorable soft drink is several-fold.

Fold the first: After work this evening I (and several dozen of my colleagues) magically transported ourselves - through the power of feet - to a place where, after the rapid exchange of many banknotes, alcohol was provided.

It was indeed (to quote the prophet) Pimm’s O’Clock.

And many Pimm’s were quaffed.

There was indeed much quaffing of The Pimm’s.

And afterwards I successfully navigated myself back to the house in Brixton to find myself…

Locked out.

It was perhaps an STONE ME!

Sorry, the doorbell just went.

It is my pizza.

There will be a shortish break in the proceedings while pizza and garlic bread and an umemorable soft drink (7-Up) will be consumed.

Back in a moment.

…

Later…

That garlic bread could have been crunchier but on the whole… I’m done.

Where was I?

Oh yeah, to pick up…

It was perhaps an indicator of the quanity of Pimm’s that had been quaffed that I stood on the doorstep pondering the locked door dilemma for what seemed like a long period of time.

And then I cunningly remembered the keys in my pocket.

Do you know - do you know - how much a Pimm’s costs in a certain hostelry that may, from time to time, sell drinks of an alcoholic nature (when said hostelry is within a Corgi’s sneezing distance of one house of Buck)?

This much!

I know!

I said to the barperson that I was ordering a drink, not footing the electricity bill for the entire City of Westminster for the next millennium.

But he’d had the sense of humour bypass that so many people down here seem to have had at birth.

Anyway.

I’m happy to be able to report that the keys in my pocket worked their magic on the locked door.

Random.

Once I’d gained access to the house I made straight for the toilet the internet to order my pizza online.

Except I couldn’t so I called my order in by phone.

Why couldn’t I?

Because there was some glitch or other on the company’s website.

The trouble is that the company’s website gave me a number for a local branch who would deliver - but it was the wrong number.

Thanks Pizza Hut!

So I got the number of my local branch from an online phone book.

And they don’t deliver.

But they knew the right number of a branch who did.

Hey, Pizza Hut! You guys really need to get your information flow right.

When the guy - nice guy - on the phone said it would take an hour to deliver I nearly told him to forget it, and then I remembered the amount of Pimm’s that had been erm, tidied away and how likely I was to cause a major outbreak of fire or blood or a plague of frogs if I tried to cook in my current state.

So I said ‘OK’.

And then spent the next hour googling the internet for things like ‘Anna Krapotnik’s nipples’ and ‘Nice Italian waiters called Sharon’ and ‘Why doesn’t my boomerang come back on Thursday afternoons’ - and many variations on these themes when I found that exact quote searches of these phrases didn’t work, for some inexplicable reason.

Bizarre.

Actually, am I the only person on this planet who thinks the word ‘bizarre’ is bizarre?

Say it to yourself a few times, try it out loud.

Then look at the spelling of the beast.

It is, isn’t it?

Bizarre.

So Pete’s come home so there’s just the three of us in the house at the moment.

Me, Pete and Small Tabby Cat Who Doesn’t Live Here.

I think she believes she actually owns the house and she’s just popping round to do a landlord’s inspection.

That’s how she treats the place.

21.17 now.

Yeah I know, fast typist.

Typist.

That’s another strange word.

Tie. Pissed.

Bizarre.

I’m feeling remarkably good humoured.

I expect that’s because I’ve eaten garlic bread, pizza and about .25l of 7-Up.

So what have I been doing since my last post hereabouts?

Well, not sleeping at night for a start.

And working hard.

Really!

And doing a massive amount of thinking.

Really!

Oh, I’ve just said that twice.

Sorry.

And emailing.

Well, not that much emailing really; a focussed approach rather than my usual scatter-gun strategy.

And planning the next podcast, it’s amazing how much effort goes in to each episode.

I’ll tell you something.

There have been 2,051 uniques to the podcast’s new home but the root mp3 has been accessed 16,313 times since the first episode went up on Saturday.

That’s pretty good!

Anyway it’s now 21.59 and that’s me just about to check out for the night.

I’m suddenly feeling like my head’s going to shut down but bits of my body aren’t in the least interested in going to sleep.

I think I’m going to go to bed though.

Tired now.

Rampant, but very very tired.

Can you remember to put the Corgi out as you go?

Just leave it on the street, I’m sure it’ll find its way home.

G’night.

B.

This week I’d like to introduce you to David *yr*. Dave, for short.

Unfortunately I encountered Dave on Friday’s train from London Marylebone to Warwick Parkway.

I sat in a four-seat arrangement - facing rearwards.

Dave sat opposite me.

I disliked him instantly.

The way he worked very hard to spread himself out; sitting sideways, legs in the floorspace of the seat next to him.

That wasn’t good.

The way he’d strategically positioned his laptop on the table so that it took up more than its fair share of space.

That wasn’t good either.

But the way he spent almost the entire journey on the phone?

That was really, seriously not good.

In fact Dave, for that crime alone I’m so tempted to publish your full name, your employer and your home address.

Because I’m eagle-eyed Dave.

And it’s because I am eagle-eyed that I know your name is David *yr*, and your address is T*mpl* B*rn, Br**ght*n Gr**n, Droitwich and your employer is J*hns*n & J*hns*n F*n*nc* Ltd.

I know something more about you too Dave.

I know that you are a CUNT.

Yes indeed, you are one of Chiltern’s Unbelievably Nasty Travellers.

You win this award not for your selfish positioning of your body in the seat.

Or for your selfish positioning of your laptop.

No Dave, you win this award because you spend almost the entire fucking journey on the phone.

Why does this cause me such a problem?

Because we were in a silent carriage Dave.

No mobile phones, no music to be played aloud.

There were signs that said no mobile phones on every window Dave.

You seemed - for the first half of the journey - to be completely unaware of these notices.

Eventually though, somewhere around Bicester North, you realised that you shouldn’t have been sitting in your seat in a silent carriage taking part in more telephone conversations than the north London telephone exchange.

So what did you do about it?

You got up off your big fat arse and stood in the dividing space between half of one silent carriage and the other half of the same silent carriage and continued with the flow of telephone conversations.

Twat.

Not content with inflicting your tiresomely boring droning voice on one half of a silent carriage, you then inflicted yourself on both halves.

I was going to ask if you are this inconsiderate at home but I’m not going to.

I think I know the answer.

Do you know what made it worse?

I’ll tell you.

You made things even worse for the rest of us when you started wandering from the dividing space up and down the corridor in my half of the silent carriage.

CUNT.

Anway, the train eventually rolled in to Warwick Parkway and you got off.

So did I.

You drove out of the car park ahead of me but I caught up with you on the dual-carriageway because my lane discipline is better than yours.

And on the M42, we drove fairly close together.

By the way Dave, your cuntishness isn’t confined to your behaviour on public transport.

You also drive like a CUNT.

At least now I know what kind of car a CUNT drives.

Which reminds me.

Now I can add your car registration number to the list of information I know about you.

Anyway Dave, you are now a fully-paid-up member of CUNT - Chiltern’s Unbelievably Nasty Travellers.

Enjoy.

B.

This Reality Podcast No 20 is up at the podcast’s new home.

Despite the address change all subscribers should get it automatically. If it doesn’t happen for you please, please let me know!

There’s a very French flavour to this week’s episode!

B.

This evening it’s just me, the laptop, that last, lonely, slice of pizza and Love Actually.

It’s been a busy day:

* Drop Soph off at the train station
* Drive to Inkberrow Show to read two dressage tests (ah, the special hazards of small equestrian shows. Kiddies on ponies riding up and down the 5m corridor between two dressage rings. An out of control, warming-up competitor who circled their horse between the dressage judge and the arena - thereby obstructing the poor judge’s view of what was going on in the arena!)
* Drive to the yard, drag Vin out of his field, groom him, throw him in the back of the lorry, throw the tack in
* Drive to Allenshill to do a few show jumping classes
* Get Vin out, rub the brush over him, start to tack up
* Stop tacking him up
* Put him back in the lorry with a haynet
* (the exact reason for this strange behaviour can be found in Episode 20 of the podcast)
* Get a cup of tea and consolation food from the food guy then sit and eat/drink
* Drive back to the yard
* Unload Vin, tack up
* Take him for a gallop in the big field then
* Go in to the arena and school on the flat
* Then work over two fences
* Dismount, untack, groom and put him back out
* Spend a while nattering with the girls
* Drive home
* Set up equipment and do podcast prep
* Record podcast
* Order pizza
* Consume above

And now, as previously mentioned, the food.

And a drink.

And the film.

Fuck you Richard Curtiss.

No-one should be allowed to write as well as he does.

Bastard.

This evening’s podcast sounds very different. Perhaps I should move my recording slot to later in the day instead of the mornings?

Soph has just sent me a text describing Cardiff on a a Saturday night as a Zoo.

Does that mean she’s found a dromedary wandering down the precinct?

B.

með suð í eyrum við spilum endalaust is the fifth album from Iceland’s sigur rós.

Their previous album takk… took off so unexpectedly successfully it must have been a daunting release to follow.

You’ve heard clips from it.

Even if you never listen to the radio but only watch BBC television, you’ve heard so many excerpts from takk…

Many mainstream broadcasters - the BBC in particular - love playing sigur rós as backing tracks underneath their trailers and station idents.

The most widely known is the haunting hoppípolla (go on, click on it, you know you really want to).

In a way með suð í eyrum við spilum endalaust showcases the strengths of sigur rós. Almost other-worldly melodies cleverly scored for an eclectic range of instruments greet the ear like an old friend.

við spilum endalaust could have been written by a fusion of The Beatles (mid-creative period) and The Alan Parsons Project. Actually, isn’t that from where TAPP sprang?

The icing on this particular Icelandic cake though is Ara Bátur. A simple piano accompaniment to jónsi’s distinctive voice is gradually supported by strings that enter at pp then gradually ride the gentle crescendo/diminuendo waves. When the choir add to the mix it takes the listener’s breath away. At 4′42″ the song changes, melody alters and shifts until at 7′06″ the brass joins the growing musical throng and before long we have a full orchestra (plus synths), punctuated by percussion and supported by organ and yes, for the next two and a half minutes I am standing in the knave of that breathtakingly beautiful Cathedral on top of the hill in Reykjavik, listening to those huge organ pipes pumping the air around me full of Major chords.

með suð í eyrum við spilum endalaust by sigur rós

Yes, I like it.

Yes I like them.

Yes I love their country.

And yes, this is a photograph of Soph outside Reykjavik’s Cathedral with a statue of the real guy who discovered America standing on her head.

B.