Monday 21 November 2011


Today I was tempered somewhat by what I would politely describe as having a moody tum. Mainly tempered by being in a bit of pain and not really fancying the risk involved in straying too far from ‘the little boys room’ aka the room where little boys do a shit.

The heartbreaker of this was that it meant staying home from work and sitting somewhere near said room. As luck would have it said room is near my settee; one of my favourite places for sitting. I said sitting. Further luck: I keep my laptop, PS3, television and Sky box in the same room as my settee. My luck would only get better: my tummy maintained order while two blokes from the letting agency fixed the intercom (which falls in between both bathrooms in the flat).

Luck or A Metaphor for Man’s Capacity for Self Destruction?

Further luck? You betcha. While the intercom repair bastards (their preferred reference, not mine) were out checking something at the door a parcel delivering man came. Oh no…the intercom isn’t working, Phil, you’re going to miss a parcel being delivered even though you’re sat in your flat. Well the intercom repair bastards were not the most conscientious of men when it came to security of the building and just let said parcel delivering man in. I heard a knock at the door – I wasn’t aware of what had happened downstairs vis-a-vis security breach – and thought ‘fucking hell lads, am I going to have to let you in every fucking time you leave the hallway for a second’ while being satisfied with their manners and not just coming and going (again remember I was unaware they ushered in a [potential] serial killer so was just content to have two non-agreeing reactions).

When I opened the door to a man stood there with a parcel for me…well…I was mildly happy for almost an entire second. That happy. In coming to repair an intercom that, had it been active, would have required me to go down stairs to the door for the parcel but only being in the middle of the repair, the intercom repair bastards had in fact brought the parcel direct to my door. Admittedly by means of substandard security methods. Sadly this hyper-efficiency was only temporary as within minutes the intercom repair bastards had completed a repair of the intercom and now any parcel delivering men will be able to buzz the intercom and walking down (and back up stairs) will ensue.

Typical isn’t it? Why couldn’t they have remained by the door for the remainder of my tenancy letting in any person coming to deliver packages (that don’t fit in the letter box)? Their efficiency in the repair of the intercom actually made the system less efficient from my perspective. It’s like a parable for man’s inability to stop messing with things it doesn’t understand* cloning or something.

*Admittedly the men knew exactly what they were doing and so it doesn’t really work as a parable where experimentation is the vehicle for the metaphor.

Call of Duty

In between bouts of dysentery, supervising intercom repairs, watching Sky Sports commentators make Andy Murray’s wait for a major tennis title sound like a childless 40-year-old’s laments for a child (“as another year comes to an end that clock is ticking away”) I played a bit of Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 3. I have been concentrating mainly on killing people online since I bought the game and not played much of the actual linear game. I went back to it today to progress…I wish I hadn’t now as it was very sad as I got to a part where a major character of the Modern Warfare trilogy died in part of the game. It was very sad – but I wont ruin it by saying which character it was.

Today’s entry is dedicated to the memory of John ‘Soap’ MacTavish*. Remember.

*from the Modern Warfare trilogy. Well most of it – parts one and two and about half of part three.

Apropos of nothing, here is a picture of Antonia Thomas from Misfits*.

*Ok, it wasn’t really apropos of nothing, I wrote this as I was watching this week’s Misfits; it was a good episode – they battled nazis; yeah they did an episode with nazis. I just like using apropos, apropos of things not being apropos or not.

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