And relax…

Be it ever so humble, there is no place like home.

Within 35 minutes of landing back at base, from the frozen wastes of Brighton, I had the fire roaring away, the family had decided on pizza for tea, and Sam had sorted out a Brendon Fraser film for us to watch whilst consuming the aforementioned Italian fast food.

Being home is fantastic.

I enjoyed being away. I got a good haircut and beard-trim. I tried on and decided to buy an outrageously snazzy (and most unlike my normal style of) three-piece suit. I had a fantastic time in the sauna which, I am convinced, did me more good than the rest of the three days we had down there put together.

But stone me it was freezing; much colder down there than up here.

I know we are due for a big Siberian freeze (Huge Norm, or some such meteorological name), but them southerners can keep their bloody cold weather, thank you very much.

The party revellers (of which there were a few walking past the seafront at 2am today), sounded loud and boozed up. And it was -3c out there at that time.


What’s the matter with these people?

Speaking of the matter with people…

In the open pedestrian walkway, opposite our hotel, a rough-sleeper (which is what we now call homeless people, apparently, because the phrase ‘rough-sleeper’ doesn’t have the same negativity for politicians that the words ‘homeless on your watch’ do), shivered in a sleeping bag and a duvet.

It cost me £60 to park the car in a warm and cosy underground car park for three days.

That money goes to the Local Authority, who run that car park.

Frankly I would rather have parked the car out on the road and given that £60 to the rough-sleeper.

But the Local Authority doesn’t allow parking out on the road in Brighton.

It’s too unsightly, perhaps?

But not as unsightly as a homeless person shivering in a walkway by a car park.

When it’s -3c at night.

So yes, it’s lovely being home.

But right now, I have a nasty taste in the back of my mouth, and it’s nothing to do with the pizza we had earlier.

Bookses, my precious



In a tiny alleyway in The Lanes in Brighton, I stumbled upon a Treasure Trove of book-related goodness.

I became a fan of PKDs writing (and imagination) in my early teens.

The fact that his work continues to be so enduring, decades after his death, speaks volumes for the scope and scale of his imagination.

Season 2 of The Man In The High Castle is due to start soon.

I’m looking forward to seeing that exactly the same amount as I am keen to see Bladerunner 2049.

We are in Brighton!

Bed view

If the photo needs mucking about with, I’ll do it when I get home. The phone is a less than perfect tool for this kind of stuff.

This morning, after breakfast, we all (five of us) went out for a local wander about.

It was beyond freezing.

After a couple of hours, I sloped back to the hotel and spent time being very unwell.

My cold and flu symptoms are showing signs of being beaten.

But a return to liquid tummy is very unwelcome.

Everyone else has been out for most of the day. I’m jealous.

But I hope that tomorrow will be a much better day for me.

Mobile, innit

As I type this I am in a car.

It is Wednesday evening, just gone 19.15, and we are speeding (in a not breaking the law kind of way) down the M1

For we are on a road trip!

It’s going to take about another two and a half hours to reach our destination.

We are all very excited.

I might have a small doze, to contain my excitement.

There are two girls in the back seat, jointly listening to Little Mix on shared ear buds.

They are singing. Aloud. To Little Mix.

My cup is actually running over.

Not quite right

I don’t want you to think I’ve run out of imagination or owt, but the only thing I have to blog about is my health. Or lack thereof.

I could tell you about my fun-filled first day back at work, but you really wouldn’t believe what I could relay.

Maybe I’ll save that. For another time.


For the last few hours I have been alternating between heavy dozing and attempting to cough up a lung.

There was a while, about ten minutes ago, when I thought I had achieved lung removal. I am happy to report that both lungs, and a considerable amount of snot, still live inside me.

Taunting me with their continued existence.

It’s likely that I shall sleep alone tonight. And frankly who couldn’t see that coming?

Even in another bedroom I’ll probably disturb all sleep in the house.

Even the cats have moved out of the bedroom.

Can’t blame them either.

Even the teenaged son of our neighbour, who seems to spend every single evening SHOUTING AT THE TOP OF HIS VOICE into a mobile phone, at his friend(s), hasn’t stuck his head above the parapet this evening.

I’m really over this whole being unwell chapter now. I just want to return to healthy.


I enjoy a bit of a quiz.

Monday evenings tend to have a lump of frenetic mental energy from 8-9pm. Only Connect followed by Universally Challenged University Challenge.

I can usually get a few (maybe ten or more) UC ‘starter’ questions, and do fairly well on the follow-on questions.

But Only Connect has a very healthy record of making me feel inadequate. Sometimes I don’t even understand the questions.

While UC can leave me feeling a bit smug at times, Only Connect just leaves me frustrated.

*pauses to consider how I seem to be lining myself up for a part in The Detectorists*

There was just a question on Only Connect where the answer was ‘Airport Terminals’ and frankly I didn’t see that answer coming.

Must have been foggy, obv.

Anyway, that Victoria Coren Mitchell is a bit of a bright smartypants.

I’ve just googled her. Professional poker player, no less.

Roll on University Challenge. At least then I can get some self-esteem back.

Bit of a round up

I really need to be better organised and get on top of these earlier in the day.


In which I don’t mention being on the edge of impending plaguedeath once!

I’m watching the Winter Olympics roundup and I thought the commentator said ‘There’s a sport for everyone in the Winter Olympics’.

Well I pulled up the full schedule and can’t see ‘Pooing the Whole World out of your Bumole and Through the Eye of a Needle’, so I probably misheard.

Apparently there’s also an event called ‘The Men’s Aerials’. As someone who has been on various rooves here and there, and attached TV and Radio antennae, I’m just downloading the entry requirements for this one.

But to be serious for a moment, I am very impressed with the athletecism of every Olympic competitor. They are all worthy warriors.

To make life in this house even more interesting, I have contracted a cold. Fantastic. However I have had one meal today (Sam’s very tasty stew & dumplings). We await what my bottom has to say about this with great interest. Also tomorrow morning’s weigh-in will be keenly watched.

Now that the TV series is no longer confined to the Network of Shame (aka Sky), we have started watching *whispers* Game of Thrones. A bit late to the party, I know, but I will not put any money in the Dirty Digger’s pocket.

It’s a bit of a beast, this GoT. I have my heroes, I have my villains, but I’m not sure if my lists would correspond with those of viewers who are bang up to date.

There’s a lot of swears. And quite a bit of shagging about. And a lot of breasts. And a touch of incest. And a hint of lesbianism. I’m cool with all of those things because, you know, I was born in the Welsh valleys (hahahahahaaaa, joking!). There’s also a lot of blood. Limbs, heads, things like that. We have just finished E3, but we’ll stick with it to the end of the season before making big decisions.

We have also started watching The Detectorists. Also early days, but no shagging about, no breasts, and no incest or lesbianism. I’m impressed with the lack of these things, given that the programme is set in Essex.

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Galactic struggles

I don’t do ‘doing nothing’ and being very unwell, and confined to no more than ten very rapid paces from the toilet (which rules out the whole of downstairs, obv), I have to find something with which to keep the mental animal occupied, in between the frequent bouts of violently squirting green/black water out of my poor little bumole (which feels, as a result of all this, that it probably now resembles a boxer’s ear).

I realise that’s less than perfect English, but as a tool for summing up my feelings and frustrations and experiences right now, that paragraph does the job.


So my mental attention, in between unplanned visits to the throne room, needs distraction.

We don’t have Freeview in the bedroom, having just an Amazon FireStick. We’ve never been big watchers of TV in here, so there’s never been a need to have more than the Internet-based viewing.

In an attempt to find something enjoyable yet wholly escapist, I have stumbled upon the remake of Battlestar Galactica (2006) on Amazon.

We shall now discuss this show.

Fifty years after the last Cylon war in this nearaway/faraway, futuretime/moderntime/historicaltime, war breaks out again (as the series relays to us) with a sneak attack on all 12 planets in the human/federation/whatever/collective of planets.

Even though the humans are significantly more technically advanced than we are, they get their arses handed to them on a plate by the Cylon robotoids. Except wait, wait, wait, there’s a new breed of Cylon running the whole Cylon race (do robotoids have a race? Or is it more of a procution line? Yes, I like that). Cylon robotoid v1.0 is now being ruled by Cylon robotoid v4.0.

But, and here’s where it gets tricky, the ruling Cylon robotoid v4.0 are not identifiable as Cylon robotoids any more. They look like you and me!


Well, they don’t actually look like me because even in my struck-down state I look devastatingly handsome and gorgeous and Greek Godlike and everything.

The Cylon robotoids v4.0 look like normal people. If normal people looked like Dean Stockwell off that show with time-travelling Sam and Ziggy and all that other stuff going off. And good-looking women with incredibly badly-coloured hair (seriously love, talk to your stylist and get them to change the seeing-eye dog they use at work).

But I digress.

The humans, in full receipt of their badly spanked arse from the technically superior Cylon victors, jump aboard a ramshackle collection of space hardware (hereafter called ‘the fleet’) and in the company of a badass Commander at the helm of the last surviving Battlestar (it’s a really big spaceship that can take punishment and dish it out, as well as being home to squadrons of rudimentary yet nippy and physics-defying one-person fighters (Vipers).

That’s about all you need to know but be honest, you prolly knew all that anyway, right?

Yeah, I thought you did.

So, the fleet, every vessel in the entire collection of ramshackle pleasure/leisure/cargo/haulage spaceships (and the Battlestar too, obv) has FTL (Faster Than Light) drives. The FTL is a handy piece of Einsteinian theoretical umm theorising, that allows objects (the fleet – but don’t worry, because all those Cylon spaceships have FTL drives too) to pass instantly from one point in space to another pre-determined point in space. FTL is basically a method of traversing immense distances instantly. If you’ve seen Stairgate Stargate you’ll know the general theory of instantaneous travel across very large distances..

But you can’t just jump around using FTL, like some hyped up millenial istening to their Dad’s copy of Jump Around by House of Pain.

Oh no, FTL only works when you know the coordinates of where you want to go. And also, for reasons not well explained, you have to make a series of jumps to go r-e-a-l-l-y long distances.

So you can’t just jump in to your spaceship and say ‘Computer, take me to a place that nobody has ever mapped; because

  1. You don’t know the destination coordinates, and
  2. Computers, in Battlestar Galactica, don’t have voice recog and also can’t talk back

Except the Cylons, v1.0 and v4.0 can, and they are way smarter than computers.

This is the first logical hole in the Battlestar Galactica universe.

Voice control:
The computers on Galactica don’t talk. Also, the computers don’t listen.

Even very early Star Trek got vocal interaction on Federation vessels.

I’ve got vocal interaction on my mobile phone. And on my tablet (which is what I’m typing this epic post on, in case you were wondering).

How come Battlestars (or any other human vessels) don’t have this handy little function? Did the programme writers lack the imagination, in 2006, to see what the Star Trek writers saw was coming, even way back when?

You want to go and see the Commander, right? You get your number 1s on (or maybe number 2s, but definitely not number 3s, unless you are an engineer because they just seem to wear orange overalls like they have strayed off the set of OITNB).

You get outside the boss’s cabin and…

Bang on the steel bulkhead door with your bare fist (or maybe you kick the steel door with your steel toecapped boots or, if you are an engineer, perhaps you hammer on the steel door with a number three wrench which you carry in your back pocket for just such a visit?


No doorbells? No handy little push-button devices to announce your presence? Or maybe there is such a thing, and when you push it, it sounds like someone is hammering on the door? Yeah, could be that.

I’ve heard the following measures of distance used by the same collective of (human) people in the same season (S3 if you’re interested):

  • Inch
  • Foot
  • Mile
  • Klick


You are so technologically advanced you have this awesome spacepower around you, yet the imaginations of your collective of writers is stuck back there in the 1980s?

Do you know how stupid this makes you look (or how stupid this lazy writing makes your writers look)?

If you are unable to unwind without having ‘a little drink’ every single day, you are not a fun drinker. You are not a funny drunk. There is no academic distinction, no playing with words. You are an alcoholic. You have a massive drug dependency.

The writers of Battlestar Galactica glorify excessive alcohol consumption.

People waking up in the morning and saying ‘Never again’, and then doing the same thing that very evening. That is alcoholism.

The writers got a lot of things right. But everything they got wrong was schoolboy error/writer 101 stuff.

Counting out time

This arises from a conversation downstairs earlier.

I am still crook.

The Department of the Dead and Dying haven’t been out to paint a white cross on the door yet, but I expect that will happen any day now.

But my timeline goes like this.

Tuesday afternoon: start to feel unwell. Quickly it gets worse. After half an hour I packed up, said I was really unwell and was going home (where I was dreadfully unwell through the night).

Wednesday: a continuation of Tuesday, dreadfully unwell with occasional sleeps, but with the added bonus of achieving these things through many episodes of Battlestar Galactica. Continue through Wednesday night.

Thursday: still very unwell, as Wednesday.

Now the thing is, I would count that as 48 hours. But the girls counted it as three days, which is plainly wrong, obvs.

But why is it wrong, because in my addled state both are right, and that is impossible.

You can look out for another illness based blog post in the near future where I ask searching questions of Battlestar Galactica.