Crap End To The Week...
Apr. 5th, 2006 11:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
magicaddict...followed by a damn good weekend.
The S-Factor final went rather like I thought two people singing off the back of illness and without any semblance of preparation might go.
Down in flames.
We were comically underrehearsed, my voice was present but rasping like a bastard above middle C, I forgot a set of lyrics at a most inopportune time, and the previous group hadn't removed their banner from the stage so we were little more than "the group following Take This". We departed the active section of the final in the first pair of groups to be removed, ambiguous over whether or not we should have bothered trying considering how we felt.
The final pairing between Take This and Stu & Suzanne ended up as something of a conflict of interest: No-one really wanted TT to win (their having gained something of the Chel$ki syndrome over recent weeks), but after his part in the great BUSMS screwjob of 2006, I would have gone on a murderous rampage in a primary school if Stu had got his hands on the victory. When the two groups were told they were in a sudden death play off and both had to sing another song, I was ready to back Stu & Suzanne - the vastly more experienced performers - to win, but I think the judges saw the feeling in the room and the fact that if TT lost their fans would probably start a violent riot. Game over, four guys in suits take home the victory. Meh.
The weekend improved when Chris turned up for the weekend, and there was much imbibing. We found that there was never any chance of the computer components being there when I needed them, as in my quest for future proof gadgetry I had pre-ordered a GPU that still hadn't been delivered to the supplier yet - despite their claiming it would be in stock not seventy-two hours after I ordered it. Cue our going "fuck it", and enjoying the weekend in a more standard manner. Dinner on Friday night at the Rajpoot allowed Chris to meet Emma, and they seemed to hit it off well, so now she has met almost everyone of note that I know, and I am lagging far, far behind her having only met her father and brother. Needs rectifying.
Saturday was spent mainly heavy drinking, after breakfast at Costa in Smiths. However, we managed to find the happy medium that was good company and not drinking too quickly that allowed us to get as far as mildly tipsy and stay there all day. In the absence of anything else on at a decent time, we watched V for Vendetta again, and I remained as impressed by it as I was the first time. Returning to Calton Walk afterwards involved more beer as Chris broke open several bottled ales he wanted my opinion on, so we drank those too, between midnight and four while watching Domino (reasonable but unnecessarily and gratuitously complex) and Jimmy Carr Live. His humour is undoubtedly funny, but I don't think I have seen a man more cruisin' for a bruisin' in a long time. One of the demographics he insults will wipe the smile off his face one day, and the worst part is, they'll be the ones who get sent down for it.
Sunday dawned as we got up feeling absolutely fine - but did hair of the dog with brandy coffee anyway. We got to the train station in time to greet Fred and Angela (who we knew were showing up), and Grace in an unexpected three for two offer. Lunch at Pizza Hut, Fred returned me the two novels from my Iain M. Banks collection that had been in his possession since 2003, Grace went to a specialist boot shop that catered to women with wide calves, we closed down Costas at Waterstones, and they went home in just enough time for Chris and I to get back to Calton Walk and find that the Grand Prix rerun had finished already.
With nothing left to do and time marching on, he headed off back to Swansea with the open offer to return when all the gear does in fact arrive. Less drinking next time, more work. Going to be quite strange for a weekend with Chris.
Monday rolled round and there was a truly glorious email sitting in my inbox as I got in to work that morning detailing how my financial advisor had managed to move heaven and earth and actually invest the money I sent him at the very last minute in time for the new financial year. The man is a legend, and is going to make me a lot of interest. Probably good commission for himself to boot, and he deserves everything he gets.
We finally brought the memory loss plot to a close at WFRP, and for all my complaining about how shite Pieter is when everyone else is casually slaughtering bad guys left and right, he got a named sword, that does armour piercing damage, out of a confrontation with the imfamous man in white that had been following the party ever since it all kicked off when their village burned. Pity he's going to use it to try to kill him - that'll never end well (incidentally, Caroline - this is not the report I promised you. That'll be around soon).
Tuesday involved me being worried about meeting Emma's father up until the point I realised I was going to be late. At this point, I became very worried about meeting Emma's father. Thankfully, he turned out to just as reasonable a person as his daughter, and though he spent a lot of time leading the conversation down avenues he knew I could talk on, I think we would have got on quite well even if conversation hadn't flowed so freely. Their car had broken down (another bad advert for Mercedes Benz in what is apparently becoming quite a catalogue in their family) and he had to leave for a while towards the end of the meal to meet the AA, so I was able to check I was doing alright. I have now apparently managed to appear amenable to the entirety of the male contingent at her house, leaving the ladies to impress when I visit a week today. I know the (ostensibly protective) male relatives are supposed to be the hard ones to placate, and I suppose I have always had more female friends than male ones, but there was never any pressure before and I always tend to run out of things to say when placed in a situation when I should talk, or at least pass the time of day.
Next week will be interesting, in spite of all the reassuring things Emma has insisted to me over the phone about how well received I will be. I just hope I won't be viewed as too much of a sad bastard for bringing our new tent for a test pitch in her back garden.
The S-Factor final went rather like I thought two people singing off the back of illness and without any semblance of preparation might go.
Down in flames.
We were comically underrehearsed, my voice was present but rasping like a bastard above middle C, I forgot a set of lyrics at a most inopportune time, and the previous group hadn't removed their banner from the stage so we were little more than "the group following Take This". We departed the active section of the final in the first pair of groups to be removed, ambiguous over whether or not we should have bothered trying considering how we felt.
The final pairing between Take This and Stu & Suzanne ended up as something of a conflict of interest: No-one really wanted TT to win (their having gained something of the Chel$ki syndrome over recent weeks), but after his part in the great BUSMS screwjob of 2006, I would have gone on a murderous rampage in a primary school if Stu had got his hands on the victory. When the two groups were told they were in a sudden death play off and both had to sing another song, I was ready to back Stu & Suzanne - the vastly more experienced performers - to win, but I think the judges saw the feeling in the room and the fact that if TT lost their fans would probably start a violent riot. Game over, four guys in suits take home the victory. Meh.
The weekend improved when Chris turned up for the weekend, and there was much imbibing. We found that there was never any chance of the computer components being there when I needed them, as in my quest for future proof gadgetry I had pre-ordered a GPU that still hadn't been delivered to the supplier yet - despite their claiming it would be in stock not seventy-two hours after I ordered it. Cue our going "fuck it", and enjoying the weekend in a more standard manner. Dinner on Friday night at the Rajpoot allowed Chris to meet Emma, and they seemed to hit it off well, so now she has met almost everyone of note that I know, and I am lagging far, far behind her having only met her father and brother. Needs rectifying.
Saturday was spent mainly heavy drinking, after breakfast at Costa in Smiths. However, we managed to find the happy medium that was good company and not drinking too quickly that allowed us to get as far as mildly tipsy and stay there all day. In the absence of anything else on at a decent time, we watched V for Vendetta again, and I remained as impressed by it as I was the first time. Returning to Calton Walk afterwards involved more beer as Chris broke open several bottled ales he wanted my opinion on, so we drank those too, between midnight and four while watching Domino (reasonable but unnecessarily and gratuitously complex) and Jimmy Carr Live. His humour is undoubtedly funny, but I don't think I have seen a man more cruisin' for a bruisin' in a long time. One of the demographics he insults will wipe the smile off his face one day, and the worst part is, they'll be the ones who get sent down for it.
Sunday dawned as we got up feeling absolutely fine - but did hair of the dog with brandy coffee anyway. We got to the train station in time to greet Fred and Angela (who we knew were showing up), and Grace in an unexpected three for two offer. Lunch at Pizza Hut, Fred returned me the two novels from my Iain M. Banks collection that had been in his possession since 2003, Grace went to a specialist boot shop that catered to women with wide calves, we closed down Costas at Waterstones, and they went home in just enough time for Chris and I to get back to Calton Walk and find that the Grand Prix rerun had finished already.
With nothing left to do and time marching on, he headed off back to Swansea with the open offer to return when all the gear does in fact arrive. Less drinking next time, more work. Going to be quite strange for a weekend with Chris.
Monday rolled round and there was a truly glorious email sitting in my inbox as I got in to work that morning detailing how my financial advisor had managed to move heaven and earth and actually invest the money I sent him at the very last minute in time for the new financial year. The man is a legend, and is going to make me a lot of interest. Probably good commission for himself to boot, and he deserves everything he gets.
We finally brought the memory loss plot to a close at WFRP, and for all my complaining about how shite Pieter is when everyone else is casually slaughtering bad guys left and right, he got a named sword, that does armour piercing damage, out of a confrontation with the imfamous man in white that had been following the party ever since it all kicked off when their village burned. Pity he's going to use it to try to kill him - that'll never end well (incidentally, Caroline - this is not the report I promised you. That'll be around soon).
Tuesday involved me being worried about meeting Emma's father up until the point I realised I was going to be late. At this point, I became very worried about meeting Emma's father. Thankfully, he turned out to just as reasonable a person as his daughter, and though he spent a lot of time leading the conversation down avenues he knew I could talk on, I think we would have got on quite well even if conversation hadn't flowed so freely. Their car had broken down (another bad advert for Mercedes Benz in what is apparently becoming quite a catalogue in their family) and he had to leave for a while towards the end of the meal to meet the AA, so I was able to check I was doing alright. I have now apparently managed to appear amenable to the entirety of the male contingent at her house, leaving the ladies to impress when I visit a week today. I know the (ostensibly protective) male relatives are supposed to be the hard ones to placate, and I suppose I have always had more female friends than male ones, but there was never any pressure before and I always tend to run out of things to say when placed in a situation when I should talk, or at least pass the time of day.
Next week will be interesting, in spite of all the reassuring things Emma has insisted to me over the phone about how well received I will be. I just hope I won't be viewed as too much of a sad bastard for bringing our new tent for a test pitch in her back garden.
