Bear blog

Just been to the cinema to watch Run Fatboy Run. A film with no punctuation.

The film itself wasn't great; being a reasonably trite, colour inside the lines, watered-down for Americans, Simon Pegg good idea gone bad type of thing. It was agonisingly predictable and lacked the furious satire that Pegg is best at. The only saving graces were Dylan Moran being a slightly less sweary version of himself and a couple of half funny on-the-hoof television reporter lines right at the end that made me crack a smile. For the most part it was distinctly average.

Which is fine. You can't win them all.

What made the experience completely terrible was the cinema environment. I don't know whether you've ever been to see a 12a rated film on a Sunday afternoon in an out of town entertainment complex with easy links to the local council estates, but it's not a particularly pleasant thing to do.

To be fair, only a few of the swarming spotty teenagers (who incidentally weren't accompanied by an adult and looked distinctly *under* the age of twelve) had the affront to wander in and out of the room chatting amongst themselves during the film, and there was only the one incidence of anyone carrying out a telephone conversation. What aggravated me the most was the ubiquitous fat slag sat in the chair behind me who felt the need to jiggle bits of herself mercilessly throughout the entire two hours of the film at a frequency of oscillation which I'm sure could only have been achieved through the act of violent (though thankfully quiet) masturbation.

The overall experience has left me rather disinclined to visit the cinema again for a while. I think I've certainly reached a point in my life that no 12a rated film, no matter how hyped, is worth two hours in a confined space with people I haven't pre-vetted.

I dreamed a had a willy last night. It was marvellous. Proportionately sized, in possession of a certain delicate, feminine charm, and with no silly extra appendages. And above all asexual, although I did put a condom on it and wander around the place. But show me a woman who wouldn't. I awoke in the midst of a contemplation of having been cheated out of something.

On a related note, the she-weeing is going terribly well. I have successfully ascertained optimum angle and trajectory and have begun to practice with trousers on. Wonderful stuff.  

I just took this test to find out, based on my lifestyle n'that, what my 'real age' is, opposed to my chronological age.

Turns out I'm 9 and a half!

Which explains a lot, really.

This thread is precisely what I hate about women.

Friday was all about scary foreign films, seeing random people, and having curly toes. There were blankets and cushions and screaming girlies, skittery fingernails on floorboards, toilet related deaths, too much pizza and dubious sex scenes. Oh, and just in case you were wondering, you know fuck all about vampires.

Saturday was all about seeing Rod in a shirt and tie (tee-hee), letting parents do the majority of the work, and a trip to Halfords. There was wallpaper, a dirth of skill on my part, fat hairy men, and an unearthed garden. Having hoped to have got the hall/landing/stairs all nicely wallpapered and ready for painting, I was a little disappointed in our progress. But I've learnt many things. Like plumb lines are funny, and wallpaper makes me swear. The garden, however, is looking magnificently like a garden after Pete's dad took his northern prowess at hacking and slashing to it. There's even edging on the lawn.

Sunday was all about looking at our new garden and deciding that a barbeque was a much better idea than carrying on with the wallpapering. There was an abundance of food, an abundance of people, my first trip to the park, success with boomerangs, and gooey marshmallows. We saw Matt and Sarah, which was very nice, Lizzy and I threw things at each other very poorly and failed to catch them and once again, Pete and I went shopping for a barbeque and bought enough food to last us a month.

Monday was all about deciding that it wasn't worth doing any wallpapering at all until the new windows are put in, and pedalling pedalling pedalling around Rutland Water. There was an horrifically annoying number of people walking/cycling/standing around where I wanted to be riding, an horrifically annoying number of people without the least sense of spacial awareness or common curtesy, way too many hills for somewhere that's supposed to be flat, and a pair of rather achey legs at the end of it all. The sun was shining though, and Alby was good company in between his bouts of speedily dashing off ahead for no apparent reason. I slept well last night, at any rate.

Pete and I both took this little thirty-second test and both came out as a couple of our favourite books (I was 100 Years of Solitude, Pete was Ender's Game.)

Me likee.

Alan has sparked an interest in me about what brings people to my site. They're not as good as Alan's but the best few over the last couple of months have been:

• Blarg faceplant
• hubby beater
• i need poop paper
• nicola holt big bugger
• physics of poop
• clap pigion crawley

and

• skin tight rubber gay

I do seem to get an awful lot of searches about poop. Not that I'm complaining.

My wonderful weekend included bikes, Londoners, barbequeing in the rain, Ajax, vinegar beer and a delicious plate of Suc Don Cok.

Alby and Pee took me on a mega bike ride up to Darren's on Saturday. It involved a serious amount of pedalling and an even more serious amount of bitching at Alby's idea of a 'pootling pace'. Pah. There were three hills. The first one nearly killed me, the second one finished me off. The third one I only managed to get up by singing the Rocky theme very loudly. And even then it took me a while. I'm a dab hand at gears n'that now though. I even used the ones on the right. I have also confirmed for myself that I don't like downhills. They're too fast. I like going at a pace where I can put my feet down and not have them taken off at the ankle.

For some reason, we decided that it'd be a good idea to barbeque on Saturday evening, despite knowing in advance that it was going to rain. It did. But we managed to wolf a few sausages before retreating indoors for beer and sleepiness. (Which reminds me that I've still got half a bottle of San Miguel in the fridge. Ooh.) Also, Alby told me the sickest joke in the world. It was very good but I'm not sure whether my mum liked it. For some reason she didn't reply to my text.

On Sunday we got visited by a couple of dirty Londoners. Me and Pete met up with everyone in the Swan, but not before going mental at the cooker with half a bottle of Ajax. It was terribly satisfying in a way that Cillit Bang really isn't. I think I've discovered brand loyalty.

The pub involved drinking Varschteiner shandy (very yummy) and classical tart sediment (appalling in every way) as well as enjoying the simple pleasures that hog lumps bring.

Then it was off to the nice Thai place again where the waiter was rather harried and rubbish and the prawns were soily. Apparently. But the prawn crackers were warm which has never happened to me before, and the company was good.

I think if your holidays are going to end, they should end with a weekend like mine.

Right then.

I have several hundred books that need to be out of my house by July. Mother is having two bags full, Rod has kindly agreed to take a mystery box. Who else wants any?

Ask me for specific titles or give me a genre or two and I can do you a mystery box. I'll be working on getting them to you through juggle mail if you're not in Leicester.

They're all in good nick and I'm not asking for money. Just please take them away.

[Edit] If you're still living in the stone age the same also applies for a hundred or so VHS tapes.