January 2004

January 31st, 2004. Metaquestion

Sometimes I wonder a bit about blogging in general - what makes different people do it, and so on. Today, I'm wondering about one thing in particular.

Lots of people start up blogs, spend hours working on them, spend months on the relationship between their readers and themselves, before suddenly announcing that they're going to pack it all in, and do the net-equivalent of going off to a hermitage in mid-Wales. That's common. We all know people who have done that. What I'm intrigued about, though, is people who appear to do just that, but instead start another blog from scratch; or even just shift to a new domain name. What is their motivation? Do they get scared of being too well-known? Are they trying to cut down on their bandwidth bills?

To change the subject - and because I've not done it for a while - here's some search requests. I'm surprised, actually, that they seem to be getting more accurate over time.

• parsnip transsexuality intrigues me - I didn't know you could tell what sex a parsnip is.
• Stevie Jackson - I have a photo of him.
• Stuart Murdoch gay (and lots of similar things) - but he has a girlfriend!
• very sad and lonely in leicester need a good shag. Awww! Don't we all, dear.
• The London Nobody Knows DVD - I don't know about the DVD, but I did read the book a couple of weeks ago.
• Kim Edgar music. Last August, I saw her doing a Festival street performance, and though it was rather good. I was too lazy to go to one of her gigs, sadly.
• Sweet Action launch party was the other night, wasn't it? Tokyo Rosemary said she was going to go along and see what it was like.
• political slashfic. Maybe I should write some ... although, on second thoughts, ewwwww.

12:10 Comments (5)

January 30th, 2004. Saying goodbyes

Last night, we said goodbye to Iain. He's leaving Edinburgh, for Eastern Europe. We all said goodbye to him on Tuesday, at various city pubs; then we said goodbye again yesterday, at the bowling alley.*

Goodbyes always seem a bit anticlimatic. We stood in Bristo Square, and hugged him chastely. We each said farewell, and then he walked away towards the unlit carpark. He turned and waved, and I shouted "Auf Wiedersehen!" Tomorrow, in the early hours, he'll be flying over our heads.

Afterwards, we went to Teviot Union, in the hope that there would be a free pool table or two. It was the first time i'd been there for about five years - I was shocked to see that the moose's head has been moved downstairs from the debating hall. Even more shocking, there are now big signs all through the building explaining where everywhere is. Back when I was a student, we had to find our own way about Teviot. We got lost, and we liked it.

</elderly whinging>

* astonishingly, I didn't lose by huge margins every game, which is what normally happens when I go bowling. I even scored a strike, for the first time ever.

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January 29th, 2004. Soaked in blood? Sounds a bit too goth for me

Was market-researched whilst walking along Princes St this morning. I was intrigued to notice that on the surveyor's forms the bit to fill in for "Respondant Sex" said, in capitals "FILL IN DO NOT ASK RESPONDANT". I'm wondering why, now.

In other news, "passers-by and cars were soaked in blood and body parts were sprayed over a road". Lovely.

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January 27th, 2004. Spicy brains

Comments are back up now, if anyone was having trouble.

The news that Cambridge has abandoned its proposed primate research lab is a bit depressing, and not because I hate monkeys or anything like that. What I find depressing is that a small bunch of violent militants can persuade the country's top university* to drop plans supported by the government and the Prime Minister, even though they've already spent a huge effort fighting a public enquiry, then a High Court appeal against it. On the other hand, millions of non-violent protestors can't seem to persuade the government not to have a war, or [fill in anti-Blair cause of your choice here]. It almost makes you want to go out and punch someone.

* well, they probably would say they are. After a bit of false modesty. And they were sensible enough not to let me in, too.

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January 26th, 2004. Old Hag moment

Came home last night, from the pub but not really feeling drunk any more. Went to bed, and started to drift off to sleep.

All of a sudden, I started to wake up, full of fear. My walls had changed to a strange pattern, and a figure was standing by my bed. I couldn't make out any features - it was like a silhouette, a change in the texture of the air outlining its shape. Its left arm was outstretched, its finger pointing at me, and I was utterly, utterly terrified. I couldn't move. Slowly, it faded away; and then it was gone, the room was back to normal, and I was fully awake. Still frightened, I drifted back to sleep straight away.

Waking up this morning, I realised what it might have been: an Old Hag experience; a type of sleep paralysis. Someone wakes up in the night, unable to move. They feel another presence, or even see someone in the room. They are very, very afraid. The name, I vaguely remember, comes from an outbreak of the things that occurred in Newfoundland; but it's been used to explain various things from incubus myths to alien abductions - here's an article by Dr. Susan Blackmore explaining the similarities between sleep paralysis and the latter.

I've always been interested in alien abductions and similar folklore; not because I believe it, but because I'm intrigued by mythology and how it's constructed. So now, of course, I'm quite excited. Wow! I saw an Old Hag!

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January 23rd, 2004. A few little things

According to yesterday's Guardian, the final unidentified victim of the King's Cross St. Pancras station fire has just been identified, sixteen years after the event. He was a 72-year-old homeless man, who had left his home and started living on the streets of London after the death of his wife. The clinching factor in the identification was that no benefits had been drawn in his name after the date of the fire. "If my father was alive, he would have been first in the queue whenever there was money to be had," said his daughter.

I can't help but think about the fire, whenever I get lost in the rambling tunnels of King's Cross St. Pancras. I was under 10 when it happened, but I remember the news reports: horribly-burnt victims lying back in hospital, describing seeing the skin melt off their arms.

Also in yesterday's Guardian: a photo-story of detail photos of the House Of Commons chamber. It included a close-up of the rows and rows of books that sit, spine-up, on the table in front of the Speaker, listing all the things that Parliament has done over the years. They looked ancient: aged, worn leather spines with fine gold blocking and gilt-edged pages. It was only when I looked closer that I realised they weren't ancient at all: the books in the picture were the 1980s volumes, only around 20 years old. Does Parliament have a special book-foxer to make sure all their books appear to be full of ancient wisdom?

As I walked up Rose St this morning, a council truck was cleaning graffiti off the side of a bank. It's been there for months: "Free the Saloniki 7 Hunger Strikers" it said, followed by 'Thessaloniki' written in Greek. I have no idea who they are, or why they were striking. Or, indeed, if they still are. I definitely don't know why people in Edinburgh were expected to care.

Finally, intriguing log item of the week: a referral (plus, 18 failed referrals) from Sweet Action, "a porn magazine for women who love men". They seem to be rather new: their launch party is on Thursday - does anyone in New York fancy going along and reporting back about it? God knows how I'm getting referrals from them.

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January 21st, 2004. Must ... stay ... awake

The past week has ruined my sleep patterns. The temptation to take afternoon naps is just too strong. Going to the pub and then staying up all night doesn't help, either. I really am becoming the stereotypical unemployed layabout, although I'm glad I still manage to avoid daytime TV. It makes me snobbishly proud.

However do self-employed or working-from-home people get motivated? Writers, especially. I've always wanted to be a writer, but I can scarcely manage to sit down and write for five minutes without thinking "arrgh, this isn't going anywhere, maybe I should do something else for a few minutes". Or play Minesweeper for a few minutes. Or have another nap. Any motivational tips would be appreciated.

This is, of course, why the blog articles on Local Pubs still haven't appeared; I keep getting midway in, deciding it's rubbish and scrapping it. At least I can claim that all those recent nights out were research.

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January 18th, 2004. Recovery position

Mmm, alcohol. So evil,but with so much promise. How else can you get from a polite gathering of friends to nakedness and debauchery?

Last night was one of those parties that makes me wish I never have to grow up. People filling up a house with cosy chats in each room, siting around listening to someone sing and play guitar, then doing anything as long as it keeps them smiling. There were fights over the CD player - one hated disc is still hidden, thoroughly, under the furniture. There were frightening drinks and revealing conversations. A bit like a student party, in a way; a student party's classier, more experienced older brother. It makes me think I'm at the perfect age, where I'm no longer a nervous teenager but I don't keep thinking I must be too old for all this sort of thing.

Recovering the next day can be, I've realised, one of those moods you enjoy without knowing it. The day has passed, already, in sleep and quiet thoughts. I found a lovely, intriguing little 1960s book, The London Nobody Knows, and skimmed it through. Its style has crept into my head and infected this entry. In a few hours it will have gone, and whatever book I pick up next will have taken its place in my head. And then, the morning, and signing-on again.

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January 13th, 2004. Pub-ism

Everyone, I assume, has clothes they feel comfortable in. Even people who feel completely unhappy about their bodies will probably have at leat one outfit that feels natural to wear. An oufit that you put on when you just want to be you, and you don't care if other people think it makes you look awful.

To get ahead of myself a bit, that's the best way I can think to describe what the ideal Local Pub should be like. If our surroundings and our buildings are just an extension of our clothes, then the pub is the place you retreat to when you don't want to impress* and you don't want to put on an act; you just want to be yourself, happy and relaxed.

(Incidentally, thsi is probably a good time to start these pieces off, because the event that sparked them off originally - the closing of the Holyrood Tavern - finally seems to have happened. Fortunately, the three-month delay gave everyone plenty of time to check out alternative pubs.)

There will be more on this in a bit, when I can think of a better way to explain myself. No, really, there will. Mad dream update: last night, everyone I know went to London and broke into the Bank of England to hold a wild, artistic party. I left early, though, because I was scared I was going to be arrested.

* Unless you're trying to pull the barmaid, of course.

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January 11th, 2004. Subconsciously

This past week has been full of strange dreams. I have, it's true, been eating cheese regularly, but I'm not convinced there's a connection. My head just thinks it's time to blow all those bizarre thoughts and concepts out of the way. Recently, I can remember dreaming:

• Freeing Saddam Hussein from prison, persuading him to follow me by showing him simple conjuring tricks. I took him to the chinese takeaway in my parents' village; they had a new, funkily-designed bright pink menu.
• Going back in time, as a tourist, and infiltrating a ball in pre-revolutionary France which turned out to be a secret party for aristocratic French bondage fetishists.
• Being given a mask to wear, but then having to go to court about it. The court was in a wooden hut which doubled as a farm outbuilding, and we all had to wait outside next to a pen full of lambs.
• Lots more, which I forgot on waking despite thinking: "Wow, that was weird, I should try to remember it". Maybe I should keep a dream diary.

When cleaning out old floppy disks and stuff the other day, I found something wonderful. A bootleg copy of the entire series of Mysterious Cities of Gold, the classic early-80s conquistadores-meet-Erich von Däniken kids' cartoon series, which someone sent me as a present a few years ago. All 39 episodes of it. It will, hopefully, keep me entertained for a while - the only problem is that the incidental music is now stuck constantly in my head. And in my dreams, too.

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January 8th, 2004. Geeks Only

Stop Press - the next Belle and Sebastian single is apparently going to have a remix on it! Wow! Until the last single, they didn't even release album tracks as singles - now, they must be really mainstream.

(apologies to all readers who aren't indie-music geeks. Or Belle and Sebastian geeks. Or who just don't care anyway. But, hey, I was impressed. Oh, and I had a job interview today. There were about 20 people down to be interviewed, though, so basically I've got zero chance. Oh, well.)

16:13 Comments (5)

January 6th, 2004. Survey

For a while now - ever since the Holyrood Tavern's closing-down party, back in October - I've been planning a series of entries about the Ideal Pub. Sitting down this afternoon, I decided it was about time I got on with it.

There was a bit of a blank, though. I needed to find a starting point. I'm not really sure myself what makes an Ideal Pub. So, of course, I thought I'd ask you lot.

What, in your mind, makes the perfect local pub? Is it the beer? The furniture? The staff? A strange, undefinable mix of all three? What about: pub or bar? Is there a difference, and does it matter? Which is best? Tell me what you think about all this in the comments box - or, if you don't know what you think, just try and describe what the best drinking-place in your mind's eye is like. I'll get back to this topic in a week or so.

17:29 Comments (12)

January 4th, 2004. The past is another country

Started off this year by cleaning out my computer's hard disks. Out go all those old backup files that are awfully out of date. Out go all those system files from the Old Machine that are, for some reason, still hanging about. Out goes everything I don't think I need right now.

And then, I remembered the two boxes of floppy disks that sit under my bed. If they're still readable, I should probably try to get anything I can off them and copied elsewhere before the dust destroys them.

After a bit of fiddling to make my PC read Mac floppies, off the data comes. All my old university essays are on them. The hundred-word sidebars I wrote for the student newspaper. And then, my email. Almost every email I sent or received in my first year at university. I find it slightly scary that I still have seven-year-old emails lying about, back from the time when I still kept in touch with a lot of my schoolfriends. Hundreds of the things, from people I'd almost forgotten, all filed away neatly in folders by name: "ALLENBY A, LOUDON M, WOODCOCK S" and so on.

I know I have to keep them - I could never just wipe something like that. I daren't open them and read them either, though.

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January 1st, 2004. Happy new year!

This time last year, I said: "That was definitely the first time that I've spent Hogmanay in a graveyard, letting off party poppers and swigging from a bottle of cheap champagne, watching the fireworks explode over the castle." Well, today, I can definitely say that last night was the first time I've celebrated Hogmanay standing in a graveyard eating chocolate-covered ants. The fireworks were cancelled, sadly, because of the weather. The ants belonged to Owen, and didn't taste of much apart from chocolate. They were labelled with their ingredients: "Sugar, milk, cocoa butter, flavouring (E something-or-other), emulsifier (lecithin). Ants."

I haven't resolved much so far this year, except to get a job, and a better one than last time. Fred and Owen, on the other hand, have lists of 50 resolutions each. Resolutions like "I will convince two people that I grew up in Soviet Russia", and "I will cover my hand in butter". I think this year is going to be fun.

Update, January 3rd: Here's Owen's list of resolutions - all of them very, very silly.

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